LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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