“My stars, Dog. My mom and Alan Ridge’s father grew up like twins. Look!” She shoved the album under the shepherd’s black muzzle, then yanked it back before he could drool on it. “They played together, ate together, were even bathed together.” She flipped page after page, pausing now and again to note how little she resembled the early photos of her mother. The Lucy in these pictures looked nothing like in her later years. Hard living had stolen her mother’s youthful beauty.
Lucy and Mark must have remained close throughout middle and high school. There were pictures of them at a lake wearing swimsuits, and later in school clothes. Even a few in formal attire. Then, all at once, even though the album still had empty pages, the photographs ended. Laurel felt vaguely cheated. The last one was a group portrait of a high-school graduation. The date stamped on the pictures was June 1974.
Two months after her birth.
Laurel moved the book closer to the lamp. She identified Mark Ridge, grinning and waving a diploma. It dawned on Laurel that he’d graduated the same year her mother must have dropped out of school to get married. By the time this picture was taken, Lucy Bell was Lucy Ashline. Or maybe not. Laurel had always suspected she’d been born prior to her parents’ marriage. She had no proof except for her mom’s lifelong bitterness toward a father Laurel had few memories of. She could conjure up shadowy images of a tall, skinny man sharing her mother’s bed. Of loud shouting and slamming doors. Of him dragging suitcases out of an almost empty apartment; a dingy, grim place. And soon after, things had gotten worse.
How old had she been when Lucy started moving from shelter to shelter? Three?
Laurel reached blindly for her cooling cup of tea. Brooding, she stared into the murky depths, for so long that Dog began pacing. He whined to go outside.
Closing the album, Laurel swung her legs off the bed. She carried her cup to the kitchen and collected a jacket. She and Dog slipped out the back door and headed down the hill at a run.
They ran until Dog’s tongue was hanging out and Laurel was panting. Something had crossed her mind, but that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow herself to think about it. Had her mother and Mark Ridge been lovers as well as pals? Might the man she’d always thought was her father have been a convenient husband? Was Laurel, instead, a Ridge?
That might account for the irreparable split between Lucy Bell and her parents. And between Hazel and her onetime friend. The album told their story. Was that why Alan Ridge had dug into her background? What if they hadn’t even known she existed? Could that be why Vestal Ridge had sent her grandson to invade Laurel’s quiet life?
She dropped down on a log and absently pulled out the dog treats she always kept in her pocket. Then she threw back her head and laughed. One of the Ridges. Wouldn’t that be a hoot?
She considered a host of possibilities, giggling as she wondered what the current bourbon king was thinking. That she and her grandmother had plotted for Laurel to lay claim to a portion of the Ridge fortune, ill-gotten though it probably was? After all, a plaque in the city park indicated Windridge had started before prohibition.
“Even if we share blood, Dog—and perish the thought…” Laurel shuddered. “Any funds from the sale of whiskey is the very last money I’d want.”
Dog raced around her in circles, chasing first a butterfly, then a bee. Laurel caught him before his latest quarry stung his nose. “Ooh, that would hurt, you silly thing,” she scolded, rubbing his neck and sides.
The sound of an engine and tires crunching on gravel across the creek grabbed their attention. Laurel shaded her eyes against the glare of a sinking sun reflected in the swift-running stream. Only someone headed for her cottage would have ventured this far up the road.
The vehicle slowed and stopped opposite her. Laurel stiffened the instant she identified her late-afternoon visitor. Alan Ridge.
“Are you hurt?” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth.
His voice carried easily across the distance, although he might not realize, since the creek widened considerably at this point.
“I’m fine,” Laurel shouted back. “Dog and I were out for a run. We’re catching our breath and watching butterflies.”
“I didn’t picture you as the type who’d waste time watching butterflies.”
Resentment rushed through Laurel. “Really, Mr. Ridge. You don’t know anything about me.”
Alan broke off a piece of tall grass that slapped his knee. “I know we’d settled on being Alan and Laurel, at least.”
“Well, I believe that’s a mistake.”
“Why are you always so prickly?” Alan set a booted foot on an outcrop of limestone and jammed the stem of grass between his teeth.
With the sun sliding ever lower, Laurel no longer had to shade her eyes to see him. In fact, he made an imposing picture standing in such a typically arrogant male fashion. Worn jeans molded to muscular legs were stuffed into ankle-high boots. An open navy windbreaker casually covered a plaid shirt. His jaw looked dark, yet not as dark as his hair, which was ruffled appealingly by the breeze.
“What do you want?” Laurel demanded. She refused to respond to his masculinity, no matter how many feminine chords he struck in her. Thankfully, the music was faint, and better left that way.
“Meet me at the footbridge,” he said, tossing aside the piece of grass. “Something’s come up that I need to discuss with you.”
Laurel opened her mouth to decline, but the protest stuck in her throat. He’d already jumped back in his Jeep and slammed the door, driving toward her cottage.
“Damn, Dog. What now?” She kicked a few rocks off the bank and watched them plop in the happily murmuring creek. It was several minutes before she clipped on the dog’s leash and they began the jog home.
Alan hadn’t waited on the other side of the bridge. Fingertips tucked in his back pockets, he ambled toward the woman moving in his direction at a fast clip. She presented a lovely vision framed against the last rays of the sun. There was a halo of gold around her shoulder-length hair, which had fallen out of the woven band meant to restrain it. Her lithe body moved with grace. A stab of—what? lust?—suddenly checked Alan’s forward motion. For a minute he didn’t know what had hit him, so unfamiliar was he with that particular hunger.
In the early days of his marriage, he and Emily couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Then had come a pregnancy that had been rough on her, followed by hectic months of learning to deal with a new baby, which had changed them both. Or maybe that difficult period had only changed him. Because right after Louemma’s birth, his grandfather Ridge passed away. Shock and grief had taken a big toll, to say nothing of the fact that Alan was forced to learn everything about a family business in which he’d merely dabbled during summers and college breaks.
He hadn’t quite pulled himself together by the time Laurel and her bodyguard stopped and stood panting several yards away.
“I have horses to feed and dinner to fix,” she announced as soon as she’d stopped huffing and puffing.
“That clearly isn’t an invitation to join you. In these parts, people are more hospitable.”
“I’m not from these parts. Is that what this unexpected visit is about? Did your inquiries about me hit a brick wall?” She couldn’t keep her feelings from showing.
Frown lines tracked across Alan’s smooth brow. He raised a hand to rake back his hair. The move caused the ever-alert shepherd to lunge at his leash and growl ferociously. “Whoa. I mean no harm. These days it’s good policy to know the background of anyone who’ll be working with your kids.”
“And that’s the only reason for your cloak-and-dagger capers? That’s why you’ve spread doubt about me in the minds of businesspeople in Ridge City? Why didn’t you ask me for references, for heaven’s sake?”
He shrugged, glanced down at his toes and rammed his hands in his back pockets again. “Would you have provided them?”
“Certainly. For your information, I have a secondary-school teachin
g certificate. I taught weaving in high-school classes, as well as in the college continuing-education program in Burlington, Vermont. I paid my bills.” She didn’t add that her ex had run up so many that at times she’d had to work far into the night on private projects she could sell. That was personal and embarrassing.
“Hmm. But not under the name Ashline. A friend of mine, a P.I., learned that you went to court to change your name back to Ashline from Laurel Shaw. Why, might I ask?”
“That, Mr. Ridge, is none of your business,” she said coldly.
“Alan.”
Laurel fiddled with Dog’s leash. Gnawing on the inside of her cheek, she grumbled, “Would you rush to be on a first-name basis with someone who’d hired a P.I. to dig into your past?”
“I’ve lived here since the day I was born. My past is an open book. Not even an interesting one,” he said in a teasing tone.
His ability to poke fun at his own expense loosened a slab of ice Laurel had felt building higher and higher inside her. She relaxed her stiff stance and managed a smile. “Mine reads like bad fiction. I prefer to leave it at that. I can, however, give you the names of former co-workers. I’ll even call them if you’ll hand over your cell phone. I assure you…Alan, the bad chapters in my life story have no bearing on my ability to teach Louemma, Jenny or Brenna.”
His right hand flew to the phone attached to his belt, yet he didn’t remove it. “I’ve maintained a successful business by knowing when to accept someone’s word—and when not to. I didn’t come here to challenge you on that score.”
“No? Then why?”
“My grandmother had a fall the other day, the time I left her alone while I brought Louemma here for the spinning demonstration. Vestal’s still recovering from pneumonia, and she’s insisting on planting a big vegetable garden,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry she’s not well,” Laurel said, “but how does this affect me?”
“Birdie Jepson, our housekeeper, says she can’t keep my stubborn grandmother from overextending herself. And it’s not her job. Frankly, I can’t seem to convince Grandmother to hire someone to put in the garden for her. She’s determined to plant every seed, and she’s chosen Wednesday to start. I want to make sure I’m there. However, that’s the day of Louemma’s first weaving lesson.”
“Yes, I know when lessons begin.”
“Right. So since your looms are portable, I thought you could give the first one at Windridge as easily as here. Our dining table seats twenty. The light in the room is good. If you agree, the other girls’ mothers have no objections. Jenny’s mom said it’d actually be a relief, because she’d forgotten an after-school dental appointment for Jenny’s younger sister.”
Laurel started to walk around Alan. “Jenny’s mother should’ve called me. I have no problem postponing the lessons for a week. That solves both problems.”
He scowled at her slender back. It appeared she was leaving. “That won’t work,” he said, raising his voice. “The girls are excited about the class. Postponing is out of the question. How can you suggest disappointing them at this late date?”
Turning, Laurel arched a skeptical brow. “I’m not the one with a scheduling problem, Alan. You and Jenny’s mother have the issue with Wednesday. Not me.”
“But…but if it’s a matter of wrestling with three desk looms and all the paraphernalia, I’ll come to the cottage now and haul the stuff to my place.”
“No.”
“What’s with you?”
“I don’t wish to go to your home.”
Alan gaped. Darkness was falling fast now. He couldn’t read her expression, so he took two steps closer, but was brought up short by Dog. “What do you have against Windridge? It’s a nice house.”
“I shouldn’t have to explain my reasons, but I will. Quite simply, you make and sell whiskey.”
“Not at the house.” Hesitating, Alan moved nearer in spite of the dog’s escalating objections. “Are you a Quaker?”
“No. My objection has nothing to do with religion.”
“Good. I’m not too popular with Baptists, either.” He grinned.
“My feelings are not a joking matter.”
“I can see that. I’m sorry.” Alan stepped directly in front of Laurel, silencing the dog by putting out a hand and letting the animal sniff his fingers. “Hey, we’re not talking moonshine. My family has distilled and sold gold-medal bourbon since 1852, except for a brief hiatus during prohibition. You can taste the difference between our bourbon and others. Ours is better. Smoother. Richer. Bourbon’s a gentleman’s liquor, served in fine restaurants, clubs and boardrooms. So how about you satisfy my curiosity and tell me what you have against it?”
“I hate the color, the taste and the smell of booze, including whiskey, Scotch, rum, brandy, tequila and vodka. If I’ve left any out, I dislike them, too.”
“There’s no smell to vodka.” Alan didn’t know what made him toss that out.
Laurel started for the house.
“Okay, you’ve made your point,” he said loudly. He’d met people who were against even social drinking. However, Laurel Ashline was the first to attack him for making liquor and selling it to those who chose to buy. Alan wanted to get to the bottom of her strong feelings. But he hadn’t lived for most of his life with outspoken, opinionated women without learning when it was smarter to shut up and withdraw. There were times, like in poker, when it was a good plan to hold, and others when it made sense to fold and walk away. Alan sensed this was the latter time.
Only he didn’t want Laurel to postpone the next lesson and disappoint the girls. And it was patently clear she intended to enter her house without another word.
“Hey!” he called. “I’ll make other arrangements for my grandmother. Plan on having the girls as scheduled.”
She turned in surprise. “As I explained last week, there’s no need for you to be here for Louemma’s lesson. Does this mean you’ll send her with Jenny’s mother?”
“In a word, no.”
“Why?” she exclaimed, her irritation visible in every tense line of her body.
“To steal a phrase from you, Laurel, I shouldn’t have to explain.”
“But I did explain my reasons.”
“Not really!” Turning his back, he strode across the swaying bridge.
Laurel’s temper flared, too late for him to hear the blistering remarks she might’ve made had he not leaped into his Jeep and peeled out in a haze of blue smoke. She thought it was blue, anyway. It was too dark to see much across the stream except for the bobbing of flame-red taillights as his vehicle disappeared around a bend.
Mentally she calculated the number of weeks between now and Christmas, which seemed to be the date Jenny had in mind for the end of her lessons. She’d quit in June, Laurel decided; waiting until December left too many weeks to be nice to that man.
No wonder Hazel had severed her relationship with the Ridge clan. One member, at least, was insufferable. Laurel stomped into the cottage and poured kibble in a dish for Dog. Then she banged pans around on the stove. When she’d finished her solitary supper, she was left with the same questions she’d had prior to going out for her run. Why had two women who’d apparently been as close as sisters become so estranged? The Ridge name never appeared once in the many letters Hazel had written.
Clearing the table, she washed dishes and at the same time pondered various possibilities. None had a concrete basis. Perhaps the answer lay in the trunk lying open on her bed.
Two cups of tea later, she still hadn’t unraveled the mystery—if it was that. And yet she’d uncovered some sad pieces of her grandmother’s life. Wrapped in tissue and carefully preserved were four handmade christening gowns. The first had Lucy Elizabeth Bell’s birth certificate pinned to it. The next two had death certificates attached. Stillborns. Theodore James, named for his father. And Frederick Jason. A note indicated that this son bore the name of Hazel’s father and of her husband’s best friend. But Laurel
already knew from the album that when her mom was five, at the time of Frederick Bell’s stillbirth, the two families had been close.
A fourth little gown, unfinished this time, told an even sadder tale. A note in shaky script simply stated, “Another failure. A girl. According to Dr. Baker, there’ll be no more babies.”
Laurel knew now why she had no aunts or uncles. She’d been curious, but the relationship she’d developed with Hazel, a little at a time via letters, had never run to a tell-all exchange of information. Looking back, she saw they’d both avoided personal issues. Laurel had sensed her grandmother led a lonely existence. In the same way, Hazel had known Laurel’s marriage was troubled.
Surrounded by sad mementoes, hopes for a future that could never be, of the babies Hazel had lost, sad memories of the one Lucy had had, but never wanted, Laurel cried. The tears kept flowing and she didn’t know why. She wasn’t prone to the futility of weeping. But oh, how she wished she hadn’t waited so long to come to Kentucky, where there were more questions than answers about her past.
Dog whined and bumped her knee repeatedly with his paw. For the first time, Laurel wasn’t able to relieve her pet’s anxiety.
She hugged the tiny dress her mother had worn. All those years, Laurel had vowed that she’d never wreck he life the way Lucy had wrecked hers. And here she sat, alone and sobbing among the remnants of another woman’s hopes and dreams. Dreams were once Laurel’s lifeline. If she shut her eyes tight, she could still see the perfect marriage and family she used to imagine. The one she’d desperately wanted as far back as she could remember.
Awkwardly wiping her cheeks, she sniffed and, one by one, refolded the little gowns, returning them to the trunk. If Hazel’s keepsakes did nothing else, they’d proved how silly and sentimental it was to waste productive hours on foolish dreams.
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