The Wedding Garden

“Mom, can I go to Brett’s and play video games?”

She turned to find her son at her elbow. “Maybe later. I’ll have to call his mother.”

Justin’s gaze followed Sloan down the hallway. “You like that guy?”

The question came out of nowhere. Annie turned to study her son’s expression. “I don’t even know him.”

“That’s not what Ronnie says.”

Ah. So that was it. She should have known someone like Roberta Prine would resurrect the past relationship between her and Sloan. “What exactly did he say to you?”

“Nothing. Just stuff. He’s a loser.”

“Was that why the two of you got in a fight?”

Avoiding her eyes, he hitched a shoulder. “Maybe.”

Lord, forgive me for not believing in him.

She hooked an elbow around his neck and bumped his head with hers. He was nearly as tall as her now. By summer’s end, he would likely surpass her. Someday he’d be as tall as his father.

“Rumors hurt people, Justin. You have to learn to ignore them. Okay?”

One bony shoulder hitched. “I guess.”

Being a single mother was the most difficult job she’d ever tried to do. Justin had never been an easy child, but pre-adolescence was doing a number on him—and her.

“Mom?” He stared at his sneakers. The strings were untied, but she knew better than to get into an argument over that. She was learning to choose her battles.

“What, son?”

He fidgeted another moment. “I love you.”

Annie’s throat thickened with emotion. “Oh, baby, I love you, too. You’re my heart, my life.”

She kissed his cheek, something he rarely allowed these days and was gratified when he grinned and didn’t yank away.

Delaney bounced into the room, her usual sunshiny self, with the handheld video game she’d gotten last Christmas. “Justin, will you play Pretty Miss Dress-Up with me?”

Annie could see how much her son did not want to play the girly game, but he stepped away from her and said, “Sure.”

From the time Delaney had been born, Justin had doted on his baby sister. Regardless of his attitude in other areas, he was a gentle, loving brother. The knowledge gave her hope that beneath the sometimes sullen boy was a good man waiting to bloom. At least, that was what she prayed for.

She left her children side by side on the couch, heads bent over the electronic game, and headed to Lydia’s room to begin their morning routine. When she reached the doorway, Sloan was standing next to the bed, his side angled away from Annie so he didn’t know she was watching him. Lydia was propped up on a mile-high stack of pillows with the hospital table alongside, her oxygen cannula making its monotone hiss. Sloan’s big, manly hands held a hairbrush which he was gently drawing through Lydia’s white hair, over and over again.

Annie’s chest constricted.

She didn’t want to think of Sloan as tender. She wanted to think of him as a user, a troublemaker, a jerk of the highest magnitude.

But he wasn’t always, a voice whispered.

She batted away the thought like a pesky fly and hurried back to the kitchen.

Company arrived at ten.

Sloan was behind the push-style lawnmower, sweating buckets, his T-shirt soaked when Annie stepped outside and asked him to help Lydia to the veranda.

“She prefers you to the wheelchair.” Annie seemed irked to involve him, as if she could have done the job just fine alone. She likely could have.

Wiping sweat, he went into the kitchen, stuck his over-heated head under the faucet for a long, refreshing minute. When he came up, water sluicing, Annie stood next to him, a towel in hand. “Don’t drip everywhere.”

She sounded like a mother. Or a wife.

He clenched his teeth. Why did she have to be underfoot every day? Why couldn’t someone besides Annie serve as Lydia’s nurse? He would have taken a room at Redemption Motel, but what good was coming home if he didn’t spend every spare moment with Lydia?

With an annoyed grunt, he grabbed the towel and scrubbed his face and head with more vigor than was needed, then went to do his aunt’s bidding. With Annie handling the portable oxygen bottle, Sloan scooped Lydia into his arms. She felt frail and fragile, skin over bones, and Sloan’s chest ached with sorrow. Before his very eyes, his aunt was fading away.

Out on the long, shady porch, Sloan encountered the man who’d telephoned him two weeks ago with the news that Lydia was unwell. Over the phone, Ulysses Jones sounded educated and well-to-do, but as Sloan recollected, Popbottle Jones didn’t look a thing like his voice.

“Sit with us, Mr. Hawkins. I doubt you remember me, but I recall your mother very well.”

Sloan stiffened. Lots of men had known his mother. “Yes, I remember you.”

Who could forget the local Dumpster divers, Popbottle Jones and his quirky partner, G.I. Jack? They were notorious for their “recycling business” as well as for knowing pretty much everything in town.

“Your mother was a kind and generous heart.”

Sloan relaxed onto a metal chair opposite his aunt, pathetically grateful to hear the compliment. “Yes, she was.”

His mother had been a soft touch for anyone down on his luck or needing a place to crash for the night. After she’d left, Redemption seemed to have forgotten her good qualities. Sloan never had, though he’d been scared and angered by her abandonment. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe she had driven away and left him.

Annie came through the French doors carrying a tray of lemonade. She slid the flowered tray onto the round patio table. Fresh lemons bobbed in a clear pitcher. “Lydia’s recipe, though not as good as hers, I’m sure.”

Lydia’s lemonade was legend, as were the garden parties and weddings held here in the garden where lemonade had been the drink of choice.

“Are you okay out here?” Annie said to Lydia. “Do you need anything?”

“I’m fine, honey. Why don’t you sit and visit a spell? You work too hard.”

“I shouldn’t.” Annie glanced at Sloan and he had a feeling that her refusal had more to do with him than work.

“Sit down, Annie.” The command came out much gruffer than he’d intended. But she sat.

Sloan didn’t miss the glance Lydia and Popbottle Jones exchanged. He glowered at both of them.

“The mimosa is blooming,” Lydia said, probably to break the tense silence.

Early summer was upon them, warm and shining. Pink mimosa blossoms cast a sweet perfume over the vast yard. Hummingbirds and bees competed for the sweet nectar, creating a constant, pleasant buzz. Most summers the garden—locally known as the Wedding Garden—was also abuzz with wedding preparations. Dozens of Redemption citizens had married in the Hawkins’s backyard.

As if she couldn’t sit still more than two minutes, Annie got up and busied herself with handing around glasses of lemonade. Dry from yard work, Sloan downed his in two drinks. The tart cold cut through the dust and thirst.

“Your roses look puny, Aunt Lydia.” Ice rattled as he aimed his drippy glass toward a trellis covered in withered vines and limp pink flowers.

“They need tending, but…” Expression sad, Lydia lifted a hand tiredly. She, who had spent hours and hours tending and coddling this garden for her pleasure and the pleasure of others, had no more gardening left in her.

Now, as he took the time to really observe, Sloan saw the neglect taking a toll. More than the roses suffered. Weeds had taken over, choking out the young plants and hiding the old ones. Trees and bushes were overgrown and shaggy with more than a few dead branches. No bride had planned a wedding here in a long time.

Not that he cared about that, but Lydia would. Her beloved garden spread for more than an acre beyond the porch. A place of light and shade and peace, the garden had been here since the first Hawkins bride moved in after the Land Run of 1889. Occupants through the years had added their touches, and the garden had become a source of pride and pleasure to Aunt Lydia and the whole of Redemption.

“I recall some merry occasions in this garden,” Popbottle Jones intoned.

“Me, too,” Annie said. She’d perched again, close enough that Sloan smelled apples and had to fight down a miserable yearning. “I caught Claire Watson’s bouquet right over there.” She lifted one finger from her half-empty glass to point.

Sloan’s chest tightened. He remembered that afternoon. Annie was a bridesmaid in pink, a hundred times more beautiful than the bride. A giggling batch of females had scrambled for the tossed bouquet, but as if guided by a homing device, the flowers had fallen into Annie’s hands. Everyone in attendance had turned to look at him. Cat-calling male attendees had pounded him on the back and made remarks about the old ball and chain. Annie had blushed and looked so happy Sloan had wanted to marry her then and there.

He clunked the glass on the table. Ice cubes rattled. “I’ll tend them.” The words came out gruff, angry. Well, what if they had? He was angry, though mostly at himself.

When the gathered company gazed at him with surprised faces, he turned and left the porch.

Redemption’s Plant Farm and Garden Center smelled green and wet. Customers browsed up and down the long aisles filled with flats and potted plants, some in flower, some not. A man in coveralls carried a burlap-wrapped tree in each hand while the woman with him rattled on about a bird bath and wind chimes. Outside workers loaded a truck with patio urns and garden furniture.

Sloan fisted his hands on his hips and gazed around at the bewildering array of plants, bags, sprays, and tools. He didn’t know a lot about gardening but he wasn’t about to let that stop him. In fact, he’d do more than water and feed the roses. He was dying for some sweaty, hard work to keep him busy. Mowing the lawn was quick. Revitalizing the garden his aunt loved would not be.

“May I help you, sir?” A familiar-looking woman in no-nonsense work pants and long-sleeved shirt approached him. Middle-aged, maybe older, she had short blond curls, a serious overbite and a healthy tan. Miller. Her name was Miller—Delores, he thought—and her family had operated the plant farm for years.

“I want to revitalize my aunt’s flower gardens. Any advice?”

“Depends on what you want to do. Who’s your aunt? Maybe I know her tastes.”

“Lydia Hawkins.” He tensed, waiting for the relationship to register and the expected censure.

Recognition flickered but her expression remained mild, not the cold-faced glare he’d gotten at the drug store.

“Lydia. God love her. How is she doing?”

“Not well, but thanks for asking.”

“I heard you’d come back. Figured Lydia’s health had taken a turn.” Frowning, she reached down and plucked a yellowed leaf from a flat of petunias. He was sure they were petunias because the little white plastic stick said so. “Best gardener in the county. I never knew how she managed the Wedding Garden on her own.”

Sloan had helped some as a boy, though not nearly enough now that he looked back. He’d been good for little except causing trouble.

“She can’t take care of them anymore. From the looks of things, she hasn’t done much in years.”

“I’d say you’re right. I haven’t seen her in here in a long time. Doesn’t even get out to church that often and you know how faithful she is to the Lord.”

More faithful than the Lord was to her, apparently.

“Can you help me out with the garden?” he asked. “Give me some idea of what I need and where to begin?”

“You planning to have weddings there again?”

The idea took him aback. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

“You should. Come on. Let’s see what we can find.”

She led the way to a counter strewn with papers, a trowel, a box of seed packets, a hunk of burlap and a good amount of loose, black dirt. She went behind the counter and bent down, disappearing from sight. Her muffled voice rose up to where he waited.

“This town needs that wedding garden. Tradition, you know. History matters here in Redemption. I suspect Lydia, bless her heart, needs it, too. You’re a good nephew to do this.”

Sloan’s mouth quivered. First time he’d been accused of that.

“Somewhere in this mess I actually have files of my best customers. Sometimes even a photo or two. Customers like to brag on their handiwork and I like to see where my plants thrive. You can be sure I have plenty of Lydia’s yard. Ah, here we go.”

She popped up with a plain manila file boldly labeled “Lydia Hawkins.” Inside was a mishmash of invoices and hand-written notes.

“See this picture?” She plopped a snapshot in front of him. “We can start with this.”

“Okay.” He still didn’t know where to begin.

Mrs. Miller laughed. “I can see you’re lost. Come on, then, I will load you up and give you a crash course. Then you call me or come by anytime you have a question. Got your truck?”

“Uh, no.” He turned to glance out at the parking area. Two men were standing close to his bike, talking. His shoulders tensed. “I’m on my motorcycle.”

“You can’t carry supplies on a motorcycle. One of the boys can deliver. Let’s get started.” She hollered toward someone in the back. “Mack, bring a dolly. We got a live one.”

She laughed again and Sloan decided he liked this no-nonsense woman. She didn’t seem to care that he was the notorious Hawkins boy. He shot another look at the parking lot, found the men gone, and relaxed.

As Mrs. Miller dragged him from plants to fertilizers to animal repellents, she hollered out orders and greetings, stopping now and then to chat with customers.

Three people stopped Sloan to ask about Lydia, but other than a couple of curious stares and the men coveting his Harley, the outing was amazingly benign.

Would wonders never cease?

By the time he slipped on his shades and roared away on his bike, he’d bought several hundred dollars’ worth of supplies and his head spun with advice. But a sense of excitement hummed in his veins. He didn’t give a rip about pleasing the town, but he could restore the Wedding Garden for Lydia…and stay under Annie’s radar at the same time.

As he approached the main section of town, he downshifted and cruised past stately homes, historic buildings and businesses that hadn’t changed all that much in a decade.

For the first time since he’d returned, he really looked at the town he’d once called home. Redemption was a beautiful place, idyllic some would say, with neat green lawns and clean fresh air.

There was even a story that healing flowed in Redemption River—or some such nonsense as that.

Sloan gave a short, mirthless laugh.

It was a story, nothing more, meant to attract tourists.

According to his aunt and his mother, Redemption was a town of good and caring people. He’d spent his whole life wondering where they were.

Thinking about the river gave him the urge to ride out to the bridge. The gardening center wouldn’t deliver until tomorrow anyway, and he sure wasn’t doing anything else. The longer he could avoid Annie and the curious buzz she created in his veins, the better.

He circled around Town Square, catching a glimpse of Tooney Carter, who raised a hand in greeting. Sloan nodded. He and Tooney had fished together as boys and gotten into more than their share of trouble along the way. Maybe he’d stop in sometime and catch up with his old friend. Funny that he’d want to.

Feeling positive about the day’s work and the fact that he hadn’t heard one cruel remark about his family, he gunned the engine and headed north toward the river bridge. With the wind in his face and the powerful Harley rumbling beneath him, Sloan felt free.

He’d begun humming “Born to Be Wild” when a siren ripped the peaceful atmosphere behind him.

Sloan glanced in his side mirror and groaned.

Chief Dooley Crawford had spotted him.

So much for his one good day in Redemption.

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