Louemma. But it’s just as well. I knew she was so much smoke and mirrors.”
“No, she’s not. Phone her again, and be nicer this time.”
“She hung up on me! Not the other way around.”
“Honestly! You do take after your grandfather. Ridge men can be so abrasive. And dense. Mercy, will you look at the time? Who calls a lady at this hour? It’s only quarter of eight!” Vestal tapped the clock on his desk. She sent Alan a look of the type that always left him stumbling to apologize.
“Run into town later and send her flowers or fruit from Saxon’s. Include a business card, and write Ms. Ashline a nice apology on the back. Ask her to phone at her convenience.”
Alan clamped down on the hell, no leaping to the tip of his tongue. Instead, he grumbled, “Can’t, Grandmother. No address on her card.”
“A lack of address has never stopped Eva Saxon from making a delivery. Oh, for pity’s sake. I’ll do it.”
“No, you won’t. The subject of Ms. Ashline is finished.”
But Vestal Ridge had her own stubborn streak. Alan knew he wouldn’t have a moment’s peace unless he appeased her. More than that, he loved her. Still…it felt like groveling. “Give me a week to rethink this, Grandmother. Right now I need to shave before breakfast, and roust Louemma.” And with that, he left the room.
Vestal stared after him for only a moment, then picked up the phone and punched in Eva’s number at the flower shop from memory.
CHAPTER TWO
LAUREL TRIED TO GO BACK to sleep, but the early call had left her stomach feeling jittery. At first she’d thought the caller was her ex, Dennis Shaw, phoning again to either insult her or beg money, as was his pattern. He never held a job for long, even though he had the charisma to get a new one each time he sobered up. It was that charm she’d fallen for, even thought she should’ve learned from her mom’s bad experience with men.
Stifling a yawn, Laurel wandered into the kitchen and bent to pat the big German shepherd she’d rescued from the animal shelter. Living alone, so far back in the woods, she’d decided it would be wise to have a fierce companion. At the time she got him, she’d had no heart for loving man or beast. Her intention was to keep the dog at arm’s length, using him strictly as a bodyguard, not a friend. For that reason, she’d simply named him Dog. While the name stuck, little by little he’d worked his way past her defenses—until Laurel couldn’t imagine life without him. Dog looked fierce. She hoped if push came to shove, he could scare off an intruder. But like her, he was a marshmallow inside. And like her, he was both lonely and a loner. Well, less lonely now that they had each other for company.
She missed corresponding with her grandmother. The letters had been her lifeline though tough times. Living here in Hazel’s house, surrounded by her things, Laurel wished now that she hadn’t been cursed with her own mother’s stubborn pride. A pride that had kept them both from coming home to this safe haven for far too many lonely years.
She washed her hands and face, then put water in the kettle for her favorite herb tea. Whenever old memories closed in too tightly, the ritual of making tea generally staved them off.
Today, however, she allowed a few of those memories to seep in. She’d grown up fatherless, taking charge of a chronically ill mother at an early age. Just before her death, Lucy Ashline had sworn to haunt Laurel if she ever dared phone her grandparents. From ages fifteen to eighteen, Laurel had lived like a rabbit in a hole. She’d struggled to make ends meet, and she’d lived on her own, deceiving social workers, going to school.
Then one rainy day she woke up and broke her word to Lucy. Laurel wrote a letter to Hazel Bell, introducing herself—even sending a graduation photo. She’d let Hazel believe her life was rosy.
At first Laurel didn’t tell her grandmother that Lucy had died. Eventually, through letters, she’d gradually opened up. It was also through these letters that Laurel developed an interest in her grandmother’s passion for weaving. Hazel sent money from time to time. Laurel used the funds to apply for an apprenticeship in a weaving program. The instructor said she had a knack, and within a year had recommended her for a master weaver’s apprenticeship in Vermont. Only after Laurel left the last apartment she’d shared with her mother, did she invite Hazel to visit her.
Hazel made excuses. First, she said her husband was ill. Then he died and she didn’t feel like traveling. All the while Hazel begged Laurel to continue corresponding.
Looking back, Laurel knew she’d let Dennis Shaw slip past her defenses because she was so lonely. Lonely, living in a new city in a too-empty little studio apartment.
Dennis was selling yarn when she met him. At the time, Laurel had no idea it was just one in a string of jobs he held on to until he went on a bender and got fired. Sober, he was funny and charming. He’d traveled places Laurel only dreamed of seeing. In the early days of their courtship, he used to sprawl on her couch, easing the emptiness in her life. Dennis had said he loved watching Laurel create the items she sold on consignment. And maybe it was true—then.
They began discussing a future together. They made plans. That was one thing she could say about Dennis: he always made big plans. Not until after she consented to marriage did she slowly learn he was all talk. Any plans they implemented used money she earned. Dennis’s plans all ended in losses Laurel bailed him out of.
Her grandmother sensed her unhappiness, although Laurel never meant to spill it into the pages of her letters. Hazel suggested on more than one occasion that Laurel leave Dennis and come to Kentucky. She’d even offered plane fare, but the same foolish pride that had kept Laurel’s mother from hightailing it home, a failure, also kept Laurel in her mistake of a marriage. Until it was too late.
Unfortunately, it had taken seven years of living in hell, and Hazel’s sudden, surprising death, to pound sense into Laurel, enabling her to overcome that stiff pride of hers. She regretted that it was her grandmother’s last letter, delivered through her attorney, that finally kicked her hard enough in the backside and gave her the funds to divorce Dennis.
Refilling her cup, Laurel called Dog. The two of them went out to enjoy the sun warming the front porch. Here, and in the upper cottage where she did her weaving, the past always faded into obscurity.
A row of window boxes on the porch spilled over with violets and fragrant pinks. Their perfume filled the air with the promise of spring. Winter rains had subsided, and the creek had once again receded below its banks. Laurel loved everything about the cottages, including the fact that no one could drive up and surprise her. A footbridge crossed the creek. Visitors had to park in a clearing on the other side—not that she had any visitors.
Laurel also owned two horses she’d bought about the time she adopted Dog. That was because her grandmother had once written about how she carried on the laudable work begun by another Kentucky weaver. Lou Tate Bousman had devoted her latter years to keeping the art of hand-weaving alive. Both women, during different decades, had traveled the hollows of the Kentucky hill country, collecting and preserving patterns that would otherwise have been lost.
As she went back inside, Laurel reflected on her efforts to carry on the tradition. Last fall, she and Dog had roamed those same hills, she on horseback, he loping beside her. Laurel had met some fantastically talented women, although uneducated by most standards. The beauty of the hollows, and the strength of women who survived under mostly primitive conditions, had helped heal Laurel’s shattered life.
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