Daddy's Little Matchmaker. Roz Fox Denny

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      Laurel saw two girls jump up. Both were pretty and gangly like colts. One had long golden hair and the other was a freckled redhead. The golden girl appeared somewhat bossy. But it wasn’t until the group leader spoke sharply to her that Laurel gathered the bossy one was her daughter.

      Charity followed Laurel to where she’d left her loom and bag. Kneeling, she helped collect the various things, although that clearly wasn’t her primary goal. It became obvious that she had something to say to Laurel that she didn’t want the girls to hear.

      “Come into the kitchen for a minute, will you please, Ms. Ashline?” Charity kept her voice low and her eyes shuttered. Laurel couldn’t determine exactly why she wanted a private consultation. Like it or not, she was about to find out.

      Charity announced, “Girls, we’re going to grab the adults some coffee. Finish preparing the table and return to your circle. Ms. Ashline and I will be right back.”

      “Call me Laurel,” she murmured, dutifully falling in behind the other woman.

      In the homey country kitchen, Charity filled cups already set out on a tray.

      “What’s this about?” Laurel asked, getting straight to the point. “I can’t drink coffee while I demonstrate.”

      “I know.” Charity bit her lip. “I assumed you were aware of Louemma Ridge’s disability, or I’d have advised Alan not to bring her today.”

      “Are we speaking about the child in the wheelchair?” Suddenly it all began to fall into place.

      “Louemma is Alan’s daughter.” Charity tucked a stray curl behind one ear. “It’s too long a story to give you details, but the short version is that she was injured in the accident that killed his wife, uh, Louemma’s mother. Since then, the poor child hasn’t been able to, or refuses to, move her arms. As a result, she also has difficulty with balance and therefore walking, and her legs are withering from disuse. Frankly, there are so many…rumors flying around….” She paused, frowning. “My Sarah and Louemma used to be best friends. After the accident, well… Alan and Louemma have dropped out of everything. I was shocked when he phoned and asked to bring her today. To be honest, I’m not sure why they’re here. I assume, since his grandmother suggested I invite you to do a program, that she’s the instigator.” Shrugging, Charity broke off and picked up the tray. “Oh, I’ve probably only confused you, Ms. Ashline…uh, Laurel,” she said, as Laurel opened her mouth to correct her. “I thought you’d want to know so you won’t expect Louemma to participate in trying to weave like the other girls.”

      “Thanks. I do appreciate knowing.” Laurel grabbed a mug off the tray and even though she’d denied wanting coffee, took a sip. It gave her an excuse to be in the kitchen while she tried to make some sense out of the information Charity Madison had so unceremoniously dumped on her.

      As she returned to the family room a minute later, Laurel didn’t even glance in Alan Ridge’s direction. She went straight to the table and began unloading her kit. From everything that had been said in the kitchen she deduced two things. Vestal Ridge, the pleasant woman she’d met quite by accident at the hospital, had a purpose in mind when she’d asked if weaving therapy always helped patients regain use of injured limbs. And the elfin child huddled in the wheelchair was the reason for Alan Ridge’s initial phone call, and his subsequent attempts to contact her by plying her with goodies.

      That much Laurel had straight. Now she was even more furious that the man would place her or his poor, sweet child in a situation doomed for failure.

      But here they were. She had an audience that expected to be taught weaving. And there was nothing she could do except muddle through. Afterward, however, Mr. Ridge of the Ridges for whom the town was named was going to get a piece of her mind. And he wouldn’t like it.

      The eager faces of the girls wiped away the frown Laurel felt between her eyebrows merely thinking about Alan Ridge. Laurel and the waif in the chair connected with a brief meeting of their eyes.

      Laurel began stringing the loom. “Hand-weaving is an art brought to this country from Europe by women who had dreams of raising their families in a society free of religious oppression. The women, the pioneers who settled the state of Kentucky, wove cloth out of necessity. For clothes, bedding, curtains…well, for everything. Back then there were no stores. No malls. Sheep provided wool, and the women spun it into yarn. If you’ve never seen a spinning wheel, maybe Mrs. Madison can bring you to my loom cottage on a field trip.”

      One child’s hand shot up. “Is that sheep’s wool you’re using?”

      “Good question. No. It’s cotton. The first Kentucky weaver to use cotton probably bartered for as little as four pounds of cotton seed from a Virginia farmer. Records are sketchy, but that’s the recollection of early settlers. Again, your great-great-great-grandmothers spun the thread and dyed it with native bark and berries. It was expensive to buy indigo-blue or cochineal-red coloring. Which is why, if you see early Kentucky weavings in museums, they’re true natural colors.”

      Sarah Madison tossed her head saucily. “Why go to so much work, Ms. Ashline, when we can drive to the mall to buy clothes, pot holders, bedspreads and stuff?”

      “Not so many years ago, women helped supplement the family income, or filled their kitchen cupboards, by bartering and trading their weavings. And believe it or not, there are still families who live too far from a town to have ready access to the things you mentioned. My grandmother and others before her traveled on foot or horseback in remote sites to collect and preserve weaving patterns that might otherwise be lost.”

      “Why do you weave?” asked a bored-looking girl. “I mean, you live in Ridge City, right? You could just go to the mall.”

      “Ah. Another good question. I discovered I have a strong urge to create. I enjoy seeing an ancient pattern come to life under my hands. Like many other women, I gain satisfaction from making such pieces and using them in my home.” She laughed. “Fortunately for me, Maggie,” she said, reading the name off the last questioner’s badge, “a lot of busy women think like me but feel like you. They want handmade items on their tables, beds and windows, but lack the time, desire or knowledge to produce cloth themselves.”

      Another reed-thin girl straightened to peer at her friends through thick cocoa-colored bangs. “I think it’d be cool to weave. Look what Ms. Ashline’s done just since she started talking. I’ll bet if we tried, we could all make our moms Christmas gifts.”

      “You could,” Laurel agreed, and at once saw that the interest she’d noticed in Louemma Ridge’s expressive eyes had been extinguished. “I see disbelief written on a few faces. Making things like pot holders or place mats is much easier than you obviously think. Maggie,” she said, choosing the girl who, other than Louemma Ridge, least wanted to participate. “Come here and I’ll show you how to work the shuttle. I’ll show each of you while Mrs. Madison prepares your snack.”

      The children jumped to their feet and crowded around. Without fanfare, Laurel left the table. She gave the child seated in the wheelchair a warm smile, then wheeled her into position near the table so she could watch what the others were doing.

      “Louemma can’t do this,” Sarah Madison said snippily. “She can’t do anything the rest of us can. I don’t even know why she’s here.”

      Laurel sent her a stern look. “A highly respected Kentucky weaver by the name of Lou Tate Bousman had more faith in our craft than you do, Sarah. Thanks to her and some СКАЧАТЬ