Linda Goodnight - The Wedding Garden

“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 flickered but her expression remained mild, not the cold-faced glare he’d gotten at the drug store.

“Lydia. God love her. How is she doing?”

“Not well, but thanks for asking.”

“I heard you’d come back. Figured Lydia’s health had taken a turn.” Frowning, she reached down and plucked a yellowed leaf from a flat of petunias. He was sure they were petunias because the little white plastic stick said so. “Best gardener in the county. I never knew how she managed the Wedding Garden on her own.”

Sloan had helped some as a boy, though not nearly enough now that he looked back. He’d been good for little except causing trouble.

“She can’t take care of them anymore. From the looks of things, she hasn’t done much in years.”

“I’d say you’re right. I haven’t seen her in here in a long time. Doesn’t even get out to church that often and you know how faithful she is to the Lord.”

More faithful than the Lord was to her, apparently.

“Can you help me out with the garden?” he asked. “Give me some idea of what I need and where to begin?”

“You planning to have weddings there again?”

The idea took him aback. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

“You should. Come on. Let’s see what we can find.”

She led the way to a counter strewn with papers, a trowel, a box of seed packets, a hunk of burlap and a good amount of loose, black dirt. She went behind the counter and bent down, disappearing from sight. Her muffled voice rose up to where he waited.

“This town needs that wedding garden. Tradition, you know. History matters here in Redemption. I suspect Lydia, bless her heart, needs it, too. You’re a good nephew to do this.”

Sloan’s mouth quivered. First time he’d been accused of that.

“Somewhere in this mess I actually have files of my best customers. Sometimes even a photo or two. Customers like to brag on their handiwork and I like to see where my plants thrive. You can be sure I have plenty of Lydia’s yard. Ah, here we go.”

She popped up with a plain manila file boldly labeled “Lydia Hawkins.” Inside was a mishmash of invoices and hand-written notes.

“See this picture?” She plopped a snapshot in front of him. “We can start with this.”

“Okay.” He still didn’t know where to begin.

Mrs. Miller laughed. “I can see you’re lost. Come on, then, I will load you up and give you a crash course. Then you call me or come by anytime you have a question. Got your truck?”

“Uh, no.” He turned to glance out at the parking area. Two men were standing close to his bike, talking. His shoulders tensed. “I’m on my motorcycle.”

“You can’t carry supplies on a motorcycle. One of the boys can deliver. Let’s get started.” She hollered toward someone in the back. “Mack, bring a dolly. We got a live one.”

She laughed again and Sloan decided he liked this no-nonsense woman. She didn’t seem to care that he was the notorious Hawkins boy. He shot another look at the parking lot, found the men gone, and relaxed.

As Mrs. Miller dragged him from plants to fertilizers to animal repellents, she hollered out orders and greetings, stopping now and then to chat with customers.