The Wedding Garden (13 page)

“He idolizes you, Sloan.” Pushing her Coke away, she picked at a piece of pepperoni. “I’m concerned.”

“I know.” The notion worried him, too. “I don’t want to let him down.”

Annie was silent but he knew her thoughts. She expected him to let them all down again. He didn’t want to, but he probably would. The situation was impossible. Some days, days like today when Redemption embraced him with reminders of the good things about his childhood, he had aberrant thoughts of moving back, of throwing caution to the wind and asking Annie to try again. Police Chief Dooley Crawford was the fly in that delicious soup. To be with Annie, Sloan would have to tell her the truth about the reason he left Redemption in the first place. Learning about her father’s conniving lies, lies that had forced her into a difficult marriage and left Justin without his biological father, would break her heart.

Leaving was just as bad.

With a sigh, he laced his fingers with hers and bounced their joined hands gently against the tabletop.

He and God had a lot more talking to do.

“L
ook what I found.” Sloan pushed back from an antique oak desk in the study where generations of Hawkinses had conducted business.

“Great minds think alike.” Annie laughed and held up a handful of photos. She sat at a small table sorting old pictures into labeled boxes. “I have something to show you, too.”

“All right, you first.”

Sloan seemed different today. In fact, he’d seemed different last night at the pizza place. She credited some of the change to the volunteers, a few of whom planned to come again to finish the job. Sloan had been wonderfully touched, and she was glad. He deserved some redemption from the painful past.

After their pizza, when he’d taken her and the children home, Sloan had lingered at the door until Justin and Delaney headed to their rooms, and then he’d kissed her good-night.

Like a schoolgirl with a crush, her pulse fluttered at the memory. Twice yesterday he’d kissed her. Annie was old enough to know the times he brushed her hair from her eyes or touched her hand or her elbow or cheek were not accidents.
She couldn’t help wondering what it meant. He cared for her, she was certain now, but there was hesitancy in him, too, as though he held something back. Regardless of her love and regardless of the son they shared, Annie was not fool enough to push a man into something he didn’t want. So, she kept her love and her wishes to herself.

Today had been a day of discoveries as the two of them had sorted through boxes and closets and cupboards. Delaney and Justin had begged off and she’d taken pity on them, letting them stay at Mother’s.

“Whatcha got?” he asked, coming to stand at her side. Before she could speak, he bent and touched his lips to hers.

“Sneaky,” she said, breathless.

“Delicious,” he said with a cheeky grin.

She fanned the selected photos across the table. All were old, but two were aged tintypes. “Look at these.”

“They were taken in the garden.”

“Probably among the first weddings to be held there, given how small the garden appears in comparison to today’s landscape.” She tapped a fingernail on one. “That’s your great-great-aunt Hattie Jane Hawkins on her wedding day to Purvis Lee Blanchard.”

One eyebrow hiked. “How do you know?”

“Says so on the back.”

He braced both hands on the table and leaned in to peruse the row of pictures, bringing with him the scent of clean cotton and a morning shower. “The garden progresses in each one.”

“That’s what I was thinking, too. You can see how Hattie Jane’s wedding has only a few bushes and flowers. Then with each photo, more and more is added over time until—” carefully watching his face, Annie flipped over the final photo “—this one, when the garden looks much as it does now.”

Sloan was silent for a few seconds but a muscle beneath his eye ticked. “My parents.”

Annie stroked his tense arm. “You’ve never seen this before, have you?”

He shook his head, throat working. “My parents were not discussed after Mama left. Whenever I tried to bring up the subject, Aunt Lydia would get teary-eyed. I never wanted to make her sad. So I stopped asking.”

“They look happy, Sloan. That’s important.”

He studied the photo and his expression lightened. “They do, don’t they? I never thought of them as happy together, but then I don’t remember my dad at all.”

“You know what I’m thinking?”

Smiling, he looked at her mouth and quirked an eyebrow. “Let me read your mind.”

Feeling light and happy, as though they were standing on the precipice of something wonderful, she bopped his shoulder. “Behave.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

He sighed as if badly put-upon, but his blue eyes danced. “What?”

“Let’s find all the photos of you and your parents that we can and make a scrapbook. You should know them better. Someday Justin will need that connection, too.”

She thought he might refuse, but he didn’t. “I’d like that. Now, let me show you what I found.”

Sloan placed the ribbon-tied letters in front of Annie. He was having a lot of trouble with his emotions today. Yesterday the volunteers had nearly done him in with kindness and rattled his well-formed opinions of Redemption’s citizens. Then last night, he’d kissed Annie again and never
wanted to let her go. Now this morning as they cleaned out more of the rooms and his family roots began to show, he yearned to reconnect with the Hawkinses he’d never known. It was as though his very life’s source resided within the walls of the old Victorian. Going home to the condo in Arlington held about as much appeal as living in Redemption once had.

Weird. This was just plain weird.

Annie had no idea what she’d started when she suggested gathering photos of his very lost childhood. None in the least. Suddenly, regaining memories of the childhood he’d tried to forget became very important. For his son and for himself.

“Are those letters?” Annie asked.

Sloan stared into green eyes as sweet as her kisses. Annie Markham was a force of nature strong enough to make him lose his good sense. “From Ulysses E. Jones to Aunt Lydia dating back nearly fifty years.”

“No kidding. I always suspected they’d been in love, though neither ever said a word.” She traced her fingers over the faded blue address. “This is quite a find.”

“The question is why they never did anything but write letters. Not that I’ve read more than a couple.” Invading someone’s privacy—outside of business—wasn’t his gig. “I think I should give these to Popbottle, don’t you?”

“I think that would be a lovely gesture, Sloan.” Annie’s mouth curved, full, lush and tempting. He resisted the urge to kiss her again.

He pushed back, putting space between temptation and himself. He’d never been much good at resisting temptation. Ah, why bother to try. He wanted to be with her as long as he could. Maybe God would grant a miracle and he would never have to leave. The notion stunned him. What was he thinking? Of course he’d leave. He wanted to. He had to. Didn’t he?

“Want to come with me?” he asked. “We could stop for dinner afterward.”

Annie glanced at her watch. “Sorry. My mother is having a cookout with corn on the cob and homemade ice cream. I promised to be there by six.”

Disappointment filtered through him. “Have fun.”

“You could come, too.” The statement was filled with hope.

He tried to joke. “You’re having a cookout, not a shoot-out.”

“Sloan.”

Her heavy sigh settled in Sloan’s chest like a bowling ball. He and the police chief would always have the past between them. Keeping it there was the only way to protect Annie—and that put Sloan right back where he’d started.

The house belonging to Popbottle Jones and his business partner G.I. Jack sat on a parcel of land not far from Redemption River. Sloan tucked the packet of letters into his saddlebag and roared off in that direction. A couple of times he’d considered buying a car, mostly to mess with the police chief’s mind, but so far he hadn’t. Lydia’s ancient Lincoln still ran when he hauled more than himself. Today, he needed a good, fast ride on his Harley, and hopefully Dooley was heading home for the cookout that Sloan could not attend.

Stupid how that hurt.

On the edge of town, he slowed near the diner where his mother had worked years ago. Since coming back, he’d avoided going inside. Maybe he would before he left again. Redemption Diner looked smaller than he remembered, and the parking lot between the narrow building and the bar next door was barely a strip of gravel. No wonder men stumbled from the bar to the diner for a chance to sober up on coffee and a late-night breakfast.

In a few minutes, he turned up the gravel road leading to Popbottle’s place—a leaning frame house surrounded by the trappings one would expect from a pair of Dumpster divers. Two dogs charged out from beneath the board porch, yapping for all they were worth. Sloan braked the bike, coming to a halt beneath a scraggly shade tree. As he tossed a leg over the seat, a nanny goat skidded around the corner of the house, bleating.

Sloan’s mood elevated. No one could come to this place without smiling.

“Arf!” he said to the dogs and laughed aloud when both yipped, fell to their bellies and crawled beneath the porch. The nanny goat, however, was not intimidated.

“I guess you’re in charge,” he said to her. She answered with a loud bleat as if in confirmation.

The front door, a blue painted mismatch to the house, scraped open. Popbottle Jones called out. “Sloan Hawkins, greetings and enter.”

Taking the bundle, Sloan went inside. The interior was jam-packed with every conceivable piece of junk.

“How are you, Mr. Jones? I’ve been intending to come out and thank you again for Aunt Lydia’s eulogy.”

“My privilege, though a sad one to be sure. Would you care for a refreshment?”

“No, thanks. I have something I wanted to give you.” Sloan extended the packet. “Actually, sir, they’re yours to begin with. I’m simply returning them. And I apologize for reading a couple before realizing what they were.”

The dignified old Dumpster diver tilted his head in curiosity but as he accepted the letters, recognition dawned. “I believe I shall sit down.”

After taking the nearest chair, Popbottle stared at the pile of letters. Almost reverently, he opened one. The paper crinkled
in his thick fingers as he read. Sloan remained silent, respectful as Popbottle slipped a finger beneath his glasses and rubbed.

“Where did you find these?” he asked at last, looking up at the still-standing Sloan.

“An old secretary in Lydia’s study.” And then unnecessarily, he added, “I’m cleaning out the house.”

“To sell?”

“Yes.”

Popbottle carefully laid the letters in his lap. “So you will leave us again?”

Sloan’s defenses rose. “I don’t live here. I’m just settling the estate for my aunt.”

“So you say.” Popbottle removed his glasses and rubbed the lenses on his shirttail. “What of Annie and the children?”

Sloan opened his mouth to give the standard denial, but heard himself say, “I love her.”

“Of course you do. Anyone can look at the two of you together and know. She loves you, too.”

Sloan sank into the only remaining unencumbered chair. “It won’t work.”

“May I inquire as to why?”

“Life. The past. Everything. It’s too complicated.”

Popbottle lifted the packet of letters. “I thought the same thing fifty years ago, Sloan, as did your aunt.”

“What happened?” Elbows propped on his knees, Sloan steepled his fingers and leaned forward.

“As you say, life was complicated. I loved her. She loved me, and we discussed being wed in the Hawkins’s garden.” Popbottle Jones smiled a nostalgic smile. “I had wonderful visions of the future. So did she, but as we began to share, our dreams did not coincide. I, fool that I was, admired intellectual endeavors above all else. When the offer of an Ivy League professorship arrived, I asked her to go with me. She refused.”

“Why?”

“Your father.”

“My—”

Popbottle held up a silencing hand. “You must understand, my boy, Clayton was born very late in the life of your grandparents. They had despaired of having any children other than Lydia, who was nearly grown when the baby arrived. Clayton, the long-awaited male heir, was spoiled and coddled by everyone, including his older sister.”

“Aunt Lydia.”

“Exactly. Sadly, the young master grew to be a spoiled and reckless youth. When your grandparents passed on, Lydia took charge of her brother.”

“And wouldn’t leave him behind.”

“No, indeed. He needed her, she claimed, more than I, though she begged me to give up the professorship and remain in Redemption. Pride goeth before a fall, Sloan. Remember that. Wounded to the quick, I wrapped my cloak of pride around me and left Redemption behind, believing if Lydia loved me, she would choose me over Clayton.”

“She didn’t.”

“No.” He gently fingered the pages, his jowls sagging more than usual. Softly, he said, “She kept my letters. I never knew.”

“And she never married.”

“But I did—a girl more amenable to my pursuits than fair Lydia. A fine woman. We had a son and a daughter.” He smiled softly. “After that, I was better able to understand Lydia’s unyielding love for the brother she’d reared. In time, the marriage and academia soured, and I took to drink.” The old gentleman rose from the chair and went to the doorway. “What happened next both destroyed and recreated me.”

Sloan held his breath, aware that something terrible must
have happened to change a professor into a junk dealer. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“Ah, but I must.” Popbottle turned back, eyes misty. “Drink is a terrible tyrant, Sloan, stronger than love for a woman or a child. One night, my little family and I attended a gathering. By evening’s end I was badly inebriated but insisted on driving, though my wife tried to stop me.”

Sloan’s gut clenched. He knew what was coming.

“I missed a curve and killed them all.” The dignified voice faded. “All but me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. So am I, but regret did not change what had happened. I paid a fine and spent some time in jail, filled with a self-loathing that I cannot begin to describe. My life was over, my family and career gone. I took to the streets, wandering, lost and undone, and there I met Jesus. Eventually, Redemption called me home, and I knew, though I had greatly changed, my pride gone, my intellect wasted, I would be welcome here.”

“Did Aunt Lydia know about all this?”

“No one in this town knows except G.I. Jack. But more than anyone, I could not bear for Lydia to know how low I had fallen. Drunkenness, negligent homicide. Neither are commendations.”

“She must have known something had changed you.”

“Certainly, but she had the grace never to broach the subject. As was her way, she accepted me as I am, although it took her illness to make me swallow my pride and approach her again.”

“She had long ago forgiven you.”

“Ah, yes. Forgiveness is a beautiful gift, but I struggled with accepting hers until it was too late.”

“May I ask why you’re telling me this?”