Читать книгу The Wedding Garden - Linda Goodnight - Страница 11

Bluetooth headset attached to his ear like an oversize cockroach, Sloan exited his bedroom with an armload of clothes to toss in the washer.

“Yeah, send Blake and Griffith with the ambassador’s family. Some segments of Manila aren’t excited about his mission. We may encounter problems there. Tell the team to be on their toes.” As head of Worldwide Security Solutions, he contracted with the government and military on a regular basis. This latest assignment in the Philippines had him worried. Muslim extremists had infiltrated the area. “Sure, no problem. How’s the issue in Afghanistan we discussed yesterday?”

Listening intently, he rounded the top of the stairs…and slammed into Annie. The bundle of clothes went flying. Annie stumbled back and started to fall. Instinctively, Sloan reached out, grasped her upper arms and yanked forward. Annie ended up cradled in his arms, against his chest.

His first sensation, besides the adrenaline pumping like pistons through his bloodstream, was the smell of her hair. He’d teased her in high school about washing her hair in apple juice. Apparently, she still did.

The second thought was of how she fit against him, curved in all the right places and softer than silk. She must have been stunned, too, because she didn’t move for several seconds. Several torturous seconds while he flashed back to age nineteen and the wild, desperate love he’d felt for Annie Crawford.

His throat went dry. This was not good, not good at all.

He told his arms to release her. He told his legs to step back one stair step. His well-trained body, capable of taking out an enemy in three-point-six seconds, would not obey.

The voice in his ear said his name. Once. Twice.

“Later,” he muttered, too distracted to remember the business conversation.

While he battled inwardly, both reveling in the touch and dismayed at the yearning, Annie stiffened.

“Excuse me,” she said, voice muffled against his Harley T-shirt. When he didn’t move, she wiggled away, retreating one step so that he was looking down into her upturned face.

She wasn’t happy about the unexpected contact either. Above the blush cresting on her cheekbones, her big green eyes looked even bigger. Her chest rose and fell like an escapee, and her mouth was pinched tight and tilted down. She looked repulsed.

His touch repulsed her.

Grinding his molars, Sloan gave a short nod he hoped passed for an apology and bent to retrieve his laundry. Silently, Annie gathered a shirt and a pair of jeans from the banister. As Sloan reached for the items, she held one end and he the other. Their eyes met and held, as well. A feeling rose between them that he did not want to identify. A feeling more dangerous and disturbing to his peace of mind than the work in Afghanistan.

Finally, he grumbled, “Thanks,” and bounded down the stairs like a man running from his past.

Sloan and Annie tiptoed around each other for another three days before the ice began to thaw. He didn’t know why that mattered except being in the same house all day with a silent frozen woman was pure discomfort.

He was plagued by memories of the way they’d been in high school, made worse by that moment on the stairs.

The day after school dismissed, Annie brought both her kids to the house because of sitter problems.

“Never mind about your work rules,” his aunt had said to Annie. “This is my house and if I want to invite those children, I will. Tell your boss I said so.”

It was not yet seven o’clock when they arrived, and Sloan sat at the kitchen table, draped over a copy of USA TODAY and a fragrant cup of extra-sweet coffee.

“Morning,” he mumbled, determined to be civil. “I made coffee.”

“Thank you.” If she got any stiffer, she’d be cardboard.

Justin slouched in, all arms and legs and loose ends, looking like trouble but saying nothing. The kid had an attitude as bad as Sloan’s.

Sloan studied the kid with interest. After fiddling with the dates until he had brain lock, he had concluded that Justin was not his son. Annie had married the summer after Sloan’s departure—which allowed time for Joey to be Justin’s father. Sloan considered asking Annie straight out, but figured he was wrong anyway, and she already thought he was pond scum. The boy looked nothing like him. Their only similarity was a bad attitude which Sloan was fairly certain was not genetic. No use starting trouble. He had enough of that without trying.

Last night, he’d ridden his motorcycle into town to pick up Lydia’s prescriptions and could feel the stares burning a hole in his back. He’d no more than given the Hawkins name to the pharmacist when a woman approached him. Sloan hack-led. His memories of Roberta Prine were not fond ones.

“Say, you’re Sloan Hawkins, aren’t you? Clayton Hawkins’s son.” She’d snapped her fingers as if trying to remember something. “And his wife—what was her name? Worked over at the diner? Janie?”

Sloan skewered her with a dark glance. If she was trying to get a rise out of him by pretending ignorance, she was succeeding.

“Joni,” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“That’s right. Now I remember.” Right. As if she’d actually forgotten. “She’s the one that run off with a trucker, wasn’t she? Sure was a crazy thing to do, leaving you behind and all. Did you ever hear from her again?”

Never let ’em see you sweat.

With a cocky grin he didn’t feel, Sloan leaned in and imitated her tone. “Say, aren’t you the mom of that mean little creep, Ronnie? And isn’t that your broom parked by the curb outside?”

Roberta jerked back, face flushing bright red. “Well, I never!”

Sloan showed his teeth in a feral smile. “Now you have.”

Taking the white sack from the stunned pharmacist, Sloan spun on his boot heels. A titter of conversation followed him.

“That’s the thanks I get for being neighborly.”

“Never was much good.”

Sloan had clenched his fists and kept moving, exactly as he’d learned to do as a boy.

Well, he wasn’t a boy anymore. He would handle the Redemption gossip for Lydia’s sake. What he wasn’t handling particularly well was the tension between him and Annie.

Lifting his coffee cup, he watched her move around the kitchen to prepare Lydia’s breakfast. If any woman could look good in nurse’s scrubs, Annie did. This morning her hair was on her shoulders, held back from her forehead by a brown clip of some kind. Wispy little curls flirted around her cheekbones.

Ah, those cheekbones. He remembered the feel of her silky skin beneath his thumbs, the salty taste of her tears when he’d butted heads with her father.

Sloan slid his gaze away from Annie and the torrent of reminders. Why couldn’t he get his brain under control?

Justin slouched into the room across from Sloan. His dark blond hair was still damp, as if his mother had forced him to water it down. Sloan had done the same thing when he was a kid. Splash with water, hit it once with a comb and call it done. The teenage years and girls would change Justin’s grooming habits.

“Morning,” Sloan said.

Justin gave him one of those looks that said he’d rather die than be awake this early. Sloan grinned against his coffee cup.

Annie walked by and stroked a hand lovingly over the boy’s messy hair.

That quick, Sloan was tossed back a dozen years. He had been hanging out at the river with a bunch of other kids. Some guy had called him the son of a slut and a jailbird. Naturally, he’d punched the goon in the face. This hadn’t gone over well with the goon’s friends and before he could make an escape, Sloan had six guys kicking his ribs in. Annie had come flying to his defense, screaming her head off that she was going to tell her father on them. They’d backed off, and she’d knelt beside him on the ground, cradled his head and stroked his hair.

That was the day he’d fallen in love with Annie.

He closed his eyes against the memory, and when he opened them again, a dimpled darling with big brown eyes, a hot pink headband, and a nearly white ponytail stood at his side.

“You’re Sloan. Justin told me about you.” She frowned up at him with interest. “You don’t look that mean.”

A pitcher of juice in one hand and a glass in the other, Annie looked aghast. “Delaney!”

Sloan chuckled, glad for the distraction. His head was giving him fits. “I’m never mean to little girls with ponytails.”

She climbed up on the chair beside him. Her swaying ponytail brushed his arm. “I drew you a picture.”

“Yeah?” He knew next to nothing about kids, but this one charmed him.

She displayed a neatly colored, crudely drawn playground, complete with the smiley-faced sun. “You can hang it on the refrigerator. That’s what Mom does. Have you got any Scotch tape? I’ll hang it for you.”

“Why don’t you show your drawing to Miss Lydia first?” Annie said. “Ask her if she feels up to coming to the table this morning.”

More and more of Lydia’s time was spent inside the garden room.

“Okay.” Delaney hopped down and bounced out of the kitchen, taking a ray of sunshine with her.

“Cute kid.” he said. “How old is she?”

“Nine.” Annie’s whole face softened with love. “Delaney is a blessing, has been from the moment she was born.”

Unlike the churlish boy? he wanted to ask, but didn’t. Justin was sitting right across the table, wolfing down half a box of Cheerios.

Almost immediately, Delaney skipped back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Miss Lydia liked my picture.”

“I knew she would. Is she up to sitting with us for breakfast?”

“Not this morning, she said. Maybe tomorrow.”

Annie and Sloan exchanged unhappy glances.

“That’s what I figured, but I wanted to ask.” She slid Lydia’s breakfast plate onto a tray, added a tiny cup of pills and started toward the doorway.

“I’ll take that,” Sloan said and swallowed the last of his coffee. The fresh-ground brew went down smooth and warm.

“Thanks.” She smiled. And that simple little action made his belly flip-flop. He wanted to blame the caffeine, but he was a realist. Annie was getting to him big time.

He reached for the tray. Their hands touched. He grunted and made his escape.

Frankly, after a week he needed something better to do than to stare at Annie and relive memories of a painful past. A man of action, he was accustomed to fourteen-hour days and frequent trips all over the globe. Here in Redemption his smart phone kept him busy but not busy enough to keep his eyes and mind off Annie. Not being a man who particularly enjoyed suffering, he didn’t want to notice her. She obviously didn’t want to be around him, either.

He spent as much time with Lydia as her health allowed, but his sick aunt slept more than she was awake. When she felt up to it, he carried her to the veranda for some fresh air. Yesterday, he’d found the weed-whacker and gone to work on the fast-growing weeds around the porches. Today he’d find a lawnmower if he had to buy a new one. Anything to stay clear of Annie and those troubling memories.

Annie watched Sloan all the way down the hallway, walking in a loose-limbed strut exactly like Justin’s. She’d been terrified when he’d roared in on his Harley and intruded on her safe world. People in town were already talking, speculating on where he’d been and what he’d been doing. Most remembered him with sympathy as that poor little Hawkins boy whose mother ran off and whose father died in prison. But not everyone had been as kind. Some said he was a drug dealer. She’d done her best to squelch that rumor. Not that she had a clue what his life was like, but the Sloan she remembered was scared of anything addictive. He’d said his life was out of control enough. He wasn’t about to let drugs take over.

“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.