Daddy's Little Matchmaker

“I’m not sure of that. She volunteers at the hospital. Dory referred to her as a master weaver.”

“Right…” Alan half snarled under his breath.

“Just phone her is all I ask. If not for Louemma, then to humor me. You know I won’t stop badgering you until you do.”

“Tell me something new, Grandmother.” Alan sighed heavily. “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll put out feelers. That’s my best offer. I’m not about to hand Louemma over to some dingbat. What brought this weaver to Ridge City? Do you know the name Ashline? Who would move here unless they already have roots in the valley?”

“Would you listen to yourself? You’re always telling me times are changing.” Vestal sank back and fell silent for a minute or two. “I have to admit, when she first said her name I had a notion I’d heard it before. But for the life of me, I can’t recall where.” Closing her eyes, Vestal rubbed a creased forehead. “These bouts of senility are the main thing I detest about aging. You just wait, Alan. It’s no fun.”

He immediately picked up a blue-veined hand. “Your dad lived to be ninety. If you take care of yourself, you’ll have a lot of good years left. And you’re far from senile.”

“You’re a good boy. A caring father, too. I’ve got no doubt that you’ll explore every avenue to help Louemma. Including contacting Ms. Ashline.”

“Enough.” Alan dropped her hand. “Flattery won’t work, you know. And I’m hardly a boy. But…it’s no secret I’d step in front of a train if I thought it would help Louemma be normal and happy again. I’ll look into this weaver when I get time.”

Vestal twiddled her thumbs and continued to frown.

ALTHOUGH LOUEMMA HAD missed her great-grandmother, it seemed to Alan that during their first meal together again, the child was especially withdrawn. One reason he didn’t believe her problem was only psychosomatic was that she detested having to be fed like a baby. Their family doctor worried about her weight loss, and she did look terribly thin to Alan. “Honeybee, you love Birdie’s potato soup. Please take a few more sips.”

The child turned her pixie face away from the spoon. “I’m not hungry. You eat, Daddy. Otherwise yours will get cold.”

“With all the times I’ve been called away from the table to handle problems at the distillery, I’ve grown to like cold soup, honey. Hot or cold, it has the same nutritional value.” He waggled the spoon again to coax her.

Vestal adjusted a red bow Birdie had tied in Louemma’s dark hair. “You want to eat, child, otherwise you’ll end up in the hospital like I did. I can tell you from experience that no one lines up for their tasteless meals. Hospital cooks have never heard of spice.” Vestal launched into a funny story about patients on her floor who hid or traded food. She’d always been able to wheedle smiles from Louemma. Tonight, she only managed a tiny one. Eventually the girl ate a bit more, but by then they were all exhausted.

Louemma yawned hugely as Birdie collected the plates. “Daddy, please carry me to bed before you and Nana have dessert.”

It broke Alan’s heart to see his formerly energetic child so listless. The accident had caused too many noticeable changes in her personality. It wasn’t normal for a kid her age to sleep as many hours as she did. No wonder her muscles had lost their tone.

Birdie, who’d come back with the coffeepot and one of her famous buttermilk pies, shook her head. “Your daddy had better take your temperature, missy, if you be turning down this delicious pie I baked special for you and Miss Vestal.” The cook passed it under Louemma’s nose. A fresh scent of vanilla, mixed with the cinnamon dusted lightly on the rich custard filling, wafted through the air.

“I’m sorry, Birdie. I’m just too full.” Louemma turned helpless eyes toward Alan. “And I’m really, really sleepy.” She failed to stifle another yawn.

Vestal yawned as well.

The dinner hour at Windridge had always been set late to allow the men of the house time to tidy up at the end of long workdays. He glanced at his watch and saw it was just ten. Not particularly late by Southern dining standards.

As if Vestal had tapped into his thoughts, she murmured, “If you’re going to continue working from home, Alan, and if it’s agreeable with Birdie, we could move our dinner hour to seven, or even six.”

“We’ve never…” Alan crumpled his snowy linen napkin. Nine had been the tradition as far back as he could remember. But really, what did time matter? The Windridge family hadn’t entertained since…Emily’s death.

“Can we discuss this later?” He shoved back his chair, unclear as to why he hated the idea of altering yet another routine. Since the accident, so many practices had gone by the wayside. His hands-on grasp of the business, for one. The loss of old friends, although these were couples he and Emily had known forever. Even simple laughter seemed a thing of the past. Childish giggles for sure, as no children ran in and out of the big house anymore; playing tag with Louemma. Male-female banter was nonexistent, too. Windridge had become a virtual tomb.

And whose fault is that? a little voice nagged Alan.

His. He hadn’t wanted any overt reminders of Emily’s absence. And somehow, around other kids her age, Louemma’s handicap seemed magnified.

“I’m sorry, Birdie. Unless Grandmother wants pie and coffee, I’m going to pass. I’ll take Louemma to her room,” Alan said, carefully lifting the girl. Louemma suffered intermittent muscle spasms, because of which her doctor had suggested using a wheelchair. “Afterward, I’m going back to the spreadsheets I left unfinished when Grandmother phoned.”

Vestal folded her napkin neatly and set it aside before unhooking an ornate cane from the back of her chair.

Birdie faced them all, hands on her broad hips. “Pie’ll be in the fridge,” she snapped. “I’ll leave a thermos of coffee on the counter. In case that spreadsheet threatens to put you to sleep, Mr. Alan.”

“Birdie, I’m truly sorry. We all appreciate how hard you work.”

“We do indeed,” Vestal assured her. “And the pie will keep. You know, Alan,” she said, “there’s something I missed more than pie during my hospital stay. Our catching up over a nightcap. I believe I’ll wait in your office.”

The reigning Ridge matriarch patted Louemma’s thin face. “Good night, sweet pea. Sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Alan smiled in spite of everything. Vestal had sent him off to bed as a boy with that same admonition. His father had said it’d been their ritual, as well. One thing was different—the way Louemma used to throw her arms around Vestal’s neck, and how girl and woman used to giggle delightedly. That ritual, too, was gone.

Alan escaped then, because it hurt deep inside his chest to be holding his precious child, and feeling her slip away from him in body and spirit, with apparently nothing he nothing he could do to change that.

Hiding the tears stinging his eyes, he dragged out the routine of tucking his daughter in for the night. He was aware, from Vestal’s insistence, that she had something more than a nightcap in mind. Eventually, Alan trudged slowly and heavily down the hall.

Bracing for whatever awaited him, he wiped away all traces of anxiety before entering the room he’d usurped for his office. On top of a desk crafted from local hardwood, aged and polished to a glossy shine, two old-fashioned glasses sat, each holding a splash of Windridge bourbon.

When Vestal picked up one glass and handed him the other, it struck Alan that it’d been she, not his father, who’d taught him how to appreciate the taste of bourbon. His dad had been struck and killed by lightning up at the distillery the year Alan turned thirteen. His grandfather Jason’s health had gone downhill after the loss of his only son. It’d been Vestal, and Alan’s mother, Carolee, who’d plunged him into the business of producing top-grade bourbon.

Their lives had seemed smooth until Alan was twenty or so and Carolee met and married a wine maker from California. At that point she turned her back on Windridge and her only child. She’d looked back once—when she’d signed over to Alan her shares in the corporation she’d set up. She’d sold forty-nine percent of overall shares, pulling the wool over Vestal’s eyes. And Carolee’s brash move had sparked the business with a new influx of cash.

Alan clinked his glass to the rim of Vestal’s, smiling fondly at her as they waited for the chime of the crystal to fade. That was another of her mantras. Fine bourbon should be served in the finest crystal.

“You seem restless tonight, Grandmother. This being your first day home after a lengthy illness, shouldn’t you trundle off to bed?”

The woman sipped the amber liquid with her eyes closed, ignoring his nudge. “I love the barest hint of a woody taste. I assume I can thank our new, ungodly expensive aging barrels. I hope you don’t mind that I broke the seal on a new bottle.”

“Not at all.” The bottles were all carefully filled and corked by hand in a manner that made Windridge a constant favorite of a discerning liquor market.

“Did you want an update on expenses, Grandmother? I can run you a cost analysis worksheet tomorrow.”

“Don’t rush me, Alan. Ever since you were a little boy, you’ve rushed through life hell-bent for election.”

He smiled again at her longstanding version of the cliché, then cleared his throat “I’m just wondering what this is about. Monday, as I pulled into the hospital parking lot, I saw Hardy Duff driving off. You didn’t mention his visit. I figure he must’ve decided the fastest way to get me to move on reacquiring Bell Hill was to go through you.”

“Hardy brought me violets. His neighbor grows them.” Vestal took another sip. “Very well, Alan. But I’m telling you the same thing I told Hardy. Ted Bell saved your grandfather’s life in Korea, and Jason meant for Ted and Hazel to live out their days on the hill. Still, Hazel had no call to go behind our backs and file squatter’s rights. Granted, she and I had a falling out. Didn’t mean I’d ever have tossed her off our land.”

“You, Grandfather and the Bells were once best friends.”

“Yes.” Vestal stared into space. “Relationships can crumble. Hazel had…hobbies that obsessed her. Then she…we…well, we argued after her daughter, Lucy, ran off with that no-account transient tobacco picker your grandfather hired. We hired a lot of transient laborers then. Hazel had no say in hiring or firing.”

“It’s late. Talking about this upsets you. Let’s save it for tomorrow.”

She polished off her drink and set the glass on the tray with a thump. Stretching out slightly arthritic fingers, she pried the business card she’d given Alan earlier out of his shirt pocket. “Bell Hill will solve itself. Louemma, however, is wasting away before our eyes. I want you to promise you’ll call Ms. Ashline first thing in the morning. If it wasn’t so late, I’d insist you phone her now.”

Alan snatched back the card, dropping it next to his phone. “Even though I fail to see how a stranger who doesn’t have a medical degree can be any help, I’ll call the damn woman. Scout’s honor,” he added, seeing Vestal’s arched eyebrow.

“Call it meddling if you will, Alan. Or call it intuition. I saw what she did for Donald Baird and…a feeling swept over me. I’m sure Ms. Ashline’s the one who can help our sweet girl get back to her old self.”