successful for all upper-body disabilities?”
Laurel hesitated. At twenty-nine, she was a master weaver, not a certified occupational therapist. “I don’t know about all disabilities. But it’s an old technique, one that gained respect and popularity with orthopedic physicians after World War Two. Lou Tate, a weaver from Louisville, was the first to use desktop looms to help partial amputees and other maimed soldiers. There’s a wonderfully soothing quality connected to the repetitious motion of working a beater bar. The exercise develops tone in atrophied muscles.” Laurel might have expounded further on a subject near to her heart, but a nurse appeared to escort the inquisitive stranger away.
“Goodbye,” Laurel called belatedly. “Good luck getting sprung by suppertime.” Her conspiratorial grin was answered in kind as the departing woman glanced back over one shoulder.
Laurel set to work again shuffling between the three people currently in her program. During the course of the day, the stranger faded from mind. Laurel maintained a hectic schedule. As well as volunteering at the hospital, she wove in cotton, wool and chenille. But her specialty was fine linen tablecloths and napkins.
When she’d first come to Ridge City, she’d been reclusive, hiding out to nurse her deep wounds from a bad marriage—until she decided it was time to take back her life. Now she had an ever-widening circle of private clients, plus she’d renewed a project her grandmother had begun—the collection and preservation of old mountain weaving patterns. Laurel found it was an endeavor that was both worthwhile and enjoyable; it was also a way to honor her grandmother’s memory. Added to that, she taught weaving at a community college two days a week. And a few weeks ago, she’d been approached to demonstrate at local clubs. Her schedule kept her almost constantly busy. Laurel needed that, because it meant she had fewer hours at home where Dennis Shaw, her alcoholic ex, might call and harass her. He paid no attention to restraining orders issued in Vermont and in Kentucky.
As Laurel finished up at the hospital and loaded her car, her thoughts were already on her next project.
ALAN RIDGE, current CEO of the once wholly family-owned Windridge Distillery, stood and quickly closed out a spreadsheet displayed on his home-office computer. He smiled faintly as he listened over the speakerphone to his grandmother, who ordered him to drop everything and come get her from the hospital. She’d vehemently resisted going there at all.
Vestal still spoke to him in the autocratic manner she had when he was a boy. But though he was thirty now, Alan didn’t mind. He was deeply concerned about his grandmother’s failing health. He didn’t think he could bear yet another loss.
Ending the call, Alan snatched a jacket from the hall coat-rack. Spring evenings in Kentucky could be quite chilly after the sun set. “Birdie, Grandmother’s coming home. Louemma’s napping,” Alan called, by way of requesting that Birdie Jepson, the Ridge family’s cook and housekeeper, keep an eye on his nine-year-old daughter.
She came out of the kitchen as Alan gathered up a lap robe to tuck around his grandmother.
“I do declare, Mr. Alan, that child’s gonna sleep her life away. What did that new doctor have to say yesterday? Did he have any good ideas?”
“She. Dr. Meyers is a female neuro-orthopedic specialist.” Alan felt his smile disappear altogether. “All the specialists say the same thing, Birdie. Medically, Louemma’s back surgery was a success. Every doctor I’ve consulted believes her problems are psychological. Except the psychiatrists haven’t helped. The last one claimed she’s just spoiled. I do indulge her. But…for pity’s sake, she lost her mother in a car wreck that’s left her…” Alan hated to say the damning word—paralyzed. “I know she’d move her arms if she could.”
“There, there. I reckon the good Lord will heal the poor baby in time. We’re all just so anxious to see her bouncing around like she did before the accident.”
“God’s certainly taking his time, Birdie. Come March fifteenth, which is next Monday, it’ll be a full year.” Alan rubbed a hand over a perpetually haggard face.
“That long? I guess it’s been at that. Doesn’t seem but yesterday I moved in, instead of popping in and out to cook for Miss Emily’s parties. You and Miss Vestal must feel like it’s been eons since that hellish phone call from the state police.”
Alan felt the pain always. Life at Windridge had been topsy-turvy since that call telling him his wife had been killed and his daughter injured in a senseless crash. Everything had changed then.
“Well, you’d best go collect Miss Vestal. If I know her, she’ll be pacing at the hospital door. Tell her I made buttermilk pie. For Miss Louemma, but Miss Vestal don’t need to know that.”
Alan’s smile returned briefly. “Talk about spoiling, Birdie. I’m pointing Louemma’s next psychiatrist straight at you. And Grandmother. That last shrink said we were all enablers.”
“We don’t know how to be anything else, Mr. Alan. Just tell that grouchy old doctor it’s ’cause we all love Louemma to bits.”
He laughed outright at her comment. Laughter seemed to be the only way they could deal with the parade of doctors, most spouting either useless or contradictory diagnoses, who’d become commonplace in their lives.
Out of habit, Alan detoured past his daughter’s room. Tiptoeing into the shuttered bedroom, he gazed lovingly down on sleep-flushed cheeks and pillow-tousled curls. The poor kid had a cowlick just like his, at the hairline above her left eyebrow. His wife had cursed that cowlick—and Alan for passing it on to Louemma.
Alan’s fingers gently skimmed the dark-blond hair. Backing quietly from the pink room that lacked nothing in the way of girlish accoutrements, he sighed and shifted the lap robe to his other arm as he dug out the keys to the car Vestal preferred over his more serviceable Jeep. Her baby-blue Chrysler New Yorker wasn’t Alan’s kind of car, and it rarely got driven. In her late seventies, Vestal Ridge had been so shaken by Emily’s accident she rarely drove now. Only on occasion, and then only back and forth to town.
Alan liked his four-wheel drive. Outside of visiting a myriad of doctors, his trips, consisted mainly of dashing between the house and the distillery, built a mile uphill on the vast family estate. The road was often muddy, especially in spring. Since 1860, a Ridge had owned the three hundred and sixty acres that made up Windridge. In all that time, the estate had remained virtually unchanged. With the exception of forty acres, Alan recalled with a scowl. Lord knew he wished he could forget the pie-shaped wedge sliced from their eastern border. Jason Ridge, Alan’s grandfather, had let that parcel slip out of the family’s hands before his death. And no one apparently knew how or why.
On the way to the hospital, Alan thought about the fact that his plant manager and board of directors wanted that wedge back. Considering how much work had piled up while Alan was taking Louemma to the most recent doctor, he hadn’t yet found time to delve into old county records to determine any options regarding Bell Hill. In the distillery safe, he’d found the land grant that deeded the entire parcel to the first Ridge to settle there. Written on parchment and signed by Daniel Boone himself, the document ought to prove ownership. Although Boone’s fort and settlement, rebuilt and now run by local artisans, had long since been incorporated into Fort Boonesborough State Park. So many local families had sold and moved out. Alan liked that sense of permanence. If it’d been up to him, he wouldn’t have incorporated Windridge Distillery, but kept it strictly a family-owned company.
Not wanting to think about that, Alan lowered the electric windows on both sides of the Chrysler. Settling his wide shoulders against the leather seat, he inhaled the relaxing scent of wet limestone and
