The Wedding Garden. Linda Goodnight
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corner of her eyes, dotted underneath, then patted her cheekbones.
Sloan turned a chair around backward and straddled it. “Tell me.”
“I haven’t talked to you in twelve years. Why start now?” She sounded as petulant as she felt.
“Explain why you’re crying and I’ll go away.”
She rolled her eyes. “For another twelve years?”
His expression was bland, but something flickered in those electric-blue eyes. “You’re stuck with me for a while.”
Annie’s stomach dipped. Sloan Hawkins underfoot day after day? “You’re not serious.”
“I am.” He studied the end of his fingernail. “Who was that on the phone?”
Her mouth dropped open. She couldn’t believe this man. Less than an hour in town and he was prying into her life? “Were you eavesdropping?”
He abandoned the troublesome nail to lift both palms. “Well, yeah. So tell me unless you want a bug on the phone.”
“A what?”
He didn’t seem too happy about the strange statement, and now Annie was the one who wanted to pry. What had Sloan been doing since high school?
“I’m being an idiot again,” he said. “You need an aspirin or something?”
“No, I need for my son to behave himself.” Tears pushed up behind her nose. She was sure her eyes had gone all watery. “He’s in trouble at school. Again.”
“And? What did he do?”
She couldn’t believe this. She hadn’t communicated with Sloan Hawkins since before her senior prom and now he was sitting across the table expecting her to spill out her troubles the way she used to.
Oh, why not? No one else was listening and no matter what he said, Sloan would be gone before the week was out. He owed her a little child-rearing advice.
“Justin got in a fight.”
“Is he okay?”
She hadn’t expected him to show concern. “He won’t be when I get through with him.”
Sloan whistled softly. “Mean Mama. Boys fight. It’s normal.”
“Not at school.” Besides, what would Sloan know about normal? “He never behaved this way until—” She pushed up from the table. She was not going to talk about Joey or the divorce. Not to Sloan Hawkins. “Tell Lydia I’ll be back in time to give her her medications.”
Sloan unwound his tall body from the wooden chair. “Need company?”
Right. Like she wanted any more problems in her life. Without answering, she grabbed her purse and hurried out the door.
She was back in thirty minutes, flustered, clearly upset, and dragging a belligerent-faced boy who looked like a miniature, male version of his mother.
Kicked back on the flowered sofa, answering e-mails on his smart phone, Sloan pretended to ignore their tense conversation.
“There are three days left until school is out,” Annie was saying. “Why did you have to get in a fight now?”
“He was picking on me.”
“What did he do?”
The kid clammed up.
Annie’s hair had come loose from the big barrette and lay on her shoulders. She shoved angrily at an unlucky strand.
“If you won’t tell me what happened, then I have to assume you did something you shouldn’t have.”
The conversation was giving Sloan a serious case of déjà vu. He shifted, uncomfortable.
The boy—Justin, wasn’t it?—crossed his arms and glared at the wall behind Annie. Whatever had happened, he wasn’t going to tell his mother. And that had Sloan wondering.
“To hear your side of the story—” Annie said. She had her hands on her hips, ready to tear into the boy. “—it’s never your fault and everyone picks on you.”
This wasn’t his business. He should keep his mouth shut. Exhaling a single huff of air, Sloan lowered his feet to the floor and leaned forward. He’d always been lousy at remaining neutral. “Maybe they do.”
Annie whirled on him, green eyes shooting sparks. “Are you still here?”
She was gorgeous all fired up.
He shrugged. “I’m a male. We like to watch explosions.”
Justin snickered. Annie glowered. “Stay out of this.”
Sloan lifted both hands in surrender. Annie was not in the mood for his jokes.
She poked a finger in the boy’s face. “You’d better start talking, Justin.”
“Or what, Mom? You gonna ground me again?” Justin made a rude noise. “Like I care. Big whoopin’ deal.”
Sorry kid, you went too far. Sloan shoved against his knees and stood, rising to his full six feet two. He kept his tone mild but firm. “Don’t smart-mouth your mother.”
A little squeak escaped Annie. Her mouth opened and closed.
Lip curled, Justin glared at him. “Who are you?”
Sloan offered a hand as if the two had been introduced at church. “Sloan Hawkins. Miss Lydia is my aunt.”
Justin stared at the hand for two beats and then shook. The kid had a wimpy handshake. Better toughen up, kid. Life is hard.
“You owe your mother an apology.”
“What do you know about it?” But Justin dropped his gaze, some of his belligerence fading.
“I know she’s a good mother who went running when you needed her. Better appreciate having someone in your corner.” This time Annie didn’t tell him to back off. A good thing because he wouldn’t anyway. No one was talking to Annie like that in his presence. Not even her son.
Justin studied the tops of his untied sneakers and mumbled in a more polite tone. “Am I grounded?”
Annie pushed. “Are you going to tell me why you hit Ronnie Prine?”
“No. But he deserved it.”
Sloan was starting to believe the kid. He’d been there, done that. Bullies didn’t change. If they found a tender spot, they’d pick at it until you bled or exploded. Justin had exploded.
Annie sighed, a long-suffering huff of air. “You have in-school suspension for the rest of the week. I suppose that’s enough, if you promise to control your temper and stay out of trouble.” Tiredly, she rubbed two fingers over her forehead. “Now go finish your homework.”
The kid pivoted to leave the room. Sloan stopped him. “Wait a minute.”
Eyes rolling, body cocked to one side in an expression of annoyance, Justin said, “What?”
“Don’t you have something to say to your mother?”
Justin squirmed, clearly not wanting to lose face, but when neither adult relented, he muttered, “Sorry, Mom.”
Sloan narrowed his eyes and studied the lanky boy. Something about his stance was uncannily familiar. “How old are you, kid?”
Annie shot him a long look.
“Eleven. What’s it to you?”
Maybe more than either of us knows.
Eleven. Justin was eleven. With that worrisome little tidbit eating into his brain like a woodworm, Sloan did the math and considered the possibilities.
Nah, he couldn’t be.
Could