The Wedding Garden (2 page)

Y
ou could have knocked him over with a feather. Or with a two-cup, stainless-steel saucepan. Sloan’s lips quivered.

He’d expected to run into Annie Crawford sooner or later, but he hadn’t been prepared to see her here in Lydia’s house, working as a nurse.

His smile disappeared before it could bloom. She wasn’t Annie Crawford anymore. She’d married Joey Markham, a decent-enough guy, had kids, made a life.

Good. Fantastic. No reason for him to go on feeling guilty about the way they’d parted.

He did anyway. Like his mother’s disappearance, Annie was an issue he’d never fully resolved.

His whole body had gone into shock the minute she’d stepped out of the kitchen with that pot in her hands. He was furious about his reaction, but there it was. With her large green eyes and Cameron Diaz cheekbones, Annie had blossomed from a pretty girl into a stunner. Seeing her again had made him feel weak and needy.

He despised weakness, particularly in himself. Childhood
and the military had taught him that. Be strong. Be tough. Never let them see you sweat.

He wiped at the moisture on his forehead. Encountering Annie had made him sweat.

There’d been other women in his life, though none in a while. His business soaked up most of his time. But the girl he’d been crazy about as a teen had lingered in his mind. A turn of phrase, a song on the radio, a woman with high cheekbones could start the memories flowing fast and painful. He’d long ago boycotted Cameron Diaz movies.

He’d have to boycott Annie Crawford Markham, too, though it wouldn’t be easy with her working here.

She was none too happy to see him, either, but she had good reason. What she didn’t know was that his reasons for leaving town were every bit as good as her reasons to despise him. He hadn’t told her then, and he sure wouldn’t tell her now why he’d had to leave. She’d never done one thing to deserve the grief dealt to her. Nothing except love the son of Redemption’s most reviled criminal.

He sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Protection was his business. He’d loved Annie enough to protect her at eighteen. He’d protect her now with his silence.

Sloan’s thoughts ping-ponged in a dozen directions as he traversed the long hallway toward his aunt’s new living quarters. He hated knowing she couldn’t climb the stairs anymore. Strong, independent Lydia would hate it even more, but unlike her ill-tempered nephew, she would put on a happy face and find a blessing in moving downstairs.

Sloan grunted. He saw no blessing in dying.

Even after all this time, his feet knew the way through the big Victorian that had been his only refuge as a child. The house was still stunning with its gleaming oak trim, sky-high ceilings, and huge windows for admiring the consid
erable view. The upstairs held four bedrooms and baths, two of which boasted sitting rooms with balconies and fireplaces. He’d spent his teen years in one while Lydia had lived in the master suite overlooking the expansive backyard known as the wedding garden. Though surrounded by the Hawkins’s wealth, Sloan had felt like an outcast tainted by his father’s crime.

The vast downstairs was typical Victorian with an elegant parlor, a living room, the country kitchen and formal dining room complete with butler’s pantry, a library and study along with the garden room—a sunny space surrounded by windows looking out upon the backyard and Lydia’s beloved flower gardens.

It was to this room he came and found the oak-paneled door ajar.

His throat squeezed. Aunt Lydia lay on a hospital bed, her hands holding a book, a pale purple lap robe over her legs. She was dressed as he always thought of her in a print house dress; this one was blue. Oxygen hissed from a bedside tank into a tube looped around her head. Even from this distance he could see how frail she was.

She couldn’t be dying. Times like this he wished he believed in prayer the way she did.

He rapped a knuckle on the open door and said, “Aunt Lydia?”

Her head swiveled toward him. She released the book—a worn black Bible—and reached out, smiling wide. The joy in her face filled him with hope that he was more than Redemption gave him credit for.

“Sloan. You’ve come home.”

Sloan went to her then and took the outstretched fingers. They were cold. He kissed her cheek, breathed in her talcum-powder scent.

“Heard my best girl wasn’t feeling so hot.”

“Who told?” Her eyes were a tad too bright, her cheeks a little too rosy.

“You did.” Although the phone call from Ulysses E. Jones had gotten him moving.

“When?” she asked, disbelieving.

Still holding her pale, slender hand, he slid onto the chair next to her bed. “When you refused to go to Egypt with me.”

“I always wanted to see the pyramids.” The wheeze in her chest made him want to kick something.

“We’ll reschedule as soon as you’re feeling better.”

She patted his hand but didn’t say anything. The silence tore at him, a truth too terrible to be voiced.

“We’re only on trip number seven, Auntie. You can’t quit on me now.”

Her eyes sparkled. “You and your lists.”

Sloan didn’t remind her that the trip list was her doing. After his business had begun to prosper, he’d asked her to write down ten places she’d like to visit. He’d taken her to seven of them and had a dozen more in mind. If he could give her the world, he would.

The oxygen hiss reminded him that time was running out to give her anything but himself.

“Fancy necklace you’re wearing there, Miss Lydia.”

She patted the green oxygen tubing. “You know me. I like to look pretty. Did you talk to Annie?”

“You could have warned me.”

“Didn’t know you were coming.”

She wouldn’t have told him anyway. After Annie had married, Sloan refused to discuss her. What was the point? If Lydia hadn’t shoved the information on him, he wouldn’t have known about her kids.

“She’s divorced now.”

He jerked. He’d missed that piece of information. “Too bad.”

“Yes, it is. Annie’s a good Christian girl and a great friend to me. Joey didn’t do right by her.”

Sloan felt his jaw tighten. “What do you mean?”

And when did Annie get religion?

“There was gossip about Joey and other women for a long time.” Lydia paused for a breath. Her chest heaved. “Two years ago, he left Annie for a woman over in Iron Post. He doesn’t even bother to visit those kids.”

Anger stirred in Sloan’s belly. If he had Joey Markham’s pretty-boy face in sight, he’d break his nose. “She chose him.”

“After you left.”

“That was a long time ago. We were kids. We both got over it and moved on.”

Lydia studied him for an extended second. She was wearing down fast, a fact that made him ache.

“Be nice, Sloan. Annie’s had enough heartache.”

Go ahead and lay on the guilt.
He was used to it. “Why, Aunt Lydia, I’m always a nice guy.”

He showed his teeth and she swatted his arm the way she’d done when he was a kid. “Are you hungry?”

This time the smile was real. Aunt Lydia was a true Southern lady who believed in the power of food. “I’ll grab something later.”

“There’s plenty in the kitchen. Annie makes enough to feed the Seventh Cavalry. Meals are not part of her job, but I can’t make her stop.”

He’d scrounge the kitchen after Annie went home. “Nice of her. I’m here now. I’ll cook for both of us.”

“You and Annie can work that out.”

He didn’t think so.

“I don’t think Annie likes having me around that much.” But she’d have to deal with him anyway. Lydia was his aunt and he wasn’t budging.

“That’s because you look like something the cat dragged in,” she said with affection. “What did you do, hitchhike?”

He glanced down at his tattered jeans and scuffed boots. He probably smelled a little ripe, too. “Motorcycle.”

“Can’t afford an airplane?”

He grinned. She knew better. Lately, he’d considered buying one of his own. “I had some serious thinking to do.”

“Did you get it done?”

He managed a short laugh. “No.”

“Then you shouldn’t be sitting here—” she paused to take a breath “—with a wheezy old lady. Go on back to Virginia and save the world. Your work is too important to be worrying over me.”

“You’re not going to run me off that easy.” As long as he had his smart phone and a fax machine, he could work from anywhere. “I’m staying as long as you need me.”

“Are you sure about that, honey? You were always so adamant about never coming back to Redemption. I don’t want you hurt again.”

Which meant the dirty laundry in a small town wasn’t forgotten, no matter how long a man stayed away. “I want to be wherever you are. That’s all that matters.”

“Then give me a kiss and go take a shower.”

She was tiring. He could hear fatigue in the staccato speech and see the tinge of gray around her lips. Even a short conversation was too much for her fragile heart.

Obediently, he kissed her crepe-paper cheek, his insides crying like a baby, and headed for his old upstairs bedroom and a long, hot shower.

As he grabbed the banister and started up the curvy wooden staircase, he heard Annie’s voice in the kitchen. Without guilt, he stopped to listen. He’d discovered the value
of eavesdropping, whether with a planted listening device or an ordinary ear.

“Oh, not again.” She sounded none too happy. “I am terribly sorry, Mr. Granger. Okay, I will. Yes, right away.”

Then the receiver thumped hard on to the cradle. A whimper of dismay was followed by the scrape of chair legs and another whimper.

Sloan frowned and stepped around the wall into the warm, sunny kitchen.

Annie sat at the round table, head down on folded arms. Honey-blond hair spilled over a long barrette onto the polished oak. Her shoulders heaved.

Oh, man. Was she crying?

In answer, Annie drew in a hiccoughing breath and sniffed.

“Hey, hey,” he said softly, out of his element and unsure of what to do at this point. Give him a terrorist or a man with a gun any day. A crying woman was far more frightening.

He reached out, hand hovering above the soft-looking hair.

Don’t do it. Don’t touch her.

She sniffed again.

He touched her.

Someone was touching her.

Annie sat upright. Sloan hovered next to her chair…and his hand was on her hair.

Heart thudding erratically, she jerked away.

Sloan’s hand was left suspended in midair. He folded it against his side.

“What are you doing?” she asked. And why did she sound breathless?

“Listening to you cry. What’s wrong?” Forehead wrinkled, mouth tight, he looked as if he wanted to strangle someone.
Hopefully not her. On second thought, after the phone call, she might let him.

“Nothing.”

“Oh right, sure. Peeling onions again.”

In spite of herself, Annie nearly smiled. “You were always such an idiot.”

“Another of my talents.” He handed her a napkin from the hand-painted napkin holder Lydia had bought on a trip to Japan.

Hoping to regain her composure, Annie took her time, dabbed at each corner of her eyes, dotted underneath, then patted her cheekbones.

Sloan turned a chair around backward and straddled it. “Tell me.”

“I haven’t talked to you in twelve years. Why start now?” She sounded as petulant as she felt.

“Explain why you’re crying and I’ll go away.”

She rolled her eyes. “For another twelve years?”

His expression was bland, but something flickered in those electric-blue eyes. “You’re stuck with me for a while.”

Annie’s stomach dipped. Sloan Hawkins underfoot day after day? “You’re not serious.”

“I am.” He studied the end of his fingernail. “Who was that on the phone?”

Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe this man. Less than an hour in town and he was prying into her life? “Were you eavesdropping?”

He abandoned the troublesome nail to lift both palms. “Well, yeah. So tell me unless you want a bug on the phone.”

“A what?”

He didn’t seem too happy about the strange statement, and now Annie was the one who wanted to pry. What had Sloan been doing since high school?

“I’m being an idiot again,” he said. “You need an aspirin or something?”

“No, I need for my son to behave himself.” Tears pushed up behind her nose. She was sure her eyes had gone all watery. “He’s in trouble at school. Again.”

“And? What did he do?”

She couldn’t believe this. She hadn’t communicated with Sloan Hawkins since before her senior prom and now he was sitting across the table expecting her to spill out her troubles the way she used to.

Oh, why not? No one else was listening and no matter what he said, Sloan would be gone before the week was out. He owed her a little child-rearing advice.

“Justin got in a fight.”

“Is he okay?”

She hadn’t expected him to show concern. “He won’t be when I get through with him.”

Sloan whistled softly. “Mean Mama. Boys fight. It’s normal.”

“Not at school.” Besides, what would Sloan know about normal? “He never behaved this way until—” She pushed up from the table. She was not going to talk about Joey or the divorce. Not to Sloan Hawkins. “Tell Lydia I’ll be back in time to give her her medications.”

Sloan unwound his tall body from the wooden chair. “Need company?”

Right. Like she wanted any more problems in her life. Without answering, she grabbed her purse and hurried out the door.

She was back in thirty minutes, flustered, clearly upset, and dragging a belligerent-faced boy who looked like a miniature, male version of his mother.

Kicked back on the flowered sofa, answering e-mails on
his smart phone, Sloan pretended to ignore their tense conversation.

“There are three days left until school is out,” Annie was saying. “Why did you have to get in a fight now?”

“He was picking on me.”

“What did he do?”

The kid clammed up.

Annie’s hair had come loose from the big barrette and lay on her shoulders. She shoved angrily at an unlucky strand.