Linda Goodnight – The Wedding Garden (страница 3)
“Why isn’t she in the hospital?”
“Surely you know your aunt better than that. She wants to die here in her own home with her gardens and memories around her.”
He swallowed again and she could see he hadn’t been prepared for the news to be this bad.
“Her heart is only functioning at about twenty percent. She puts on a good show for company, but she tires easily.”
Sloan had no flip response. Annie would have felt better if he had. With a short nod, he headed to the staircase and started up.
“Sloan.”
He stopped, one hand on the polished banister as he looked down with narrowed eyes and a strange little twist to his mouth. “What now? You want to frisk me?”
The smart mouth was back. She was going to ignore it. “Lydia can’t negotiate the stairs anymore. We moved her things to the garden room.”
Those stunning eyes fell closed for three seconds before he retraced his steps and headed toward the opposite side of the house. But in those three seconds, she saw past Sloan’s tough facade the way she had in high school. Whether from guilt or out of love for his aunt, he was hurting.
Annie didn’t want to think of Sloan Hawkins as vulnerable or sensitive. She wanted to remember him as the self-centered teenager who’d abandoned her when she’d needed him most. Better yet, she wanted him to go back to wherever he’d been hiding and leave well enough alone.
As soon as he was out of sight, Annie slithered onto the couch and put her face in her hands.
The wild and troubled boy she’d loved in high school was back in Redemption messing with her emotions and threatening her hard-earned peace of mind.
Looking upward, she murmured a prayer. “Lord, I know Lydia needs him and I’m trying to be glad for her. But Sloan Hawkins can’t possibly bring anything but trouble.” She glanced toward the staircase. “Especially to me.”
Chapter Two
You 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 considerable 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.”