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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 amountof 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.
    Three people stopped Sloan to ask about Lydia, but other than a couple of curious stares and the men coveting his Harley, the outing was amazingly benign.
    Would wonders never cease?
    By the time he slipped on his shades and roared away on his bike, he’d bought several hundred dollars’ worth of supplies and his head spun with advice. But a sense of excitement hummed in his veins. He didn’t give a rip about pleasing the town, but he could restore the Wedding Garden for Lydia…and stay under Annie’s radar at the same time.
    As he approached the main section of town, he downshifted and cruised past stately homes, historic buildings and businesses that hadn’t changed all that much in a decade.
    For the first time since he’d returned, he really looked at the town he’d once called home.