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.”
Alan downed the rest of his drink and set his glass beside hers. After walking his grandmother to the door and kissing her cheek, he muttered, “Unless Laurel Ashline is a magician or a witch, I sincerely doubt she can make a difference in Louemma.” He sighed. “Why can’t you knit or travel abroad like other women your age?” But Vestal just gave him one of her famous looks.
Still brooding, he shut the door and picked up a family photo sitting on a bookshelf. A picture of him, Emily and Louemma, the shot had been taken three years ago, on Louemma’s sixth birthday. Alan suspected she’d one day match her mother’s beauty. Maintaining a tight grip on the silver frame, he splashed another three fingers of bourbon into his empty glass, although he’d learned a year ago that drowning his sorrows in whiskey never worked. Not even drowning them in the world’s finest bourbon. Holding the glass to the lamp, he assessed the color and clarity. It was perfect. His daughter wasn’t.
Grimacing, he drank half in one swallow. Still, the subtle burn sliding down his throat couldn’t compare to the constant fire consuming his heart. He gently returned the photo to where he kept it for Louemma’s sake. After draining the glass, Alan stared at his former wife through a sheen of tears brought on by the fiery drink. “Dammit, Emily, I wish you’d reach out from the grave and tell me why in hell you were on a mountain road going to Louisville. Why were you driving on such an icy night? And why did you have Louemma with you?”
In the silence following his questions, Alan knew he couldn’t work on spreadsheets, after all. Not that bed was an answer to his restlessness. As had become habit since the accident, he grabbed a flashlight and an old jacket off a rack in the mudroom near the kitchen. Exiting the house, he tramped up the long hill to the distillery. The solidity of the building’s mossy stone walls had withstood generations of storms worse than the one raging inside him.
Finding that thought vaguely calming, Alan went into the vault and checked alcohol levels in two current batches of yeast-laden mash. Every batch fermented naturally for three to five days. On a chart, Alan made notations under Day Four. Their night watchman was used to his midnight prowling. The two men exchanged waves as Drake Crosby made his rounds.
Roaming familiar floors eventually brought about the desired exhaustion. By the time Alan left the building, again waving to Drake, he thought maybe he could fall into bed and manage two hours of dreamless sleep.
But at seven-thirty, he sat at his desk again.
Laurel Ashline’s business card still lay where he’d tossed it last night, taunting him. He passed a hand over his jaw, rehearsing possible openings in his mind. A prickly jaw reminded him that he hadn’t shaved. Vestal and Louemma were habitually late risers, which gave him plenty of time to get presentable.
Birdie popped into his office carrying a tray. “Mercy, if you don’t look like something dragged in from the woods. Have you been working all night?”
Alan accepted his usual juice and coffee. “No. I’m debating what’s the proper time to phone a lady.”
The cook’s eyes sparked with uncommon interest as she poured the coffee.
“Not that kind of call, Birdie,” he declared dryly, pulling the cup of rich, chicory-laced coffee toward him. “It’s a woman Grandmother met at the hospital. She apparently uses weaving for therapy, or some such nonsense—” Stopping suddenly, Alan vigorously shook his head. “It even sounds far-fetched.”
“I don’t know. Miss Vestal mentioned that weaver while I was fixing supper. Way I look at it, the Almighty arranges for people’s paths to cross for a reason. I’m just gonna scoot on out so you can make that call. Yell if you need the pot refilled.”
“Thanks.” Alan shut his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Why was he thanking her? This household was blessed with stubborn women.
Twice he lifted the receiver and set it down again. The third time he hurriedly punched in the number on the card.
A sleepy female voice ventured a wary “Hello…?”
Something in the low, husky timbre sent shock waves to Alan’s toes. Damn, this wasn’t her office. Clearly, he’d called too early. But now that he had her on the line, Alan was determined to state his case, set an appointment and be done with it. “I apologize for calling before eight,” he said. “This is Alan Ridge. Yesterday, at the hospital, you met my grandmother. Vestal,” he added. Despite the silence, he forged on. “She was impressed by how you’ve helped a friend of hers— Don Baird. Vestal thinks you can do the same for my daughter, Louemma.” Nothing Alan had said thus far had produced so much as an iota of response from the other end.
“So I’m phoning to arrange a consultation with you, Ms. Ashline. What day can you come to my home to evaluate her? My daughter,” he added hastily.
“Ms. Ashline?” he said a long moment later. For all Alan knew she’d dropped the phone and fallen back asleep.
“Yes. I’m here, but… I’m, ah, afraid you…have me at a disadvantage. I was up all night finishing a commissioned weaving. And I suspect your grandmother misjudged my role. Oh, I’m probably not coherent enough to be making any sense.”
A fellow night owl, he thought. “You’re making perfect sense, considering. Look, I’m quite sure you’re right about my grandmother’s incorrect assessment. However, if you knew her, you’d know she won’t stop pestering me until you see my daughter. We’re easy to locate. If you need a personal reference, ask anyone. Our family’s been in Ridge City for years. Drive west along Windy Creek Road, and you can’t miss Windridge. The distillery’s on the knoll, but our house sits closer to the highway. Just name a time and day.”
Laurel had finally managed to sit up and shrug off her stupor enough to process most of what her caller had said. She now knew exactly who he was. Obviously, neither he nor his grandmother had placed her. They couldn’t know she was Hazel Bell’s granddaughter, or else Laurel was certain Alan Ridge wouldn’t have been this pleasant. In any event, his very association with making and selling a product responsible for the ruin of countless people, including her ex-husband, precluded her from getting involved with his family. Besides, it was unlikely she had anything to offer his child.
“No, I won’t come upon your house first,” Laurel said bluntly. “I won’t come to your house at all.”
Hearing the shock in his indrawn breath, she wasn’t quite sure how to end the call. But what else needed saying? Nothing, she decided, and she hung up with a quick but definite goodbye. A solid smack of the phone in the cradle should send him a clear message.
Alan heard the sound, and also the resulting dial tone. Anger ripped through him. “Who in hell does she think she is?” he muttered, belatedly slamming down his receiver.
Vestal poked her head into her grandson’s office. “The news must be bad if you’ve resorted to talking to yourself in that tone of voice, Alan.”
“I
