“I met someone today who can help Louemma.”
Alan jabbed his key in the vicinity of the ignition twice, missing both times. “A doctor? Here?” he asked, clearly excited. “A consultant?”
“Not a doctor. What good have a host of sawbones done my great-granddaughter? No good, that’s what.”
Alan felt the bubble of hope burst. “Oh, not an M.D.” He clung to the belief that a doctor on the cutting edge of a new discovery about muscles and nerves would one day solve Louemma’s inability to raise her arms.
“Hear me out, Alan. I’ve lived many years and I’m not without common sense, you know.”
“I know you’re a dear, smart lady. And you love Louemma. Up to now, though, all the doctors we’ve seen—and these are the very best—claim her dysfunction isn’t physical. That it’s beyond the scope of their expertise.”
“I think the woman I met is an occupational therapist. She’s got Donald Baird using his left arm and moving his fingers. What do you say to that?”
Alan turned his head. “Roy said his dad had severe, permanent damage to his entire left side, because of the stroke.”
“Uh-huh. And today I watched him weave a rag pot holder.”
“Weaving?” Alan snorted. This time he started the car easily.
“Don’t be making pig noises at me, Alan Ridge. Laurel Ashline said doctors recruited weavers during the Second World War to help injured soldiers regain the use of their limbs through learning to operate hand looms. Can it hurt to talk with her? Invite her to Windridge to evaluate Louemma? Short of voodoo, Alan, you’ve hauled that child around the state to every other kind of expert—and quack.”
“Never quacks! Every man or woman I’ve made an appointment with, in or out of the state, has been a licensed practitioner.”
“A ward nurse gave me Ms. Ashline’s business card. She apparently has a studio in the area. Her phone number has our local exchange.” Vestal waved the card under Alan’s nose.
He snatched it out of her hand and shoved it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered. “I’ll ask about her program around town. You say she’s an occupational therapist?”
“I’m not sure of that. She volunteers at the hospital. Dory referred to her as a master weaver.”
“Right…” Alan half snarled under his breath.
“Just phone her is all I ask. If not for Louemma, then to humor me. You know I won’t stop badgering you until you do.”
“Tell me something new, Grandmother.” Alan sighed heavily. “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll put out feelers. That’s my best offer. I’m not about to hand Louemma over to some dingbat. What brought this weaver to Ridge City? Do you know the name Ashline? Who would move here unless they already have roots in the valley?”
“Would you listen to yourself? You’re always telling me times are changing.” Vestal sank back and fell silent for a minute or two. “I have to admit, when she first said her name I had a notion I’d heard it before. But for the life of me, I can’t recall where.” Closing her eyes, Vestal rubbed a creased forehead. “These bouts of senility are the main thing I detest about aging. You just wait, Alan. It’s no fun.”
He immediately picked up a blue-veined hand. “Your dad lived to be ninety. If you take care of yourself, you’ll have a lot of good years left. And you’re far from senile.”
“You’re a good boy. A caring father, too. I’ve got no doubt that you’ll explore every avenue to help Louemma. Including contacting Ms. Ashline.”
“Enough.” Alan dropped her hand. “Flattery won’t work, you know. And I’m hardly a boy. But…it’s no secret I’d step in front of a train if I thought it would help Louemma be normal and happy again. I’ll look into this weaver when I get time.”
Vestal twiddled her thumbs and continued to frown.
ALTHOUGH LOUEMMA HAD missed her great-grandmother, it seemed to Alan that during their first meal together again, the child was especially withdrawn. One reason he didn’t believe her problem was only psychosomatic was that she detested having to be fed like a baby. Their family doctor worried about her weight loss, and she did look terribly thin to Alan. “Honeybee, you love Birdie’s potato soup. Please take a few more sips.”
The child turned her pixie face away from the spoon. “I’m not hungry. You eat, Daddy. Otherwise yours will get cold.”
“With all the times I’ve been called away from the table to handle problems at the distillery, I’ve grown to like cold soup, honey. Hot or cold, it has the same nutritional value.” He waggled the spoon again to coax her.
Vestal adjusted a red bow Birdie had tied in Louemma’s dark hair. “You want to eat, child, otherwise you’ll end up in the hospital like I did. I can tell you from experience that no one lines up for their tasteless meals. Hospital cooks have never heard of spice.” Vestal launched into a funny story about patients on her floor who hid or traded food. She’d always been able to wheedle smiles from Louemma. Tonight, she only managed a tiny one. Eventually the girl ate a bit more, but by then they were all exhausted.
Louemma yawned hugely as Birdie collected the plates. “Daddy, please carry me to bed before you and Nana have dessert.”
It broke Alan’s heart to see his formerly energetic child so listless. The accident had caused too many noticeable changes in her personality. It wasn’t normal for a kid her age to sleep as many hours as she did. No wonder her muscles had lost their tone.
Birdie, who’d come back with the coffeepot and one of her famous buttermilk pies, shook her head. “Your daddy had better take your temperature, missy, if you be turning down this delicious pie I baked special for you and Miss Vestal.” The cook passed it under Louemma’s nose. A fresh scent of vanilla, mixed with the cinnamon dusted lightly on the rich custard filling, wafted through the air.
“I’m sorry, Birdie. I’m just too full.” Louemma turned helpless eyes toward Alan. “And I’m really, really sleepy.” She failed to stifle another yawn.
Vestal yawned as well.
The dinner hour at Windridge had always been set late to allow the men of the house time to tidy up at the end of long workdays. He glanced at his watch and saw it was just ten. Not particularly late by Southern dining standards.
As if Vestal had tapped into his thoughts, she murmured, “If you’re going to continue working from home, Alan, and if it’s agreeable with Birdie, we could move our dinner hour to seven, or even six.”
“We’ve never…” Alan crumpled his snowy linen napkin. Nine had been the tradition as far back as he could remember. But really, what did time matter? The Windridge family hadn’t entertained since…Emily’s death.
“Can we discuss this later?” He shoved back his chair, unclear as to why he hated the idea of altering yet another routine. Since the accident, so many practices had gone by the wayside. His hands-on grasp of the business, for one. The loss of old friends, although these were couples he and Emily had known forever. Even simple laughter seemed a thing of the past. Childish giggles for sure, as no children ran in and out of the big house anymore; playing tag with Louemma. Male-female banter was nonexistent, too. Windridge had become a virtual tomb.
And whose fault is that? a little voice nagged Alan.
His. He hadn’t wanted any overt reminders of Emily’s absence. And somehow, around other kids her age, Louemma’s handicap seemed magnified.
“I’m sorry, Birdie. Unless Grandmother wants pie and coffee, I’m going to pass.