Daddy's Little Matchmaker

by Roz Denny Fox

  “Okay! Believe it or not, I understand.” Alan closed his eyes and pinched his nose between finger and thumb. He opened his eyes slowly. The truth is, I dislike arguments and face-offs as well. My parents couldn’t be in the same room for more than ten minutes without Mom blowing up at Dad. Retreating or conciliation is how I handle situations I can’t control. So there you have it. Both sets of cards are on the table.”

  “That does explain a lot.” Laurel eyed him obliquely. “No more sneaking up on me, either. You have no idea how difficult I find situations that cause even a moment’s panic. It doesn’t matter that doctors have told me that my mother’s disorder usually isn’t inherited. The worry is always hanging over me.”

  “Listen to the doctors,” he said. “You know, you have a lot of guts, Laurel. It sounds to me as if you were literally the adult in the house from the age of ten. And maybe your mother was always ill. I’m told she caused quite a stir in Ridge City.”

  “Alan, you said your parents argued a lot. Did they ever fight over anything to do with my mother?”

  “This is déjà vu. Rose Robinson, Louemma’s tutor, and I had that very discussion yesterday.” He shifted uncomfortably on the narrow bench seat. It was one thing to reveal his own shortcomings, quite another to air his parents’.

  Laurel noted his hesitancy. “Remember that album of Hazel’s I found?” She slipped out of the breakfast nook. “I’ll show you.” Rushing off to the bedroom, she came back with the leather-bound volume. Setting it in front of Alan, she thumbed to the page where Vestal—and pages later, Hazel—showed off their pregnancies. “Take a look at the pictures from here on. See what you think.”

  He did, seeing Lucy Bell for the first time. “Outside of being blond, you don’t look much like your mom,” he said as he examined a teenaged Lucy. “You’re much prettier.”

  Laurel blushed and glanced away. “Lucy and Mark Ridge spent a lot of time together.”

  “Mmm. According to Rose, they were raised like brother and sister. Until, as she put it, ‘Lucy went wild.’”

  “Became rebellious, you mean?”

  “I suppose that was the implication. There was apparently a furor over her dating an older man, a guy who worked at the distillery. Rose said Lucy was stubborn. She indicated that my dad even quit being her friend some months before she ran off.”

  “How many months?”

  He frowned. “Pardon?”

  “When did their relationship dissolve?”

  “I wasn’t there. Five or six months, I guess. Evidently Ted and Hazel expected Mark Ridge to track Lucy down and bring her back. He didn’t. He and my mom got married right around then.” On their horseback ride, he’d already told Laurel his mother had left school and his father went on to college. “Vestal remembered that Ashline was the name of the man Lucy Bell left town with.”

  “Then it would seem I’m probably an Ashline and not a Ridge.”

  “Wh…at?” Alan let the album flop closed. “But that would make us—you and me—” He broke off with a dumbfounded shake of his head. “Why would you even think anything so preposterous?”

  Laurel sighed and clasped her arms around the book. “Maybe hope on my part that one parent, at least, wasn’t a disaster.” She sighed. “Lucy went by the name Ashline. I know she would’ve said if he wasn’t my real dad.”

  Alan relaxed again. He’d worried for a minute that Hazel had made up a tale to establish a different kind of validity for filing squatter’s rights. But Alan thought Laurel would say as much, since they were shaking out the skeletons in their respective closets. “You turned out okay,” he said offhandedly.

  “Well, thank you.”

  “A little too skinny, maybe,” he teased when it became clear his remark had embarrassed her. “Is it any wonder, if this is your usual supper?”

  “Haven’t you heard that women can never be too thin or too rich?” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Weavers are never rich, so I figure one out of two is the best I can ever do.”

  “Kidding aside. Like I said, if you want the real facts on your family, you need to come talk to my grandmother.” He held up his hands, palms out. “I know what you’re going to say about our shady occupation. But the house is set totally apart from the distillery. We don’t force our product on any guest, I promise.”

  Laurel wavered. She couldn’t say he wasn’t making his invitation more tempting every time he issued it. She’d driven past the Ridge estate a few times. She wouldn’t be female if she didn’t wonder how someone whose ancestors had founded an entire town lived. She herself had existed pretty much hand to mouth, even after her marriage.

  “Is that indecision I see in your eyes? Trust me, Laurel. You don’t want to play poker. Your expression gives you away.”

  Looking disgusted, she pulled the meat and cheese out of her sandwich and fed the slices to Dog. Closing the bread back over the lettuce and tomato, she bit into what was left.

  “Come on,” he wheedled, in much the same fashion he employed to get Louemma to eat more at mealtimes. “We’ll feed you a hot meal. Grandmother would come here, but she’s still stove up from that spill she took in the garden.”

  “I don’t know.”

  He leaned back and tucked his thumbs under his belt. “So what do you say? Have I convinced you?”

  “Can’t you just be happy I’ve decided to continue Louemma’s lessons? And that reminds me—you’ve got to quit hovering at her lessons. I’ll provide regular updates on her progress.”

  “I thought we’d agreed I could sit through today’s lesson.”

  “Yes, but you didn’t sit. You interfered. Unintentionally, but you broke Louemma’s concentration. Success is all about focus, Alan.”

  “Well, I sure pray it works. All right, Laurel. You have my solemn word.” Alan rose and extended a hand.

  Laurel slid her hand into his, again suffering a jolt like the one that had occurred before the start of the lesson, when their fingers had accidentally brushed. Drawing back, she crossed her arms in an effort to act casual as they walked toward the door. Dog, who’d been snoozing in the corner, bounded over to say goodbye.

  Alan rubbed the animal’s sides. “Too bad I can’t clone you, boy.”

  “You could get Louemma her own dog. The shelter has plenty to choose from. I’d recommend an older one. Or a cat. One content to sit on her lap. It might encourage her to begin flexing her fingers more.”

  “I’ll consider it. Thanks for your understanding, Laurel. And…” He hesitated. “I wish your childhood had been nicer.”

  “Thanks. But you know, it wasn’t all bad. When Mom worked, we spent weekends in the park. She splurged on movies and ice cream.”

  They lingered on the porch a moment, chatting about how big and bright the moon happened to be right then.

  Laurel looked especially pretty bathed in moonlight. Alan had to make a conscious effort to not blurt out that comment. He hadn’t supposed he’d ever want to venture into the relationship market again. Particularly since his marriage had been less than he’d hoped for. He wasn’t even sure how it’d broken down so completely, or exactly.

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer,” Laurel murmured, beginning to rub her arms to keep warm.

  Alan jerked himself out of the daze he’d fallen into, and realized he must have been standing there gaping at her for some time. As well as contemplating the demise of his marriage, he’d entertained a couple of lust-filled thoughts about Laurel. She had the kind of body he admired. And since he was slowly emerging from a self-imposed isolation, there was no denying there were some things a normal male missed, no matter how much he tried not to. “So long,” he said, probably sounding a whole lot gruffer than he wanted to.

  He left quickly then. Before he did something foolish that would ruin everything. Like kiss Laurel. Or— He shook his head. He could chalk this feeling up to moon madness.

  On the drive home, though, he spent a lot of time analyzing why Laurel was the woman t
o lure him out of his shell. Emily had had beauty-queen perfection. Everyone said so. And she’d spent hours in salons and spas to ensure she didn’t lose that beauty.

  Laurel had probably never been inside a spa. She wasn’t a classic beauty. Until she smiled. Then her face lit up from the inside. Louemma and Dog were on the receiving end of most of her smiles; now he’d figured that out, Alan knew he’d have to concoct ways to share in the wealth.

  THE TWO DAYS between Louemma’s classes crawled by for Alan, in spite of the fact that he had plenty to do at the distillery and in the office. Louemma cleaned her plate at breakfast, unheard of in the past.

  “Nana, you’d really like Laurel and Dog. I know it. Daddy likes them, don’t you?”

  Since Laurel was frequently on Alan’s mind, the question jarred him.

  Vestal glanced up from pouring orange juice. “Alan, why haven’t you brought Laurel around yet? Yesterday Millie Honeycutt stopped by to see if we wanted to donate the usual four bottles of our special reserve to the Hill’n Holler Art Festival this fall. She said she’s been trying to contact her.”

  Ignoring the references to Laurel, Alan said, “Have Hardy set aside what you need. Did you put the festival dates on my calendar? He’ll need them on his, as well.”

  “It’s in late September. Hardy came over last night, so we did coordinate dates. Were you aware that the plans to have the new mash bins operational so we can set our first open house to coincide with the festival’s fall flower tour?”

  Alan held a forkful of scrambled egg halfway to his mouth. “Who decided that? Even if we had all the permits, which we don’t, that’d be pushing it.”

  “Hardy doesn’t think so. He’s all pumped up. All the Kentucky distilleries are linking up in a single brochure to promote a tasting tour like wineries do.”

  “It’s not that I don’t think it’s a good idea. My question is, why are we just hearing about the plans now? Shouldn’t it be a board decision?”

  “Hardy more or less said you’d been too distracted, Alan. First in running Louemma all over the state to various doctors. And now with Ms. Ashline. Oh, by the way, I promised Millie you’d ask Laurel about donating one of her chenille shawls to the auction. I haven’t seen them because I’ve been housebound, but Millie bought one at the Craft Corner and she was full of raves.”

  Shoving back from the table, Alan stood. “If you need me this morning, I’ll be at the distillery. Between us, Grandmother, we own the controlling shares in Windridge. Hardy shouldn’t make arbitrary decisions of any sort without talking to us.”

  Vestal seemed surprised. “Isn’t that why we promoted him after you got too busy and I decided to retire?”

  “Have I neglected the business?”

  She nodded, then looked sheepish. “I’m not blaming you, but in this past year you’ve let a lot of things go. Our night watchman sees you wandering the warehouse in the wee hours. And our official taster called the other day to see if you were on a six-month leave. It all adds up.”

  “Come on! I leave notes after I’ve checked the barrels. Joe’s just pulling your chain, Vestal.”

  She gave a halfhearted shrug. Alan stalked out, only taking time to drop a kiss on Louemma’s nose. “I’ll be home to drive you to your lesson with Laurel, honeybee.”

  It was a promise he barely kept. He wheeled in at 4:39 and took the porch steps two at a time. “Ah good, I see Birdie has you ready to go, Louemma. Sorry I’m running so slow. What’s that?” Alan pointed to a sack sitting on Louemma’s lap.

  “Nana helped Birdie make spice cake today. She fixed an extra one for Ms. Ashline. Daddy, may I call her Laurel?”

  “Ask her. Nana must be feeling better if she’s up to puttering around in the kitchen.”

  “Birdie complained all morning to Miss Robinson.” Louemma mimicked the older woman’s gruff manner. “She said when that woman takes a notion to prepare for comp’ny, she’s like a whirling dervish. What’s a dervish, Daddy? It’s not in my talking dictionary.”

  “It’s a term that describes someone working in a frenzy. Like a whirlwind. People can’t be whirlwinds, but it makes a good description. You know Birdie likes order. She’s big on removing clutter. And Nana Vestal is big on collecting…everything. Uh, out of curiosity, what company are we preparing for?” he asked, stowing Louemma in the Jeep.

  “Laurel. Birdie says there’s a special note with the spice cake. ’Cause Nana thinks you’re stalling instead of inviting Laurel over. Daddy, what does stalling mean?”

  “Something I’m not doing. I explained numerous times that I did invite Laurel, but she’s too busy to come. Why can’t Vestal take me at my word?”

  The nine-year-old wisely watched the passing scenery, saying nothing.

  When they arrived at Laurel’s, she had all the doors and windows at the loom cottage standing wide open.

  “Hi,” she greeted them gaily. “Isn’t this a glorious day? We can hear the birds singing and the bees buzzing while we work.”

  Dog loped up out of the woods. He shook off twigs caught in his coat, and ran inside immediately to grab his toy bone. Heading straight for Louemma, he deposited the toy in her lap, on top of the sack. Dog pawed her knee gently, then snuffled the bag that held the cake. The girl giggled. “Dog remembers me. He remembers who brought him the bone.”

  “He wants to play, but today you’re going to work, young lady. Tell your father goodbye. He has other things to do.” Laurel’s gaze lit pointedly on Alan.

  He rescued the spice cake before Dog took it in his head to have a snack. Handing the bag to Laurel with a flourish, he said dryly, “The other women in my life send you gifts. I swear it’s not my doing, but you need to prepare yourself for the fact that they’re plying you with goodies because they feel I’ve fallen down on my job as the Ridge family host. Vestal’s decided to issue you a dinner invitation by courier.”

  For a second Laurel resembled a guppy hunting food. But she recovered and passed Alan the sack. “Whatever they’ve chosen as bait smells delicious. If you’re availing yourself of my patio, do you mind dropping this off in the kitchen?”

  “You’re not even going to read the note so I can bring home an answer?”

  “Later. Now, vamoose.”

  “What’s vamoose?” Louemma asked, her eyes moving between the adults.

  “It means I’m leaving right now,” Alan drawled. “Ladies, have fun. Mm-mmm, this does smell good. It may not make it to your kitchen.”

  “It had better,” Laurel warned, hollering out the door after him.

  “Daddy’s teasing,” Louemma said solemnly. “I think he likes you, Laurel. Oh, I’m supposed to ask if I can call you that, ’cause it’s disrespectful otherwise.”

  Laurel’s brain had stuck on Louemma’s pronouncement that Alan liked her. “Er…up north, kids often call adults by their first names. You may call me Laurel, if you like. I already gave Jenny and Brenna permission.”

  “I’ll tell Daddy you said okay. ’Cause Nana Vestal is a stick—uh, stickler for manners,” she said in a rush.

  Laurel noticed with interest that the whole time the girl nattered on, her fingers were kneading Dog’s fur. “Louemma, I’ve really been looking forward to our lesson. Yesterday I had a brainstorm. I prepared a special loom for you.” Wheeling her across the room, she then connected a lap loom to the arms of the chair. Skeins of yarn sat in a basket that hung over her legs. The handle on a much longer shuttle bumped Louemma’s limp right hand.

  “This chain operates the beater bar,” Laurel explained. “I’ve seen you petting Dog, so I know your fingers work. What you have to remember is that weaving should be fun. Do what you can, when you can. No pressure. No rush.”

  Laurel guided the girl through several rows until she got the hang of how the converted loom worked.

  “Look,” Louemma exclaimed. “I have four rows, and they look ’xactly like the ones Jenny and Brenna made.”

  Her smile was reward enough for Laurel. “Tha
t’s right, hon. You’re making cloth. It’s the same process over and over. Now, you try a row on your own. I have some work to do. I’ll be pulling spools off the spinning mule and loading them on the skein winder. Right there.” She pointed to an apparatus some ten feet away.

  Laurel didn’t know if Louemma would even try it by herself. For approximately fifteen minutes, she didn’t, and Laurel worried that her experiment had failed. But darn it, she’d pored over Louemma’s medical records. Each and every doctor Alan had taken her to said there was no physical nerve damage. None. Her block was mental. And it would stay in place until something induced her to want to break out. Which they all hoped would be weaving. But maybe it wouldn’t happen. Or maybe…yes. Laurel darted another glance. Unless her eyes were playing tricks, Louemma’s fingers had begun to move on the shuttle. Yes! Laurel wanted to fling her arms in the air and dance a heel-clicking frolic around the room. Instead, she pretended not to notice and continued to empty the spinning mule.

  After a while, a knock startled her and her pupil. Alan stood framed in the open door. Twilight shadows had replaced the warm May sun. “Hey, this half hour lesson should’ve ended forty minutes ago.”

  “Daddy, Daddy, come see,” Louemma cried. The shuttle slipped from her hand and struck the metal footrest of her chair. Dog flattened his belly against the floor, crawled under the loom and retrieved the shuttle as Laurel had watched him do dozens of times throughout the lesson.

  Alan crossed to his daughter’s side. His eyes widened. “Laurel wove these rows, right?”

  Dumping a lapful of spools into a bushel basket, she slid off her stool and walked over to inspect the project. “Wow, Louemma. Great job! I helped weave the first few rows,” she said, hugging her student. “She’s done four on her own.”