by Robert Hass
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. Le
t’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.
Chapter Four
Annie rubbed at the headache starting between her eyebrows. “Okay, Mom, I’ll talk to him again. But you know how Daddy is about his diet. He’s never listened to me before.”
Her dad had suffered with ulcers for years, but getting him to lay off coffee and fried foods was like asking him to cut off a limb. Her mother assumed because Annie was a registered nurse, her father would abide by her advice. The day Dooley Crawford listened to his daughter’s advice or even his doctor’s would be one for the record books.
“When he retires from the police force and can spend all the time he wants out at the farm with his cows and tractor and fishing ponds, he’ll get better. He’s under too much stress.”
“You’re right about that, honey,” her mother said. “He’s been especially agitated the last couple of weeks. The mayor wants to cut the police budget again.”
Annie twisted her finger through the old-fashioned stretchy telephone cord. Lydia hadn’t updated in years. “Has he said anything about Sloan Hawkins?”
She knew for a fact her father had given Sloan several speeding tickets. Which Sloan probably deserved.
“He’s worried about you, Annie, as always.”
Annie vacillated between exasperation and love. No wonder Dad’s ulcer was acting up. “That was a long time ago, Mom. Dad needs to let it go. Sloan is here for Lydia.”
“So he says.”
“He is. He’s really good to her. Right now, he’s out back working in the flowers, determined to restore the Wedding Garden to its former grandeur because he knows how important it is to Lydia. You should see the truckloads of supplies he’s bought and how hard he works.”
She’d resisted staring out the windows, but every time he came inside for a glass of water or to take a break, she’d noticed.
Oh, yes, she noticed Sloan Hawkins.
“You sound as if you’ve forgiven him.”
The unstated question gave her pause. Had she? “Time heals all wounds.”
“What about Justin?”
Annie froze. “What about him?”
“Well, honey, now don’t get upset, but I always wondered.”
A lot of people did. “Leave Justin out of this, Mother. The subject is Daddy and his ulcer. He can relieve some of his stress by forgetting about things that happened years ago.”
“He’s still protective of you. Always was when it came to boys.”
No, not all boys. Just Sloan. “Tell him I’m over the past and he should be, too.”
“Okay, honey. I hear that tone so I’ll hush up. Why don’t you come to the Ladies’ Auxiliary meeting Saturday? We need to decide on a fundraiser for the orphan ministry.”
Annie stifled an inward sigh. Before the divorce, she’d had more time for church and community activities. Now every waking moment was work, kids, or taking care of a million and one household chores of her own.
“I’d like to, Mom, but Delaney is taking swim lessons in the mornings and Zoey Bowman invited her to a birthday party that afternoon. Plus, I need to shop for groceries and get Justin some new pants for Cheyenne’s wedding. His legs are growing again.” She squinted toward the clock above the stove. “Mom, I need to go. I’m still at Lydia’s house. Tell Delaney I’ll be late picking her up.”
Following the usual goodbyes, she rang off and pushed a thumb and forefinger against her eye sockets. The headache was worse.
Sloan’s hard-as-steel voice jolted her. “Don’t you ever go home?”
Annie looked up to find him lounging against the entry to the kitchen. He wore frayed blue jeans with a giant hole in one knee and a sweaty green T-shirt minus any sleeves.
“Do you always have to look disreputable?”
“Clothes make the man.” He flashed a set of white teeth and shoved off the door frame to indicate the fresh garden vegetables piled on the butcher-block counter. “Where did the squash come from?”
“Neighbors with bounty.” She swept a hand toward the fridge. “You should look in there.”
“Nice of them.” He sauntered to the counter and picked up a yellow crook-necked squash. “I haven’t had any fried squash since—well, in a long time.”
“Now you can have all you want.”
“Only if I can talk you into cooking it. I never quite got the hang of frying anything. Do you know how?”
“This is Oklahoma, Sloan. Of course I know how, except I don’t because Lydia loves fried foods and she can’t have them.”
He frowned. “Yeah, okay. You’re right.” He put the squash back on the counter. “Why are you still here?”
“Lydia had too many visitors today.” In spite of herself Annie got out a bowl and knife, took the squash and began slicing. “I fell behind.”
Sloan leaned a hip on the counter, standing too close for comfort. “What are you doing with that squash?”
“Frying it.”
“Yeah? For me?” He sounded pleased. Surprised, too. Well, he should be. She certainly was.
“Don’t make a big deal out of it. Lydia’s asleep already. There are a few cucumbers and new potatoes. Want some of those, too?”
She didn’t know why she felt compelled to prepare a meal for Sloan, but when
he’d put Lydia’s interests first without argument, some of the ice around her heart had melted. He loved Lydia even if he hadn’t been around.
Sloan’s face erupted in a smile. Annie’s pulse skidded like tires on hot pavement. She reined in the forbidden reaction with a vicious whack at the innocent squash.
“Got any corn on the cob?” he asked.
“Sorry.”
“Too bad.” He brushed past her to the refrigerator, took out a cucumber and a red, ripe tomato. “I could see how tired she was, but she loves company. Always did.”
Annie stopped slicing and rested the heel of her hand against the bowl. “Remember when we were kids, how Lydia would invite everyone over on summer nights to roast wieners and marshmallows?”
“I must have sharpened a million hickory sticks with my pocket knife.” A dish rattled as he placed it on the counter next to her and began slicing the cucumber. The fresh, green scent rose between them.
“And after dark, we’d chase lightning bugs.”
Sloan pumped his eyebrows. “And each other.”
She laughed and pointed the knife at him, surprised to be able to relax this much. “That was when we were older.”
“Really old, like thirteen or something.” His twinkling eyes captured hers and she knew they were sharing the same memory. They were barely teens the first time he’d kissed her. Playing tag, she’d chased him around the big house into the dark area between the porch and gardens. He’d hidden, catching her by the arm as she’d raced by, yelling his name. The kiss had been short, sweet and innocent. Unlike their later relationship. And it was that later relationship—fueled by her father’s objection to her dating “that Hawkins boy”—that remained between them unresolved.
She turned away from those dazzling blue eyes to reach for the flour canister. Thinking about a first kiss or any kiss with Sloan was dangerous ground.
After battering the thin yellow slices, she poured oil in a skillet and set it to heat. As she moved around the country kitchen, Sloan seemed always in the way. They bumped and jostled until she told him to sit down and let her do the cooking.
