The answer came from somewhere deep inside. No, but Laurel hadn’t thrown a tantrum. The evening had been uncomfortable for her, and she had reasons for not touring the distillery. And therein lay the real problem. Bourbon was his livelihood.
LOUEMMA’S FIRST LESSON following the unsuccessful dinner began with both the girl and Laurel keyed up. However, Louemma apologized, and her pleasure at being with Dog softened Laurel. And the girl added three more rows by the end of her half-hour class, which set things back on an even keel.
“Will you ask Daddy if I can stay longer?” she begged Laurel, who hesitated.
“Honey, I don’t want you to overdo it. Let’s put the project aside for now. We’ll go down to the house and ask your dad about lengthening your time next Wednesday.”
“Okay. Can we eat here again? Dog wants me to stay.”
Laughing, Laurel agreed, provided Alan approved that, too.
“Louemma Ridge,” he gasped. “I can’t believe you invited yourself to dinner! There’s no excuse tonight. I happen to know Birdie and Nana are both home, waiting for us.”
“Call them. They won’t care,” the girl said unrepentantly. “Laurel said it’s okay.”
She nodded because, in truth, the prospect of having company this evening appealed to her. Dennis had called twice the night before. His slurred commentary had left her feeling out of sorts. If it weren’t for the fact that his calls were so erratic and many of her clients phoned her in the evenings, she’d ask the phone company to rewire the cottage with phones she could unplug. Still, she’d been told there’d be a hefty charge for rewiring. She’d placed it way down on her list.
“If you’re sure we’re not being pests,” Alan said, “I’ll call Vestal.”
Laurel directed him to the phone that sat on her kitchen counter. Then she left him to go rummage in the fridge. “Louemma, do you like ham and cheese omelettes?” she called.
“And biscuits?” the girl yelled back from the living room. “I liked your biscuits. So did Daddy. He thinks you’re a good cook.”
Laurel felt a curl of warmth in her stomach. “Okay, biscuits and an omelette.”
Alan hung up, smiling contentedly as he listened to their banter. The phone rang almost immediately. Without thinking, he lifted it and said, “Hello.” Then he jerked the phone away from his ear as a man swore nastily. Alan recognized the voice.
So did Laurel. She straightened and the block of cheese slipped from her hand.
Taking a deep breath, she reached out to take the phone.
Alan gave a firm shake of his head. “This is Alan Ridge. I’m a friend of Laurel’s. No, I won’t put her on the line. Not until you can speak civilly. Same to you, bud.” Grimacing, Alan dropped the receiver back in the cradle. He leaned down and picked up the plastic-wrapped block of cheese.
“Was he horrid?” she asked, placing the cheese on a wooden cutting board and peeling off the wrap.
“I have a friend, an old college roommate, who works in management at the phone company. Let me ask if there’s something you can do short of unplugging your phone.”
“I can’t even do that. I gather it wasn’t cost-effective for phone companies to change backwoods phones when they switched to plug-in ones in the cities. Now, they rewire in the country only if you need other work done. But I’ve ordered caller ID. The calls have increased, and after you suggested it before, I put in a request. It’s a matter of the work order catching up to whoever installs out here.”
“That’s a relief. I hope it’s soon and that it helps. Where are your plates? I’ll set the table.”
Alan expected her drunken ex to phone again. So did Laurel. Throughout the meal, she watched the phone as one might watch a snake. She could have turned off the ringer, but she was expecting a call from a client and was afraid to miss it.
While they ate, Alan introduced as many lighthearted subjects as he could think of to distract her. When they’d finished, he was strangely reluctant to say goodbye. But Louemma needed to get home. She was the one who caught him—and Laurel—off guard.
“I wish I had a weaving lesson every day, Daddy. I’m teaching Dog to do tricks. If I was here more, he’d remember them better.”
“Every day isn’t possible in my schedule. We could add a Friday class, though,” Laurel said, surprising herself as well as Alan.
“Fine with me.” He was quick to agree.
“Okay. Same time? If you like, we can have dinner, too—until you guys get sick of my cooking. Eating alone gets…well, old,” she admitted, giving away another of her closely guarded secrets.
Delighted, Alan elaborated on her suggestion. “If Louemma continues to improve, we could go out once in a while.” He noticed that neither Laurel nor Louemma jumped at his offer. Which was all right. Louemma was still uncomfortable about restaurants and, oddly enough, she ate more here than at home.
The three of them and Dog lingered a moment on the porch. Suddenly Laurel said, “I almost forgot my other news. My mare’s going to have a baby. The man who sold her to me in February said it was possible she’d gotten with his stallion accidentally. He asked if it’d be a problem for me. Of course I was excited. Anyway, she’s exhibiting the signs he told me to watch for. The vet came yesterday to do an ultrasound and he confirmed it. Do you want to see her before you take off? I think she may be getting pudgy even though the vet laughed at me. He said horses don’t show that early.”
Alan followed Laurel down the steps. They were turning toward the corral when all at once Louemma burst into tears. Real tears, not phony ones.
“Ohmigod,” Laurel whispered. “I forgot she’s scared of horses. Louemma, sweetie,” she crooned, returning to kneel and gather the distraught girl in her arms. “You don’t have to visit Cinnabar. Shh. Alan?” she implored.
He scooped the girl off the steps. Then, for whatever reason, he leaned over and brushed a light kiss on Laurel’s trembling lips. “Don’t fret. She’ll recover. These reactions are something I’ve never fully explored with Marv Fulton, our family doctor. I’ll phone him. So, we’ll see you same time, same station on Friday? Or maybe I’ll see you sooner,” he called softly over his shoulder.
She traced her tongue over her lips and watched them drive off. A lot had changed in their relationship in a relatively short time, but she almost wasn’t sure that she hadn’t imagined the kiss. Yet he tasted of the mint he’d swiped from her candy bowl after dinner.
A few hours later, it didn’t altogether surprise her when a knock sounded at the door to her loom cottage. She opened straight away, knowing it was Alan. “Is Louemma all right?” she asked promptly.
“Yes, but she took a long time to settle. I have to admit that neither Vestal nor I can shed any light on Louemma’s dread of horses. Her actions make even less sense when you consider how devoted she is to Dog.” Alan rubbed the dark muzzle as he greeted the animal. “I didn’t come back to talk about Louemma,” he said, straightening. Bumping the door closed, he picked up both of Laurel’s hands.
“Dennis hasn’t phoned again if you’re worried about that,” Laurel said, not letting herself think about the prickles of awareness skittering along her nerves.
“You know why I’ve come again. You feel it, too,” Alan said in a voice that wasn’t completely steady. “I can’t explain our mutual attraction, but we both know it’s there.”
She nodded and bit down hard on her bottom lip.
“Listen…” Alan took her gingerly in his arms. He cupped a hand around the back of her soft hair and pressed her cheek to his chest, aware that she’d feel his rapid heartbeat. “I’m not very adept at this.” He chuckled a little. “A man probably shouldn’t admit to falling down in that area, huh?”
“I don’t mind. I’m not ready to…leap into another relationship.” She leaned back. “Oh—you never said anything about wanting a relationship. I just meant—”
“Hush.” He kissed her, taking his time to simply savor her lips. When at last they drew apart,
Alan gently combed his fingers through Laurel’s silky hair. “I want, all right! I know you can tell.” Again, he laughed. “I guess I’m trying to say I’m not falling down that much. I want the whole nine yards, including bed. Bank on it, Laurel. But…I’m okay with taking our time. We need to let things build naturally.”
Her breath trickled out. “I’d like that, Alan.” She ran exploratory fingers up and down the soft cotton of his shirtfront, pausing to brush a well-manicured nail across button after button.
Tightening his arms, Alan lifted her feet off the floor. “Much more of that, and I can honestly say the natural progression’s gonna be drastically cut.”
They traded soft kisses then, without words. It wasn’t until Alan realized he’d backed Laurel flat against the door and they both needed breathing room that he eased his body away from hers. “Old as this building is, I’d say we’re lucky we didn’t plunge straight through the door,” he joked.
“Umm.” She licked tingling lips. “I’d say we’re on the same road—and moving faster.”
“Yeah. But I really didn’t come with that in mind tonight—and I haven’t even thought about protection for years.”
“Protection?” Laurel’s eyes widened appreciably. “Whatever must you think of me, Alan? Uh…it never entered my mind.”
“Probably since we agreed to take it easy. I’m sure you would’ve thought of it if we’d gone further.” He stood, massaging the back of his neck. “I’ll take care of it. It’s a good thing we didn’t wait until we’d reached the eleventh hour.”
She began righting her clothes. She couldn’t believe the mess she was. How far she’d let things go—considering. Or maybe that was exactly the reason she’d lost control. In the past she’d always hated the smell of liquor on Dennis’s breath. During the last three years of their marriage, she’d dodged his kisses and anything more intimate. “You probably wonder if I’m promiscuous,” she ventured without turning.
“I wonder nothing of the sort.” Alan wanted to touch her, but every line of her taut body told him not to. “Why would I think anything like that, Laurel?”
“Are you kidding? You’re well-versed in my mother’s history in this town.”
“You aren’t your mother. It sounds as if she was unhappy as well as ill. If your dad hadn’t walked out, maybe she’d have been a different person. But then…maybe she wouldn’t have had you. From my perspective, that would be a damn shame.”
“Thanks. Living with her was hard. But she was all I had.”
He’d walked over to inspect the loom Laurel had been working. “I obviously interrupted your evening work. This loom looks a thousand times more complicated than the ones you use to teach the kids. Do you mind letting me watch you weave?”
“I don’t mind. Starting—or tying up—gets complicated. It’s important to read each step of a pattern correctly. I keep the steps taped to the loom until a project is complete. Then it’s simple to check that the colors are introduced at the proper places.” She sat.
Dog, who’d paced constantly as they were kissing, flopped down near her foot pedals.
Alan dragged a chair to the other side so he wouldn’t block her light.
Doing something routine with her still-shaky hands and legs allowed Laurel to relax. Work was soothing. Kissing Alan Ridge wasn’t. She began to toss both shuttles expertly through the warp threads, rattling the reeds—the metal rods that fit into the beater bar—once she’d developed a rhythm. After running eight or so lines, she lifted her head and smiled at Alan. He looked so serious.
“Say what you want, it seems damn difficult to me. I suspect if making cloth back in the pioneer days depended on men, nudist colonies would’ve come into fashion centuries ago.”
“I’m sure the cold Kentucky winters had something to do with keeping the art alive here.”
“Yes, but why carry on today? Not out of necessity.”
“Not usually. Remember how you said bourbon making got passed down in your family? Hand weaving’s like that. In fact, weavers refer to the process as ‘passing it on.’ The baton, the torch, whatever. If each weaver trains three others, the craft will never die.”
“You like that idea, I can tell.” Alan crossed his arms over his wide chest and stretched out his long legs, settling in to observe. “I’m sure you don’t want to hear it, Laurel, but there’s an art to making fine bourbon, too. At Windridge we don’t bottle every batch. Not by a long shot. It’s costly to toss out mistakes. But its our pride and our name out there on every bottle.”
“I must be mellowing in my old age. I do understand what you’re saying, Alan.”
“Good. Great, in fact. If we’re going to—you know—let what’s between us go galloping forward—” He broke off.
“If we proceed, I think what you’re trying to say is that I have to stop blaming you for Dennis Shaw’s condition.”
“Exactly. Can you do that?” Alan asked, sounding apprehensive.
“Why would you trust my judgment? Dennis’s problem didn’t become evident until after we’d met and married. At any rate, I failed to see any sign of it.”
“Well, they say love is blind.”
“Love. I can hardly remember back to when I loved Dennis.”
Alan realized it was the same for him. In high school, he’d thought his feelings for Emily amounted to love. So long ago, and so much water under the bridge since then. But he couldn’t speak of that to Laurel, or anyone. Maybe because his feelings were all wrapped up with a sense of failure. Lord knew he had flaws. He’d never expected Emily to be perfect. But still.
He roused himself suddenly. “I didn’t tell anyone at home where I was going. Guess I’d better scoot back. If I’m needed, they’ll think I’ve gone to the distillery.”
“Oh. Don’t let me detain you. I’m, uh, glad you came back.” Laurel stopped weaving and blushed hotly.
He stood, and drew her up, too. Looping an arm around her shoulders, he ambled to the door. “There’s one thing we shouldn’t do. Be embarrassed to speak honestly.”
“Oh, I couldn’t agree more, Alan. Hardly anything is more important in any relationship than openness.”
Alan thought for a minute that she was going to lock up and walk him to his Jeep. She didn’t, and he was almost glad. He needed time to—what? Digest their exchange? Maybe. As of tonight, if they were keeping score, Laurel was several steps above him on the honesty scale. He’d catch up, he just needed time to get more comfortable talking about his marriage to Emily.
Plus, he and Laurel needed to come to terms about the issue of the creek.
Although…maybe that didn’t count. Once Dave Bentley provided a copy of the hydrology report, Laurel would agree to his plan, Alan was sure of it. And once she agreed, Hardy would get off his back. Windridge’s expansion would go forward. Laurel would have her cottages. Everything promised to work out.
Driving home with his windows down, admiring the starry night, Alan couldn’t help feeling pleased about Laurel’s softening on their other problem—her adamant stance about his profession. That might have been a bigger sticking point than any of the others. No matter how he looked at it, Alan was Windridge. He’d hoped one day to pass the land and his stock in the distillery to his children—and it had never been his choice to let Louemma be an only child the way he’d been.
As he entered his lane, he felt as though his burdens had been lifted.
THAT NIGHT, Laurel couldn’t sleep. Sparks had shot into flames between her and Alan, so quickly she hadn’t had time to think. But in the midst of her worrying, she admitted the heat had simmered beneath the surface almost since their first meeting.
Still, she had to examine the facts. She wasn’t very good at picking a man.
But they were talking Alan Ridge. Pillar of the community. Father extraordinaire. Entrepreneur. Breadwinner. All arenas in which Dennis had failed.
Despite all that, Laurel remained nervous over the prospect of taking the next step. So nervous,
she saddled Coal Fire at dawn. She and Dog set out to visit another mountain weaver.
Laurel spent a glorious day. The mountains were dappled with sunlight, and at the threshold of summer, the wilderness was fresh and beautiful. There was so much more to Kentucky than its famous bluegrass. She had her first look at the peeling bark on the mountain laurel, for which she was named.
Essie Johnson, who at ninety-one still lived alone, bolstered Laurel’s sense of self. On the old woman’s rough-hewn cabin walls hung some of the purest weavings Laurel had ever seen. Hours later, when she untied Coal Fire and left, she was clutching Essie’s patterns for variations of the Whig Rose and Chariot Wheel. Essie swore they’d come to her through a family member who’d served in the household of Thomas Jefferson. Laurel thought it could be true. In Hazel’s pattern scrapbook were notations indicating Jefferson himself had named the Whig Rose design.
Also stowed in her saddlebags was a salve brewed from chittam bark. Essie claimed it cured any number of infections. Oh, and two loaves of fresh persimmon bread. The smell tantalized Laurel as she rode, Dog at her side.
It was a refreshed, exuberant woman who cantered in after dark, only to find a near-apoplectic Alan Ridge racing around the perimeter of her house. His brown hair stood up in spikes. He waved a wilting bouquet of daisies like one might a Fourth of July flag.
“Oh, Alan, are those daisies for me?” Laurel asked, sliding from her saddle.
“Where in hell have you been? It’s nine o’clock!” In his agitation, he roughly bumped Dog aside. And for the first time in ages, the shepherd growled.
Laurel took a step back. She clutched Coal Fire’s bridle. A wave of fright sent goose bumps up her spine. But then the porch light revealed the anguish and worry in Alan’s brown eyes. Worry for her safety, she realized.
Stepping forward, she rose on tiptoes, grabbed Alan’s collar and kissed him.
Daddy's Little Matchmaker Page 18
