A Mother's Homecoming. Tanya Michaels
as a conversation he’d had with his daughter about impulse control and making good choices.
Where had his impulse control been just now? What on earth had possessed him to blurt that jab about her running away? It was what he wanted, for her to get as far away from Mimosa as geographically possible and never return. But he’d made it sound almost as if … he were daring her to stay.
She looked as perplexed as he felt, her eyes narrowed in confusion.
Faith had her mother’s eyes, but that meant something different on any given day, the changeable hazel reflecting various amounts of gold, brown or green depending on her mood and what she wore.
For instance, Pamela Jo’s eyes were a particularly vivid green because of that damn T-shirt. He’d been battling throughout their conversation to somehow un-notice that she was braless beneath that flimsy material. She was almost too thin, but certain curves had not diminished with time. And what kind of woman answered the door with no pants? He stubbornly ignored the fantasies he used to harbor about this exact woman opening doors to him wearing even less.
That had been a different reality. He was a single father now, not a horny teenager.
“So are you angry that I’m here,” she asked cautiously, “or angry because I’m leaving?”
Both. Neither.
If someone had broached the subject of Pamela Jo two days ago, before he’d learned she was in town, he would have said his long dormant anger had faded away. She no longer meant anything to him; so long as he was with his daughter, everything had worked out for the best. The swell of fury he’d experienced when Pamela Jo had met his gaze had knocked him off balance.
He shoved a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want you here—don’t want you here—but it’s a small town. There’s a chance that …” It was more difficult than he could have imagined to say their daughter’s name, as if a superstitious part of him worried that by mentioning Faith, he was somehow putting her at risk. “People know you’re in Mimosa, and people gossip. It’s likely that Faith will find out you’re here, and I don’t know how she’ll react.”
Pamela Jo’s eyes were wide. “I wouldn’t have … I thought you … Damn it, why aren’t you in North Carolina?”
As if he owed her any explanations? Like hell. Still, the words tumbled out. “I moved here after the divorce. My wife betrayed me,” he said with deceptive matter-of-factness. “Story of my life.”
“Nick, I—”
He held up his hand. “Don’t you dare apologize.” There was no way that all they’d shared, and ultimately hadn’t shared, could be encapsulated in a trite I’m sorry.
Her chin lifted, that one action suddenly making her look like the lover he’d once known, instead of a pretty stranger with short hair and eyes too like his daughter’s. On closer inspection, he saw that there were shadowed crescents beneath Pamela Jo’s eyes, yet another detail he didn’t particularly want to see.
“My condolences on your mother’s passing,” he said brusquely. He didn’t care overly much about what Pamela Jo was going through, but he needed a return to civil conversation. To normalcy.
She hesitated only briefly before reverting to their previous topic, the one that made him the most uneasy. “You think my passing through will hurt Faith?”
“It might raise some questions, some conflicted feelings, but she and I will deal with them. I shouldn’t have brought that up.” He was Faith’s family, the one constant in her life—as she’d been in his since she was born—and he would find a way to give her whatever assurances she needed. Despite his resolve, however, he couldn’t help thinking about all their recent arguing. Was his daughter pulling away from him? I won’t let that happen.
But standing in front of Pamela Jo, who looked so much like their daughter and had once ripped his heart out by walking away from him, magnified his uneasiness.
Coming here had been a mistake. “Don’t worry about us. Faith and I will be fine,” he insisted. “I won’t bother you again. Conclude whatever business you have here, and have a nice life.”
With one final nod, he spun on his heels and walked toward the staircase. He regretted his earlier taunt more than ever. Because, despite his calm manner and deliberately slowed stride, it felt very much as if he were the one running away.
Chapter Four
Nick’s retreat was almost as unexpected as his arrival. That’s it? Pam stared out into the empty hall, knowing she should be relieved but feeling strangely bemused. Considering what he must have gone through after she’d left him and their infant daughter without a word of warning, he was entitled to be angry, enraged even.
So it seemed almost … anticlimactic that he’d suddenly calmed down, told her to have a nice life and left. Granted, there’d been an unmistakably implied “and stay the hell away from us” at the end of his farewell, but that was still far gentler than she’d deserved. She shut the door, shaking her head at her irrational discontent. What, did you want him to scream at you?
Maybe. It might have been cathartic for him to get it off his chest, they might have achieved some measure of closure. She sank into a sitting position against the wall, too drained from their encounter to walk back to the bed. Instead of feeling they’d reached any resolution, now she worried about what he’d let slip before backpedaling. Would her being here, no matter how temporarily, have negative repercussions for Faith? That Pam hadn’t expected her daughter to be anywhere near Mimosa when she’d planned this trip didn’t stop a small kernel of guilt from forming.
But trying to second-guess the emotional reaction of a near-teenager she didn’t know was impossible. Pam’s mind stumbled back to Nick, someone she’d once known intimately. It had been amazing how quickly he’d reined in his emotions today. In his younger years, he’d been very direct. Whether he’d been on the football field or romancing her, he’d always been clear about what he wanted and let others know that he would pursue his goals diligently. The only times she’d ever seen him censor himself had been during their brief, ultimately doomed, marriage, when they’d lived with his parents.
Truth be told, he’d reminded Pam a little of his parents just now. Polite, by way of the Arctic Circle.
As a teen, Pam had liked to believe she was tough, impossible to intimidate. After all, she’d grown up alone in a house with a temperamental alcoholic. But she’d been scared to death of Gwendolyn Shepard. Instead of raging when she’d learned about the pregnancy—Mae’s diatribe had blurred in Pam’s memory, but “ungrateful whore” had been the recurring theme—Nick’s mother had been icy calm.
Well, then, I suppose that’s that. Welcome to the family… . Naturally you’ll be wearing ivory for the wedding instead of white.
Prior to announcing that his girlfriend was pregnant, Nick had never let his parents down. He’d been the slightly spoiled baby of the family who spent his short marriage trying to win back parental approval. The diplomatic balancing act couldn’t have been easy on him, but, at the time, all Pam had been able to see was the way he didn’t stand up for her. When she’d complained to him about it, he’d insisted she had to be patient with his parents, that they’d adjust in time. Meanwhile, she’d felt as if the entire Shepard family had ganged up on her—including the newest Shepard, a baby girl who shrieked all the time.
Pam’s recollections of those awful postpartum months were hazy, but she remembered Faith crying constantly, as if the infant had been channeling her mother’s confusion and misery. She was better off without me.
“Miz Wilson! You up there?” Trudy’s footsteps sounded on the stairs, nearly as loud as her strident voice. A frail old lady, Trudy was not.
“Yes, ma’am,” Pam called back, summoning the energy to stand. Get back on your feet.