Roz Fox - Daddy's Little Matchmaker

Alan wasn’t close enough to get a good look at her eyes, but if he had to guess, he’d say they were hazel, more aqua and gold than brown. She didn’t wear a speck of jewelry. Perhaps that was why Peg considered her plain. In his experience, southern women tended to drape themselves in gold necklaces, with charms, crosses and other things hanging at varying lengths. Like the ones Charity had on and Emily had worn. Plus gemstone rings on every finger. Alan hadn’t thought much about the practice until now, following the graceful sweep of Laurel Ashline’s bare, slender hand through the air.

He suffered yet another guilty start and sat up fast. He had absolutely no reason at all to compare her with other women of his acquaintance—especially not in an interested fashion. A romantic…

More to the point, Alan needed to observe her reaction when Charity introduced her to Louemma. Or when they got around to him.

He didn’t have long to wait. Alan saw the woman take in Louemma’s full name, and thought he saw a narrowing of her eyes. Just as quickly, she pasted on another smile. But when Charity pointed to him, the smile disappeared and her mouth dropped open.

He got to his feet and ambled over, acknowledging the introduction with a brief nod of his head. Then he casually tucked his thumbs under his belt and resumed his seat. He couldn’t help gloating that his nemesis seemed so obviously rattled.

And rattled she was. Although she’d kept his pink roses long after another woman would have thrown them out, Laurel had built a less than flattering picture in her mind of Alan Ridge. She’d imagined him fortyish, slightly paunchy, possibly even with receding hair, but definitely with a ruddy complexion from partaking of the product that had made him a wealthy man. Her stomach fell suddenly as she realized she’d attached to Alan Ridge attributes her ex-husband had developed over their seven-year marriage.

Ridge was melt-in-a-puddle-at-his-feet gorgeous.

Belatedly, Laurel realized that she was standing there gaping at him, and had completely missed what the hostess, Charity Madison, had said next.

“I’m sorry? What?”

Charity darted a sharp glance between her visitor and her husband’s former best friend. “I asked if you needed a card table for your demonstration. But perhaps I should’ve explained why a man is sitting in on what is normally an all-girl event. I assumed, from talk around town, that you and Alan were acquainted.” Charity discreetly murmured the last few words.

“Ah, no. We’ve never met.” Laurel hauled in a deep breath. The infusion of oxygen to her lungs and brain had the desired effect. “A card table will work just fine,” she said briskly. “I’ll talk a bit about the history of weaving in Kentucky, then start a pot holder I’ve set up on a hand loom. While you prepare refreshments for the girls, I’ll take them individually and let them weave four or so lines apiece on the mat. By the time they finish, they’ll have a fair idea of how a weaving comes together.”

“Oh, that sounds marvelous. Exactly the kind of program I’m always searching for. In a small town it’s hard to find things year after year to interest kids who have the attention span of gnats.” Both women laughed at that.

“Sarah and Brenna,” Charity called. “Ms. Ashline needs the card table. It’s your turn to set up for our speaker.”

Laurel saw two girls jump up. Both were pretty and gangly like colts. One had long golden hair and the other was a freckled redhead. The golden girl appeared somewhat bossy. But it wasn’t until the group leader spoke sharply to her that Laurel gathered the bossy one was her daughter.

Charity followed Laurel to where she’d left her loom and bag. Kneeling, she helped collect the various things, although that clearly wasn’t her primary goal. It became obvious that she had something to say to Laurel that she didn’t want the girls to hear.

“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.”