Daddy's Little Matchmaker

by Roz Denny Fox

  “Come into the kitchen for a minute, will you please, Ms. Ashline?” Charity kept her voice low and her eyes shuttered. Laurel couldn’t determine exactly why she wanted a private consultation. Like it or not, she was about to find out.

  Charity announced, “Girls, we’re going to grab the adults some coffee. Finish preparing the table and return to your circle. Ms. Ashline and I will be right back.”

  “Call me Laurel,” she murmured, dutifully falling in behind the other woman.

  In the homey country kitchen, Charity filled cups already set out on a tray.

  “What’s this about?” Laurel asked, getting straight to the point. “I can’t drink coffee while I demonstrate.”

  “I know.” Charity bit her lip. “I assumed you were aware of Louemma Ridge’s disability, or I’d have advised Alan not to bring her today.”

  “Are we speaking about the child in the wheelchair?” Suddenly it all began to fall into place.

  “Louemma is Alan’s daughter.” Charity tucked a stray curl behind one ear. “It’s too long a story to give you details, but the short version is that she was injured in the accident that killed his wife, uh, Louemma’s mother. Since then, the poor child hasn’t been able to, or refuses to, move her arms. As a result, she also has difficulty with balance and therefore walking, and her legs are withering from disuse. Frankly, there are so many…rumors flying around….” She paused, frowning. “My Sarah and Louemma used to be best friends. After the accident, well… Alan and Louemma have dropped out of everything. I was shocked when he phoned and asked to bring her today. To be honest, I’m not sure why they’re here. I assume, since his grandmother suggested I invite you to do a program, that she’s the instigator.” Shrugging, Charity broke off and picked up the tray. “Oh, I’ve probably only confused you, Ms. Ashline…uh, Laurel,” she said, as Laurel opened her mouth to correct her. “I thought you’d want to know so you won’t expect Louemma to participate in trying to weave like the other girls.”

  “Thanks. I do appreciate knowing.” Laurel grabbed a mug off the tray and even though she’d denied wanting coffee, took a sip. It gave her an excuse to be in the kitchen while she tried to make some sense out of the information Charity Madison had so unceremoniously dumped on her.

  As she returned to the family room a minute later, Laurel didn’t even glance in Alan Ridge’s direction. She went straight to the table and began unloading her kit. From everything that had been said in the kitchen she deduced two things. Vestal Ridge, the pleasant woman she’d met quite by accident at the hospital, had a purpose in mind when she’d asked if weaving therapy always helped patients regain use of injured limbs. And the elfin child huddled in the wheelchair was the reason for Alan Ridge’s initial phone call, and his subsequent attempts to contact her by plying her with goodies.

  That much Laurel had straight. Now she was even more furious that the man would place her or his poor, sweet child in a situation doomed for failure.

  But here they were. She had an audience that expected to be taught weaving. And there was nothing she could do except muddle through. Afterward, however, Mr. Ridge of the Ridges for whom the town was named was going to get a piece of her mind. And he wouldn’t like it.

  The eager faces of the girls wiped away the frown Laurel felt between her eyebrows merely thinking about Alan Ridge. Laurel and the waif in the chair connected with a brief meeting of their eyes.

  Laurel began stringing the loom. “Hand-weaving is an art brought to this country from Europe by women who had dreams of raising their families in a society free of religious oppression. The women, the pioneers who settled the state of Kentucky, wove cloth out of necessity. For clothes, bedding, curtains…well, for everything. Back then there were no stores. No malls. Sheep provided wool, and the women spun it into yarn. If you’ve never seen a spinning wheel, maybe Mrs. Madison can bring you to my loom cottage on a field trip.”

  One child’s hand shot up. “Is that sheep’s wool you’re using?”

  “Good question. No. It’s cotton. The first Kentucky weaver to use cotton probably bartered for as little as four pounds of cotton seed from a Virginia farmer. Records are sketchy, but that’s the recollection of early settlers. Again, your great-great-great-grandmothers spun the thread and dyed it with native bark and berries. It was expensive to buy indigo-blue or cochineal-red coloring. Which is why, if you see early Kentucky weavings in museums, they’re true natural colors.”

  Sarah Madison tossed her head saucily. “Why go to so much work, Ms. Ashline, when we can drive to the mall to buy clothes, pot holders, bedspreads and stuff?”

  “Not so many years ago, women helped supplement the family income, or filled their kitchen cupboards, by bartering and trading their weavings. And believe it or not, there are still families who live too far from a town to have ready access to the things you mentioned. My grandmother and others before her traveled on foot or horseback in remote sites to collect and preserve weaving patterns that might otherwise be lost.”

  “Why do you weave?” asked a bored-looking girl. “I mean, you live in Ridge City, right? You could just go to the mall.”

  “Ah. Another good question. I discovered I have a strong urge to create. I enjoy seeing an ancient pattern come to life under my hands. Like many other women, I gain satisfaction from making such pieces and using them in my home.” She laughed. “Fortunately for me, Maggie,” she said, reading the name off the last questioner’s badge, “a lot of busy women think like me but feel like you. They want handmade items on their tables, beds and windows, but lack the time, desire or knowledge to produce cloth themselves.”

  Another reed-thin girl straightened to peer at her friends through thick cocoa-colored bangs. “I think it’d be cool to weave. Look what Ms. Ashline’s done just since she started talking. I’ll bet if we tried, we could all make our moms Christmas gifts.”

  “You could,” Laurel agreed, and at once saw that the interest she’d noticed in Louemma Ridge’s expressive eyes had been extinguished. “I see disbelief written on a few faces. Making things like pot holders or place mats is much easier than you obviously think. Maggie,” she said, choosing the girl who, other than Louemma Ridge, least wanted to participate. “Come here and I’ll show you how to work the shuttle. I’ll show each of you while Mrs. Madison prepares your snack.”

  The children jumped to their feet and crowded around. Without fanfare, Laurel left the table. She gave the child seated in the wheelchair a warm smile, then wheeled her into position near the table so she could watch what the others were doing.

  “Louemma can’t do this,” Sarah Madison said snippily. “She can’t do anything the rest of us can. I don’t even know why she’s here.”

  Laurel sent her a stern look. “A highly respected Kentucky weaver by the name of Lou Tate Bousman had more faith in our craft than you do, Sarah. Thanks to her and some of the weavers she taught, a lot of people with hand, arm and back injuries learned to successfully operate a loom.”

  “Right,” Sarah drawled. “I guess Louemma could move that bar back and forth with her feet.”

  Most of the children tittered. Except for Brenna, who darted a sympathetic glance toward Louemma before scowling at Sarah.

  Laurel wouldn’t let Sarah’s remark go. “Girls, there are artists who paint holding a brush in their mouth or with their toes. Everything is possible.”

  Charity Madison and Alan Ridge, who’d gone into the kitchen, arrived back in time to hear Sarah’s rude statement.

  “Sarah Michelle Madison!” Her mother set down a tray of juice and cookies, and grabbed her daughter’s arm. “If I hear you speak in that manner again, you won’t go to the new Disney movie tonight.”

  The child jerked out of her mom’s grip, but although her expression was one of stormy resistance, she bit back any response that may have run through her mind.

  Charity paused behind Louemma. “Pay Sarah no mind, hon. Her daddy says she’s going through another phase. Oh, my! Look what
you all have made in the few minutes I’ve been gone.” Charity leaned across the table to admire the weaving, which had grown several inches under Laurel’s tutelage.

  “I did the most,” Jenny said, dancing back and forth. “For our program next week, Mrs. Madison, can we all go out to Ms. Ashline’s place and see the spinning wheel and stuff?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Charity, who was now being pressured by all the girls except Sarah, turned to gaze helplessly at Laurel.

  “I’ll have to check my calendar,” Laurel said, not wanting to make those arrangements in front of Louemma, which would surely add to her discomfort.

  Charity pointed to a day planner peeking out of Laurel’s quilted handbag. “Isn’t that where you’d write down your appointments?”

  Flushing, Laurel snatched up the book and flipped to the proper page. Unfortunately, the children had crowded around her, and they all saw that the page was blank.

  “Yay!” Jenny flung her arms in the air and squealed at the top of her lungs. “She hasn’t got anything at three o’clock. We can go, we can go!”

  Since there was nothing to do but block out the time, Laurel grabbed a pen and drew a big X through the hour from three to four. “Will you bring treats?” she asked Charity. “Or do I need to provide a snack for the children?”

  “Mercy, I wouldn’t expect you to feed the girls. It’s kind enough of you to extend your program to include a session on spinning. Thank you so much. It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen them this excited over a project. Well, some are,” she added, dolefully eyeing her daughter.

  Laurel figured she’d have to suffer through Sarah’s cattiness and probably even Maggie’s indifference for one more day. She quickly dismissed the idea of seeing Louemma Ridge at the next gathering. Her father was already preparing to leave. As Laurel still wanted to tell him how insensitive she thought he was in subjecting his daughter to this demonstration without adequate preparation, she rushed to gather her things, and started after him.

  “Thank you for giving me an opportunity to explain the art of weaving,” Laurel remembered to tell Charity as she moved toward the door. “Which reminds me, you’ll need my address.” Taking out a business card, she scribbled on the back.

  Charity gave it a cursory glance. “I turn at Vining Mill Road?” She looked up. “Are you living at Hazel Bell’s old place? Goodness, you probably don’t even know who that is. I guess you’re renting from Alan.”

  “Renting from—?” Laurel paused, pulling her eyes away from his broad back as he disappeared out the door. “Hazel willed me the property when she died.”

  “Willed it to you? But I, uh, gosh…didn’t realize she and Ted had bought Bell Hill. Last week I thought Hardy Duff told Pete—Pete’s my husband… Oh, never mind. Pete only listens with half an ear to what’s being said.” Charity was called away from the door by her daughter, who demanded her immediate attention. With a shrug, Charity grinned at Laurel. “At times I envy you single women.”

  “It does have its benefits,” Laurel agreed. “But I do have responsibilities. Two saddle horses and a dog. By the way, are any of the girls allergic to dogs? Mine is underfoot all the time.” She said it almost hopefully.

  “I don’t think anyone in the group has allergies. Unless Louemma’s developed some since her accident. Maybe you’d better catch Alan and ask him.”

  “Oh, I’m sure he won’t bring her all that way. The area around my cottage is still quite primitive. Visitors park west of the stream and cross on a footbridge to reach my place. The cabin where my spinning room and looms are located is quite a trek up a gravel path, if you can even call it a path.”

  “Well, then you definitely should speak with Alan. I just assumed Louemma would participate in our regular meetings, starting today.”

  Laurel flew out the door then and called to Alan, who’d already placed his daughter in the Jeep. He closed her wheelchair and set it in the back before answering Laurel’s summons. He waited beside the open driver’s door, jingling his keys, clearly indicating his desire to get underway.

  But Laurel really didn’t want to talk to him where Louemma might overhear, so she stopped by the Madisons’ front gate.

  “Are you stuck, or what?” Alan demanded, sounding annoyed at her intrusion into his planned escape.

  It was plain to Laurel that the man didn’t intend to budge. Reluctantly she started toward him. “Mrs. Madison suggested I remind you of the undeveloped condition of the walkway leading up to my loom cottage.”

  He ignored that. “So, you really weren’t home when I came out to your place?” he inquired instead. “Doesn’t matter. I fulfilled my grandmother’s request today. It was even worse than I expected. Of course Louemma won’t be at next week’s meeting.”

  Laurel was at a loss to explain why her relief was mixed with a twinge of sorrow when she heard his curt words.

  “Daddy,” Louemma called plaintively from inside the dusty blue vehicle. “I want to see the spinning wheel. Can’t I please go with the others?”

  From the frown that instantly crossed his face, throwing the angles of his cheeks into sharp relief, Laurel fully expected him to deny the child. But as he half turned to peer at her through the door, the lines softened measurably. “You want to go, honey? Are you positive?”

  “I want to see how to get yarn out of sheep’s wool. And I like Ms. Ashline.”

  “Is that what you’re going to do?” Alan practically barked at Laurel, blaming her with his eyes for the fact that Louemma thought she was nice.

  She could have ended it then and there. But the eagerness on Louemma’s face wouldn’t let her. “I plan exactly that,” she mumbled at last. “I’ll demonstrate washing, carding and spinning yarn from sheep’s wool, and thread from raw cotton bolls.” The stab of guilt she felt over her testiness toward him also came with an unexpected reward in the slow smile that lit the girl’s dark eyes.

  “Uh, so I’ll see you next week, Louemma,” Laurel said. “I’m glad Mrs. Madison has a van big enough to transport all of you girls.” She abruptly sidestepped the Ridge Jeep, waved to the girl and ran across the street to where she’d parked. As she felt Alan Ridge’s smoldering gaze tracking every inch of her progress.

  Chapter Four

  THE OUTING TOOK A TOLL on Louemma; she fell asleep on the drive home. Still furious about the way Laurel Ashline had fouled his attempt to stonewall a second meeting, Alan carried his sleeping child into the house. It galled him that Laurel had sashayed off in that sugar-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth manner after setting him up.

  She’d planted the suggestion in Louemma’s mind by mentioning she could ride there with Charity. As if he’d entrust his daughter’s transportation to anyone else! Her own mother had disregarded something as basic as weather warnings.

  The house was silent, so he walked quietly along the hall. Entering Louemma’s room, he placed her gently on her bed, then removed her jacket and shoes. Finding a lightweight coverlet, he settled it over her, thinking he’d let her nap until dinner. Then he might ask if she’d like to go see the Disney movie that Charity had mentioned. He wanted their lives back to normal. Wanted Louemma to have friends again.

  Alan knew he was guilty of hovering. Marv Fulton, their family physician, said to quit treating Louemma like an invalid. He said they should plunge back into their pre-accident routines. Ha! Marv obviously didn’t understand how hard that was.

  Finding Louemma’s favorite stuffed animal, a plush brown bear she’d had since birth, Alan propped it on the pillow where she could readily see it if she woke suddenly. She was still prone to nightmares, although she never said what they were about. The accident, everyone assumed. Marv thought maybe they’d never know. He hoped in time they’d fade. So did Alan.

  He left the bedroom and bumped into Vestal.

  “Oh, you’re back from the weaving demonstration.” She peered past him, into Louemma’s bedroom. “How’d it go?” she whispered.

  Pursing his lips
, Alan left the door ajar. With a slight shake of his head, he led the way to his office. Leaving his grandmother to choose a seat, he rummaged in the small fridge and extracted a bottle of water. “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked, not looking at her, but rather out the window at the budding tulip trees.

  “Nothing, thanks. I take it from your evasiveness that things didn’t go well. I’m so disappointed. I’d hoped—”

  “What?” he snapped, whirling. “Did you think a weaver would have some magic potion? That she’d succeed where the very best medical talent has failed?”

  “Maybe,” Vestal admitted wearily, sinking onto a high-backed leather chair, which had been her husband’s favorite. She rubbed the brass studs on the rich green armrests. “I’m sorry if Louemma hated the demonstration, or if being there made her feel worse. What’s next, Alan? Find a new bone doctor? Or another psychiatrist?”

  He took a deep swig from the icy, sweating bottle. “I didn’t say Louemma hated the demonstration. It…just opened a can of worms. She’s begged to go to the woman’s cottage next week. She’ll be spinning thread like some damn black widow spider.”

  The old woman leaned forward eagerly, adjusting her trifocals over her myopic eyes. “Why didn’t you say so right off the bat? That’s good! Think how long it’s been since Louemma took an interest in anything outside the house.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t agree it’s good to foster an interest in something she’ll never be able to do, Grandmother. Is it wise to throw her in with peers who only make her feel more inept? Sarah Madison was such a pain today. According to Charity, it’s only a phase. All I know is that Sarah caused Louemma’s problems at school, too. I thought those two were best friends. Was I so blind and naive before the accident?”