There are different kinds of thread, and various types of weaving. The article mentions pot holders. Woven on a hand-operated loom.”
“Oh.” The spark died in her dark-brown eyes. “I couldn’t do it, then.”
Alan hated to raise her hopes, only to dash them again. On the other hand, he’d promised Vestal. “Nana saw this weaver working with patients at the hospital. A friend of hers who’d had a stroke and used to be paralyzed on one side can apparently operate the loom now. I’m not saying you can do it, baby, but it’s worth trying. Plus you haven’t seen Sarah Madison in a while. I thought I could knock off work early and take you to the meeting, and let you see what weaving’s all about.”
She pursed her lips. “Sarah called me a spoiled brat. But I miss Jenny, Maggie and Brenna. I guess it’d be okay to go.”
Alan had hoped for more overt enthusiasm, or else a flat refusal. He supposed he’d have to live with her tepid response. “Fine,” he said, clasping sweating palms over his knees. “I’ll phone Mrs. Madison and tell her to plan on two more at the meeting. Oh,” he added as he stood, “I understand we’re eating earlier beginning tomorrow. Did Birdie tell you?”
“Birdie and Nana discussed it with Miss Robinson. She said it didn’t matter to my lesson schedule.”
“Good, that’s what we’ll do.”
He realized he was stalling, not wanting to make that call to Charity. Alan removed that DVD disc and found another appropriate program for Louemma to watch before he decided he could stall no longer.
AT THREE-THIRTY the next afternoon, Alan found himself sitting in front of the Madison home. Louemma wore an anxious expression. Her Camp Fire uniform hung on her, emphasizing her weight loss.
“Sure you’re still okay with your decision, honey? It’s not too late to change your mind.”
“I want to go.”
Alan heard a but in there. “But…?”
“I don’t like riding in the wheelchair. And I’m nine, so when you carry me, I look like a baby.”
“Don’t you remember how you woke up crying every night with terrible muscle aches? That’s why Dr. Fulton got you the chair.”
She dragged her lip between her teeth.
Allowing her to make up her own mind, Alan remained silent. He and Charity already thought the meeting, added to the demonstration and the social half hour, might be too much for Louemma’s first outing. They’d settled on skipping the meeting portion, at that time Charity would prepare the other girls for Louemma’s eventual appearance. As he waited, staring out the car window, he saw a pickup cruising slowly toward them on the opposite side of the street. He recognized it as the one he’d seen parked near the footbridge at Laurel Ashline’s cottage. It galled him to think of it as her cottage. If she was related to Hazel Bell, then she was kin to a woman who had scammed his family.
Well, maybe scammed was too harsh a term. But Hazel had certainly deceived them.
“What’s the verdict, Louemma? I think that’s the weaver across the street. We’ll want to go inside and get settled so we’re not interrupting her.”
“I’ll use the chair, Daddy. The other girls sit on the floor.”
Since the last thing Alan wanted was to encounter Laurel Ashline on the porch, he jumped from the Jeep, pulled out the wheelchair and flipped it open. He unbuckled Louemma and lifted her down, placing her in the chair. It became apparent that their demonstrator had things to collect, too. He saw her leaning into the pickup bed—and he couldn’t help admiring her backside. Forcing his eyes away, he managed to maneuver his daughter and himself into the house, greeting Charity and the other girls, all before Laurel knocked at the door.
Alan took a seat in the far corner of the Madisons’ family room. It was a good place from which to evaluate the weaver without attracting her attention. Apparently, Eva Saxon’s assessment of Laurel as a tall, willowy blonde was fairly accurate. Peg Moore, though, had called her plain. And shy. Alan wouldn’t attach either of those labels to this woman, whose skin was flawless. After putting down a loom and a large quilted bag, she talked animatedly with Charity, all the while flashing brilliant smiles at the small circle of girls.
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
