Into the Garden

by Robert Hass

  When she reentered the room, Sloan was seated at the bedside, holding Lydia’s pale hand between his dark ones. A tight fist of emotion squeezed Annie’s heart.

  “God changed me, Lydia. I’m a new man. You were right, and now I wonder why I waited so long.”

  So that was why Sloan seemed different this morning.

  Stunned and thrilled, Annie paused in the doorway, unsure about listening in on such a personal conversation, but needing to be with her patient. And if she’d admit it, she wanted to be near Sloan, too.

  Lydia’s gaze flickered toward her. The chair groaned slightly as Sloan twisted. “You heard?”

  “I did. And I think it’s wonderful.”

  He smiled. “Yeah. Pretty sweet.”

  Lydia’s eyes glowed with happiness. Her mouth barely moved. “I am proud…of you. Good man. My boy.”

  Her chest rose and fell, the breathing labored. Annie stepped up next to Sloan and placed her fingers on Lydia’s limp wrist. She could feel Sloan’s worry, but he was handling himself well. Instinctively, he’d given his dying aunt the one thing she wanted most.

  “You should rest now, Lydia. You’re exhausting yourself.”

  Lydia’s smile was tender. “Take care…of each other.”

  Annie placed her other hand on Sloan’s shoulder. He had to know his aunt was saying goodbye. “We’ll be fine.” What else could she say?

  “Promise?”

  Sloan had gone still and his shoulders were tense beneath her touch. If he hadn’t known before, he understood now.

  “I’ll promise you anything,” he said, voice husky with emotion. “Anything. Next summer we’ll go to Rome.”

  But Lydia was past listening. “Hold on to…Jesus.”

  Annie’s vision blurred. She blinked hard.

  Sloan gripped Lydia’s hand as though his powerful life force could keep her here. “I will.”

  As if waiting to hear those words, Lydia smiled and closed her eyes.

  “The garden will be done soon.” There was desperation in Sloan’s voice. “We’ll have weddings there again. We’ll go to Rome and Egypt and anywhere else you want to go.”

  But Lydia didn’t respond. The pale blue eyes never opened again. Her chest rose one last time and then went still.

  Annie placed her stethoscope over the valiant heart and listened.

  “Sloan,” she said softly as she removed the instrument, the clack of earpieces the only sound. “She’s gone.”

  “No, she’s not gone. She can’t be.” He continued to hold the limp hand, rubbing his thumbs over the pale, blue-veined skin again and again. “Lydia. Auntie.” His voice cracked. “I love you.”

  Annie thought her heart would rip right out of her chest. “She knew, Sloan. She always knew.”

  He put his head down on the edge of the bed. Voice muffled, he said, “Don’t die. God, please, don’t take her. I need her. I can’t—”

  Aching to comfort him, Annie touched his shoulder again. This time she stroked one hand along the soft cotton of his T-shirt. “Let her go, Sloan. This is what she wanted. Her body was tired. Look how beautiful she is now. No longer struggling to breathe, no longer weak and exhausted. Look at her, Sloan.” For indeed, Lydia glowed with peace, her ever-present smile even more gentle and confident in death than in life.

  With soul-wrenching tenderness, Sloan rose, kissed his aunt’s pale cheek and whispered something against her snowy hair. Then, looking like the lost soul he’d always been, he turned to Annie. “I don’t know what to do.”

  He seemed so alone. Everything in her wanted to hold him. “The rest is my job, Sloan. But would you mind calling Mr. Jones? I don’t want him to hear it on the grapevine.”

  “Right. Sure.”

  As he left the room, head down and tread heavy, Annie let the tears come—for Lydia, for herself, but most of all for Sloan.

  Word of Lydia’s death spread like a virus and by noon, a constant string of visitors began coming with casseroles, cakes and condolences. Sloan knew they came because of their love for Lydia, not for him, but he appreciated the gestures anyway. Lydia deserved their honor.

  Late that afternoon, he made the painful trek to the funeral home, grateful when Annie came along. He hadn’t asked and she hadn’t offered. She’d simply slipped her hand in his and come.

  God, he loved her.

  God again. Sloan wanted to be angry at God, but he wasn’t. Lydia wouldn’t want that. If he’d ever needed God, he needed Him now.

  Later, back at the house, he went through the motions, greeted neighbors, tasted blackberry cobbler and fresh corn and sliced tomatoes. By sundown, he was too emotionally drained to continue. With Annie quietly handling the visitors, all of whom she knew better than he did, he’d slipped out the French doors into the garden.

  A sharp pang of regret pierced him. He’d badly wanted Lydia to see the Wedding Garden restored to its former glory. The rose arbor was in place and for that he was glad. She’d been able to see the blooms from her window and she’d loved them. But there was much more left to do. He’d dreamed of restoring the entire acre and taking her for a stroll down meandering paths, past the fountain, through the perennials, to the sitting area he and Mrs. Miller had planned for the shade beneath the red maples. Lydia would have been pleased.

  He had already ordered the benches and thousands of bedding plants. If he finished the work, would she know somehow?

  He roamed from one end of the vast space to the other, past the completed work and into the area where a spray of three fountains had once shot from the ground but where weeds and unwanted plants now encroached. He’d have to order more mulch.

  The dying sun cast rays of orange and gold across the open spaces, sliced through the maples and gilded the plants.

  Dozens of couples—maybe hundreds—had exchanged wedding vows in this place over the years. His grandparents and parents had married here. During the weeks since his arrival, he’d encountered any number of townspeople excited about the restoration because they or someone in their family had married or attended parties in the Hawkins’s garden. He hadn’t cared about that before, but now he did.

  Rudderless without Aunt Lydia, this house and garden and its heritage were all the roots he had left.

  Though he’d donned dress slacks and shiny black shoes out of respect for his aunt, Sloan went to his knees and began to tear at the weeds with his hands. Lydia had wanted the Wedding Garden to be a place for creating beautiful memories again, and even if she was gone, Sloan could grant her wish.

  Restoring the garden before his return to Virginia would be his final tribute to Lydia’s memory.

  He began tugging at the thick weeds, tossing them aside as he ripped them from the ground. Without gloves his hands stung and dirt embedded beneath his nails, but he yanked and pulled and tossed. The sun disappeared and dusk moved in on stealthy feet.

  He worked on, more by feel as darkness overtook him and only the light from the veranda illuminated the space. Envisioning romantic night strolls in the garden, he planned to place solar lamps along the path and around the fountain, the benches and as edging along the picket fence. But those were in the future.

  He heard the French doors open and click shut again. Then soft footfalls caught his ear. He sat back on his heels, grimly satisfied at the weedy carnage spread over the ground.

  He didn’t bother to turn around. He knew who was coming. Annie. His heart could recognize her in a dark room filled with hundreds of people.

  “Sloan,” she called softly. “Where are you?”

  “Here.” He rose and the movement must have been enough for she came directly to him.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Sure.” No.

  “Everyone’s gone.”

  “I didn’t mean to run out on you.” But he’d not been able to bear one more kind word without breaking down.

  He stretched his back, surprised at the stiffness. He’d been out here longer than he’d thought.


  “You needed some time.”

  He drew in a deep draft of green-scented air, held the breath as long as he could then released it in a rush. “I can’t believe she’s gone.”

  “Neither can I. She’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember. In this last year of caring for her…” Annie’s voice trailed off. She was hurting, too.

  He could handle his own grief. Knowing Annie hurt was a different matter. Sloan hooked an arm over her shoulders and snugged her close to his side. “She loved you like a daughter.”

  “I know.” Annie sniffed and turned her face into his chest. With a sigh, almost of relief, she slid both arms around his waist and rested against him.

  “My hands are dirty,” he said, but held her anyway.

  “Doesn’t matter. I just need to hold you. I wanted to earlier, but—” Her words were a balm to his bleeding soul. “If losing Lydia tears me up, I can only imagine how you are feeling.”

  Sloan took another deep, sighing breath and drew in the scent of Annie’s hair mingled with fresh earth and new blossoms. The feel of her, the smell of her, the essence of who she was and what she’d always been filled him. He absorbed her strength and kindness, grateful to her in more ways than he could ever express—and loved her more than he ever had.

  “Annie,” he whispered, holding her tighter than he should have, desperate for the comfort she offered.

  She raised her head to look at him and the moonlight turned her skin to gold. When she touched his cheek, he trembled, the pain he’d held inside all day—maybe all his life—welling in his eyes.

  “Sloanie,” she murmured, and tiptoed up to place a sweet, gentle, comforting kiss against the corner of his mouth.

  And Sloan was forever lost.

  Chapter Nine

  The day of the funeral, Annie fussed with her hair and fretted, unable to get the kiss out of her mind. She didn’t know what had come over her in the garden that night. When tears had glistened in Sloan’s eyes, she’d thought only to comfort him. Yet as soon as her lips touched his skin, she’d known the kiss was a mistake. She’d meant the gesture as kindness, but her foolish heart didn’t understand.

  He’d tasted like Sloan. A little salty, a lot dangerous, and all man.

  She shivered at the too-pleasant memory. One look in the mirror told her she was blushing. She patted the high cheekbones with translucent powder to cover the reaction. She was too mature and had been through too much to behave like a teenager mooning over the town bad boy.

  But thoughts of Sloan wouldn’t leave her alone. He’d tilted his face ever so slightly and caught her lips full-on, returning the kiss—a brief, sorrowful joining. Then they’d simply stood there, surrounded by fireflies and roses and croaking tree frogs, holding one another. Her emotions had been too jumbled to speak.

  Shared grief and the basic human need for comfort had morphed into something she was unprepared for.

  Annie was very much afraid that she was falling in love with him again. Maybe she’d never stopped.

  A tight knot filled her throat.

  She slid a dangling pearl into one earlobe.

  Since Lydia’s death, Sloan had been on the telephone and the computer more than ever, doing business, talking to friends in Virginia, sure signs that Redemption was still the last place on earth he wanted to be.

  She didn’t know what she wanted from Sloan Hawkins, but one thing was for certain: she wasn’t ready for him to leave.

  Lydia’s funeral was magnificent.

  The line of people signing the guest book grew longer and longer as the church filled to the brim. The funeral director, Tim Chaney, brought in folding chairs for the overflow. Like everyone else in town, he’d known Lydia all his life.

  “Every summer when I was a kid, Miss Lydia bought lemonade from my stand,” he told Sloan. “She said I made the best in the world.” He chuckled softly. “She had to know I used a packaged mix, but I felt like a real entrepreneur when she said it.”

  Tim’s was one of a dozen such stories Sloan had heard in the last three days. Aunt Lydia made people feel special.

  He shook the man’s hand. “Thanks, Tim.”

  The woman at Sloan’s side took his elbow. Dressed in a sleek black dress with her red hair curving on her shoulders, classy Tara Brighton didn’t look like one of the best bodyguards in the business, but she was, and Sloan was her employer. Tara was one of three friends who had flown in from Virginia and now surrounded him with their support. He appreciated the trio, but the only people he really wanted had yet to arrive.

  He’d asked Annie and the children to ride with him in the family car. She’d declined. The refusal bothered him. Justin was family whether Annie liked it or not, though no one else shared that information. Sloan figured Annie was afraid of speculation, especially from her father. The chief was already giving her fits about spending time at the Hawkins’s place now that Lydia was gone. In his eyes, and in Sloan’s, Annie deserved better than that Hawkins boy.

  Sloan straightened his tie one more time, acid gnawing his belly. He dreaded the moment he had to walk into the sanctuary and see Aunt Lydia’s casket.

  Flanked by Tara and Max Jett, the intelligence specialist, with the dangerous-looking bruiser Harrison pulling rear guard, Sloan entered the church from a side door and took his place on the front pew. Even with these trusted employees, he felt alone. He and Lydia were the last of a dying breed of Hawkinses.

  But he hadn’t felt alone that night in the garden. With Annie in his arms, he’d been whole again.

  He tried to shut out the memory, but it lingered and tapped at the back of his brain. He’d stepped over the line that night, kissing Annie when all she’d wanted to do was offer condolences. Neither had spoken of it since, but the incident hovered between them. The bad thing was if given the choice, he’d kiss her again in a heartbeat. So much for wanting the best for her.

  He shifted on the padded pew, wishing he’d requested happier music. Mingled with his thoughts of Annie and Justin and losing Lydia, the unnaturally hushed sounds of recorded music depressed him. Lydia would have liked a celebration, not a dirge.

  Murmurs rippled around him and he figured speculation was already circulating about his friends, particularly the beautiful Tara. Redemption gossips likely pegged her as a girlfriend. Sloan figured it was none of their business, but didn’t feel quite as adamant about the sentiment as he had a couple of months ago. Prayer was smoothing the sharp edges from his anger. Prayer and long talks with Annie.

  His gut tightened. Annie again.

  When someone clapped a hand on his shoulder, Sloan seized the opportunity to search for Annie and the kids. He turned to exchange handshakes with Jace Carter, the quiet carpenter who’d done repairs on Lydia’s veranda and built a wheelchair ramp. Sloan liked the guy and wouldn’t mind knowing him better.

  “Thanks for coming,” he murmured, but couldn’t keep from gazing beyond Jace. He saw Annie’s father and mother, the Bowmans, the Martinellis from the Sugar Shack, and a host of other familiar faces, but no Annie. Disappointed, he turned his attentions to the front and the inevitable service.

  Jace murmured in his ear. “She’s coming in now.”

  The knowledge shot a bolt of energy through Sloan’s exhausted body. He didn’t care what anyone thought. He looked around and his eyes met Annie’s. He must have looked as stricken as he felt, because she offered a serene smile of encouragement and a quick narrowing of green eyes.

  He wanted her here, next to him. Annie had been Lydia’s friend and nurse. The town knew that and should accept her rightful place among the mourners. Shouldn’t they?

  Throwing caution to the wind, he hitched his chin, hoping she understood his silent plea. She spoke something to Justin and then gripped Delaney’s hand and started down the aisle toward him and the half-empty pew. Sloan’s belly leaped.

  When his employees parted to make room for the newcomers, the murmurs of speculation intensified. Annie took the place to
his left, bringing with her a clean, vanilla scent that was a comfort in itself. Gorgeous in a simple jade dress, she gripped a small white handbag in her lap.

  “How are you?” she whispered.

  “Overwhelmed.”

  She nodded and he knew she understood. Lydia’s death following on the heels of the revelation about Justin was too much to process at one time.

  Instead of sitting by her mother as Justin did, the irrepressible Delaney wiggled onto the pew between Sloan and Tara. She looked cute in a sunflower dress and shiny white shoes with her blond hair curling softly on her shoulders. He winked at her. With a sweet smile, she slipped her hand into one of his. That tiny action held a wealth of compassion. Delaney started to say something but a rustle of movement up front indicated the service was about to start.

  The dread returned like a boulder in his gut. And Sloan turned his attention to the inevitable.

  Over the next painfully long thirty minutes, Sloan’s mind wandered in and out with memories of the aunt who had loved him when no one else would. Scrapes and bruises, blackened eyes and bad attitude, juvenile hall and young love. Lydia hadn’t backed away from any of it, though he had never been an easy child.

  He heard snatches of Pastor Parker’s message, bits and pieces of Lydia’s favorite songs sung by church members who sniffed and dabbed at red eyes as they sang. When Ulysses E. Jones stepped up to the microphone with the eulogy, Sloan tried to focus. Each time he glanced at the white casket draped with pink roses, his mind went blank again.

  She couldn’t be gone. She just couldn’t. But she was.

  “Lydia Margaret Hawkins was my friend,” Popbottle Jones began.

  Asking the old professor to bring the eulogy was a no-brainer. Though Sloan didn’t know the whole story, he was sure there was more between his aunt and the dignified Dumpster diver. Sloan hadn’t cared if Popbottle wore his usual mismatched cast-off suit, but the man was elegant in a short black tux that fit him to perfection.