A Mother's Homecoming

by Tanya Michaels

  “Absolutely not.” Pam wondered absently whether Cappy was a hound dog, husband or sawed-off shotgun.

  “The bedrooms each have small private bathrooms with a shower stall, but I don’t guarantee hot water.” The woman tossed this comment out belligerently as if she doubted Pam were tough enough to weather a cold shower. “There’s one TV, downstairs in the common area. You’re free to use the microwave, but other than that, my kitchen is off-limits. I’ll need to see some ID. Is there a Mimosa citizen who can vouch for you?”

  “Violet Keithley is the one who recommended you,” Pam said as she reached into her car for an old driver’s license. Technically it hadn’t expired yet, but the address was hopelessly out of date. “I just need a place to stay the night until my aunt Julia gets back tomorrow.”

  Trudy nodded sharply. “Well, come on then, if you’re coming. In another few minutes, I’ll be missing my program.”

  After grabbing her duffel bag and leftover chicken-fried steak from the car, Pam followed Trudy—no last name; Mimosa, Mississippi’s answer to Cher and Madonna—into the house. The air-conditioning rattled through the vents in a feeble attempt to ward off the day’s heat. It wasn’t the cool bliss of this afternoon’s gas station, but it was a vast improvement over Pam’s car. In her tired, grungy state, a shower sounded like heaven, no matter what the temperature of the water.

  It was a humbling commentary on her life that the cranky septuagenarian and her run-down house were easily the best things to happen to Pam today.

  NICK YAWNED, wishing that the day’s forecast called for rain. The cheery morning sunlight that filled his kitchen was doing nothing to help his headache. He estimated that between turning off the late-night sports show before bed and getting up to fix Faith eggs a couple of hours ago, he’d slept a total of … about four minutes. Thoughts of Pamela Jo Wilson had kept him awake all night.

  No, he corrected himself as he chugged a third cup of coffee in the now-empty house. He hadn’t been thinking about Pamela Jo, the person. He’d been over her for years. His mind had only been occupied with the possible repercussions of her visit.

  Last night had been like learning a Category 3 hurricane was headed in his direction. It stood to reason that he’d spend a little time battling denial and being angry, then start planning for how best to cope. It was a damn shame he couldn’t protect his daughter from Pamela Jo’s presence with sandbags and an emergency supply of bottled water.

  In fact, he was kicking himself even now for letting Faith go off to school unprepared. He’d wanted to learn more about Pamela Jo’s intentions before he said anything to his daughter—who was barely speaking to him right now anyway. But what if she found out from a schoolmate that her mother was in town? None of her peers had ever known Pamela Jo, of course, but eventually adult gossip trickled down to the younger citizens of Mimosa.

  Then you’d better deal with this immediately. Leigh had suggested he meet with a lawyer today, which he’d initially rejected as overkill.

  “She left us with no more than a note,” he’d pointed out bitterly, “in which she granted me full undisputed custody of our daughter. And all this time later you think she’s had a change of heart and came back to Mimosa to fight me for Faith?” He couldn’t picture that. In the short time Pamela Jo had lived with them, she’d had to be bullied into even holding the baby.

  “She was a scared kid,” Leigh had replied. It was the single most empathetic statement she’d ever uttered about his ex. “I mean, so were you, that’s no excuse, and she was horrible and selfish, but one assumes she might have regretted her actions since then. We don’t know anything about what her last couple of years have been like. What if she’s settled down and tried to have kids, but can’t? What if she thinks Faith is her last chance at motherhood?”

  Screw that. Pamela Jo forfeited any such chance a long time ago. And she was crazy if she thought to drag Faith through some sort of custody battle or belated “Mommy’s home now, darling!” movie-of-the-week moment. Despite his sister’s well-meaning suggestion of hiring legal counsel, Nick favored a more direct approach.

  One that centered around figuring out where Pamela Jo was staying, then running her out of town on a rail.

  Chapter Three

  Shortly after nine in the morning, Pam’s prepaid cell phone rang. The only reason she was still in bed was misplaced optimism. She hadn’t managed to get any sleep the night before but kept hoping that, any minute now, slumbering oblivion would be hers.

  “Hi, Annabel.” She’d known who was on the other end before she even pressed “accept call.” No one but her sponsor had the number. The phone had been a parting gift. A reminder that you’re not alone, Annabel had said when she’d hugged Pam goodbye. Given how early it was on the west coast, Annabel was probably just now getting out of bed for her morning run before work.

  “D’you make it through the night?” Annabel asked without preamble. “I’ve been worrying about you ever since you called last night. That was a hell of a lot dropped on you.”

  “Tell me about it.” Pam felt like some hapless cartoon character with a big hole through her middle where a cannonball had been fired. “But, yeah, I made it through. Booze-free.”

  One might assume that was a perk of being near broke—not having the funds to fall off the wagon—but there had been a few years in her past when she simply would have undone a couple of top buttons, made her way to Wade’s Watering Hole and struck up a conversation until some guy bought her a drink or two. Or six. She fought back a ripple of shame with the reminder that she’d been sober eight months and counting. She clenched trembling fingers into a fist. Never again.

  “I’m a little shaky right now,” Pam admitted, “but that’s from lack of sleep.”

  “And the announcement that your mother is dead,” Annabel said with brutal honestly. “And the news that your ex-husband and child are somewhere in the vicinity. Don’t downplay what you’re going through. You have a right to be angry and upset and conflicted.”

  “I’m not in denial, I’m just numb.” Plus she was too exhausted to muster the energy for hysterics. She’d driven so far over the last few days, fueled by caffeine and a kind of grim eagerness. Having made the decision to confront Mae, she’d wanted to get it over with and, whatever happened between them, move on from there a healthier person. “I haven’t had much rest lately.”

  “I won’t keep you then,” Annabel said. “When were you planning to see your aunt and uncle?”

  “I’m going to call them after lunch, find out if they’re back yet.” She wondered nervously what kind of reception she’d get from her only remaining family. Not your only family.

  Yes, they were, she argued with herself. Pam had given up any right to claim Faith years ago—probably the most responsible thing she’d ever done. Even at eighteen she’d realized what a train wreck of a mother she would be.

  “If you’re not going to track them down until after lunch, you still have a couple of hours to catch some z’s.” Annabel was half drill sergeant, half big sister. She was constantly admonishing Pam to eat, sleep and generally take better care of herself.

  Rest, however, didn’t seem to be in the cards. No sooner had Pam disconnected the call than there was a knock at her bedroom door. Surely it wasn’t time to check out already?

  “Coming, Trudy.” As she shuffled to the door, Pam spared a second’s thought for her attire. She wasn’t exactly dressed for the day. Braless and bottomless except for a pair of bikini briefs, she wore a thin cotton T-shirt that was so oversized the hem fell halfway to her knees. Oh, well. The basics were covered. Cantankerous though she may be, Trudy didn’t seem like the type of person who shocked easily.

  Pam swung the door open, her greeting to the landlady dying unspoken on her lips. A fuse overloaded in her brain. She thought she could actually smell something burning as her mental processes short-circuited. Her mouth fell open, and an unintelligible squeak escaped. She glanced up—was it possible
he’d gotten even taller?—into Nick Shepard’s piercing blue eyes; they used to look to her like a tropical lagoon, all the faraway paradises she longed to visit. Now they looked like Judgment Day.

  She couldn’t have been any more startled and horrified if her mother’s ghost had appeared at her door. “Y-you can’t be here.”

  His lips twisted into a cruel line she couldn’t reconcile with the boy who’d loved her. “You seem confused about which one of us doesn’t belong here, Pamela Jo.”

  “I meant, no, um, gentleman callers. Trudy’s rule. And it’s Pam.” Hearing him say the name she used to go by brought back a flood of memories—the kind that required an ark if you were to have any chance at survival.

  “What the hell are you doing in Mimosa, Pam?” The sneering tone made her think that even after all her years of resenting Mae, she was still just bush league when it came to anger. Here was a pro.

  She swallowed, fighting the urge to huddle into herself for protection. Right now, his glinting, accusatory gaze was locked on hers. She was afraid that if she crossed her arms over her chest, she might draw his attention to the fact that she was clad only in a T-shirt. She doubted he cared what she was—or wasn’t—wearing, but she felt painfully exposed already. “I came to town to talk to my mother.”

  Surprise momentarily softened his expression. Blinking, he rocked back on his heels, hands hooked in the pockets of his jeans. “You came to visit Mae? Voluntarily?” A rhetorical question since he didn’t give her time to answer or explain. Cloaked once again in cold hostility, he asked, “You do know you’re too late?”

  “I know.” She registered the taste of blood and realized she’d bitten her bottom lip. Hard. “I know I’m too late. I know I can’t … fix anything.” A fragment of the usual prayer tolled in her head like mournful bells. The serenity to accept what I cannot change. Today, there was no comfort in the phrase, only bleak finality.

  She gripped the edge of the door, steeling herself. A stronger person—one whose inner core hadn’t been mindlessly shrieking ohGodohGod ever since she’d seen Nick’s face—would pull herself together and try to turn this disaster into an opportunity. If she couldn’t make amends for what she’d put him through, she could at least ease his mind, assure him she didn’t have any nefarious agenda. Grant me the courage. “Look. Nick.”

  He flinched, no less affected than she’d been when he said her name.

  “I’m not staying. I have to see my aunt and uncle today, but then I’ll be moving on.” That’s all she’d wanted for years, to be able to move forward, instead of uselessly spinning her wheels and looping in the same self-destructive cycle. She needed to let go of her past and build a new life with healthy habits and achievable, short-term goals.

  Right now, her most pressing goal was to survive this conversation.

  “I see.” Finally he broke eye contact, and Pam’s lungs remembered how to expand.

  She took a much needed breath, assuming he would go now.

  But instead he took a challenging half step toward her, his voice a blade. “So your plan is to run away. Again.”

  WITH THE ELEMENT OF surprise on his side, Nick Shepard had believed he was prepared to see her—until she’d opened the door. Shards of the past cut into him like slivers into the tender spot of a foot, an excruciatingly sharp wound that doesn’t even start bleeding immediately, as if the skin is still trying to process what the hell just happened. Dozens of disjointed memories sliced at him, most involving Pamela Jo, some more recent—such 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.