“That’s not a good idea.” She’d already started shaking her head before he even finished the sentence. “You know it’s not. My meeting her can’t be what you want.”
Hell no. Sitting there in jeans and a flowy, printed blouse with short sleeves and a square neckline, strands of her blond hair dancing in the breeze, Pam looked harmless enough. Cute, even. But he knew firsthand the kind of destructive force she could be. He’d held her, crying in his arms, on more than one occasion after her own mother had wreaked emotional destruction on her. He’d be damned if he would let Pam wound Faith like that, which was why he’d argued with his daughter for an hour. Eventually, though, his little girl had convinced him that never meeting Pam, never looking her in the eye, might actually hurt more in the long run than anything Pam could say to her. He’d reluctantly agreed to plead Faith’s case, but he couldn’t pretend he’d be completely broken up if Pam said no and bailed on them.
Again.
Nick sighed. “It’s not about what I want. She’s a young woman and she deserves a mother.” He held up a hand, forestalling the obvious objections in Pam’s eyes. “But she’s never really going to have that. So the least you could do for her is to meet her, let her see who she comes from. Maybe even give her a few answers. Is that really asking so much?”
Fear radiated from her, taking him aback. He’d fallen in love with an ambitious, bold girl. Even when he’d seen her cry, the tears had stemmed as much from frustration and anger as vulnerability. Yet from the moment the doctors had placed Faith in Pam’s arms at the hospital, panic had become her default setting. Was the unnatural terror really so strong, almost thirteen years later, that she’d deny a blameless girl?
“I’m sure I’m coming across as some sort of evil villain,” Pam huffed, her normally melodious drawl a harsh mutation of itself. “But I’m thinking of her more than me.”
“Bullshit. Do not hide behind that. You don’t know her well enough to know what’s best for her.”
Pam stood so abruptly that she flung the rocking chair into motion, pitching wildly back and forth. “I know what a train wreck I am! You haven’t seen me in years, Nick. I could have a police record. Or split personalities!”
That would explain a lot.
“I can’t be a mother,” she insisted. “I can’t even be a short-term role model.”
“So be a cautionary tale,” he snapped. “Whatever. You’re placing too much importance on yourself. Let me bring her to you on neutral ground some afternoon before you leave Mimosa. Granny K’s for milk shakes, half an hour, something like that. I don’t think that in thirty minutes, you’re going to warp a beautiful, intelligent young woman. She needs this closure. Don’t be the what-if in her life, Pamela Jo. Don’t be the hole inside her that she walks around with for years to come.”
Unwillingly he remembered the first few days after Pam had left him. He hadn’t even been truly upset for the initial seventy-two hours because he’d known her abandonment wasn’t real. She’d had some postpartum hormone surge, he’d reasoned, temporary insanity. She’d be back. They belonged together. But when he’d realized … That cold, empty place she’d left in his life might have healed, but it had never completely warmed again. Not even when he married Jenna.
She’d called him on that when they fought over the affair, telling him that maybe deep down she’d wanted revenge because she felt as if he’d always kept part of himself from her.
Nick was never getting married again. My taste in women sucks.
“I’ll think about it,” Pam said. “But standing on my aunt’s porch bullying me isn’t going to get you the result you want any faster. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for a meeting.”
“Really?” He quirked an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to be in such a hurry to get rid of Dawn.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t feel such a pressing need to go to a meeting when she was here, either.”
He leaned in closer, studying her as intently as a forensics investigator seeking clues. She swallowed, shuffling back a little, although the rocker left her nowhere to go.
“You’re serious,” he decided. Despite her matter-of-fact tone, there was a barely banked urgency in her shifting eyes. “What kind of meeting?”
“AA. I scoped out times and places online, just in case.” She gave a short bark of laughter. “Turns out the apple didn’t fall far from the tree. I’m Mae’s daughter through and through.”
“Alcoholics Anonymous? But you never drank.” The most he’d ever seen her imbibe was a wine cooler.
“I told you, Nick.” Her voice softened, more apologetic than argumentative. “You don’t know me.”
“Not because I didn’t want to.” He locked gazes with her. “You took that choice away.”
“It was the best thing for all of us.”
Based on what, her woman’s intuition? The fact was, they’d never know. Maybe he and Pamela Jo and Faith could have been a happy family, once they’d found their footing, moved out of his parents’ house. But she hadn’t given them a chance.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree,” Nick said. He hadn’t come here to debate the past. He just wanted to help Faith. “You should trust me, as the man who raised her, to have a good idea of what’s best for my daughter now. She should meet you. Think about it?”
“Every waking second,” she said grimly.
He took out his wallet and reached for his business cards. Holding one out to her, he said, “My number’s on here. Let me know, whichever way you decide.”
Her arms remained crossed over her chest. “I don’t need that. It’s a small town. I can find you.”
Was she so determined to keep her distance from him and Faith that she couldn’t even extend a hand? His temper sparked. “Just take the damn card, Pamela Jo.”
“It’s Pam.”
He ground his teeth. “Take the card, Pam. Please.”
With obvious reluctance, she complied, delicately grasping the very edge between her fingers. It stung more than it should have, the way she rejected him with every motion and mannerism. Why should he be surprised by her abhorrence to being around him or Faith? She’d made it clear in the letter she’d left on his nightstand years ago, the one that had granted him absolute, uncontested custody of the baby she didn’t love.
Despite his promise to Faith, he teetered on the brink of just telling Pam to forget it, not to do them any favors.
But then she asked in a tiny voice, “Do you have a picture? Of how she looks now?”
The request startled him. “Yeah. Hang on.” He once again retrieved his wallet, fumbling this time. An entire clear plastic section showcased Faith’s maturation from a chubby-faced baby to the grinning honors student who would be dating boys and driving cars before he knew it. He pulled out her school photo from last spring. “This one’s recent, only a few months old.”
Pam swallowed. “She’s beautiful.”
She looks like her mother. Faith’s hair was the same color as his, but she had Pam’s features and build. “She has your smile.” He wasn’t sure why he was compelled to point that out, when surely Pam could see the resemblance for herself, or why he added, “And your voice.”
Her gaze lifted. “She sings?”
“Like an angel.” He thought about the lyrics to a Lady Gaga song Faith had been belting out in the car the previous week. “Angel might not be the right comparison.”
Pam took the picture from him, studying it silently. He found himself holding his breath, as if unwilling to interrupt a private moment. Finally she nodded, handing the photo back. “Tell her I said yes. I’ll meet her. But between you and me, I still think it’s a mistake.”
He told her what he always told his daughter. “Mistakes are how we learn.”
“HOW DID IT GO?” Gwendolyn Shepard asked from her chair at the kitchen table.
“Don’t start, Mom.”
“That well, hmm?”
Nick dropped into a seat, so weary he thought maybe he’d just sleep ther
e tonight. “Thanks for coming over to keep an eye on Faith. Is she up in her room?”
“Getting ready to take a shower. We just finished eating.” His mother’s eyes narrowed. “A real dinner. Honestly, Nicholas, ice cream? She’s a growing girl. You know how important nutrition is.”
“I’ll be nutritionally virtuous tomorrow,” he promised. “Today seemed like an ice-cream kind of day.”
Above him, the second-story floor creaked. He heard the linen closet being opened and closed, then water rushing through the pipes. At least he knew he had a little while to regroup before Faith interrogated him, wanting all the details of his meeting with Pamela Jo.
“Let me fix you a plate,” Gwendolyn suggested, scraping her chair back across the floor. “You look beat. I knew going to see that woman couldn’t be a good idea.”
“‘That woman’ is Faith’s mother, and Faith is twelve years old. She’s got a right to have a say in this. In most states, kids her age are allowed an opinion on who their custodial parent should be.”
“Well, that’s just ridiculous,” Gwendolyn huffed. “Kids don’t know what’s good for them. That’s why they have us.”
He flashed a tired grin. “Us? So you finally trust me to know what’s good for me?”
“Asks the man who served ice cream for dinner.” Gwendolyn shook her head. But a moment later, when she was pulling clean plates out of the dishwasher and not looking at him, she added, “When your father died a couple of years ago, you proved to me what a solid adult you’ve become. I’m not sure I ever really thanked you for everything you did. I’ve always appreciated how you were there for me and Leigh.”
“You’re welcome,” he said awkwardly. His father’s affairs had all been in order, the details taken care of, so it wasn’t as if Nick had been faced with any difficult decisions. It was more that his mom and sister had needed him to make phone calls they’d been too emotional to place.
But Jenna had later pointed to his dad’s death as one of her examples of how estranged she and Nick were. She’d said that he didn’t let her comfort him, that he’d never really trusted her with his whole heart. He wasn’t sure whether she’d meant that part of his heart still belonged to his first wife, or if she’d been suggesting that Pamela Jo had somehow damaged him, making it impossible to fully love again. Either translation was annoying.
No matter. Jenna was hardly a credible source. She’d been trying to justify her adulterous actions; her words stemmed from defensive guilt, not reality.
He had to admit, though, that seeing Pamela Jo again had stirred up … what? The past? Conflicting emotions?
Standing in front of the stove, Gwendolyn tapped a slotted spoon on the side of a pan to get his attention. “How hungry are you?”
“Not at all,” he admitted. The only thing that sounded very appealing was a strong drink. “Pamela Jo told me something unexpected tonight.”
“Oh?”
“She’s an alcoholic.”
His mother pointed the spoon at him. “Possible ammo against her in case she ever tries to take Faith.”
He scowled, a little irritated that his mom’s immediate reaction was how to use the information to her advantage. Technically, my advantage. She was only trying to protect him and Faith. Still … “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem. She’s not after custody.” Hell, he’d practically had to beg to get her to agree to half an hour with their daughter, which reminded him all too painfully of when Faith had been a baby. When he hadn’t been busy trying to appease his parents, he’d been trying to cajole his wife into taking an interest in her own child. “I’ll change her diaper, but wouldn’t you like to hold her afterward?”
“Besides,” he told his mom, “she’s a recovering alcoholic. She mentioned looking for AA meetings while she’s in town. That sounds like pretty responsible behavior to me.” It wasn’t as if she’d been doing lines of coke on her aunt’s front porch. “I was just surprised to hear that she’d had problems drinking because of her mother. She was always so embarrassed and angry about Mae, I figured Pamela Jo would be the last person in the world to hit the bottle.”
Gwendolyn shrugged. “You hear statistics about children of abusive or alcoholic parents being more likely to become abusive or alcoholics themselves. I’m more surprised that she confided something so personal.” The critical edge in her voice was unmistakable.
“You have an overactive imagination,” he scoffed, aware that imaginative was not how most people would characterize Gwendolyn Shepard. “We spoke briefly on her aunt and uncle’s front porch. It was by no means an intimate chat.”
“Good,” his mother said unapologetically. “Because the last thing you need is to get involved with that woman again!”
“Mimosa is more likely to be wiped off the planet by an asteroid,” he assured her wryly. “We’re … strangers now. Who don’t much like each other.” He’d been exasperated by Pamela Jo’s reminders to call her Pam, as if she could erase the past and make herself a different person just by shortening her name.
But she was a different person, wasn’t she? One who’d apparently developed and fought an addiction he’d known nothing about. What about the other details of her life? Had she, like Nick, remarried? Where did she even call home these days?
He only knew one thing about her absolutely. Pam had given him Faith, for which he would always be grateful. And he wouldn’t breathe easy again until Pam left Mimosa.
Chapter Seven
By the time AA ended, the sun had fully set. The bob-whites that had been singing when Pam had parked her car an hour ago had been replaced with the harmonious buzz of insects and the low hoot of a distant owl. Even though it was dark, she’d decided to visit Mae’s grave. The idea had come to her during the meeting, when she’d been thinking what a waste it was that alcoholism was probably the strongest bond she and Mae had ever shared. She knew that if she waited until morning, Ed or Julia would probably insist on coming with her, wanting to be there for her, but she preferred to do this alone.
Pam had seen big, formal cemeteries before that were gated and locked up after a certain hour. But Mae had been buried in the small patch of graveyard alongside the old Baptist church, which had been a one-room schoolhouse many decades before and had gradually lost a fair amount of its congregation to newer churches in the area. Anyone could park at the church and walk between the headstones.
The uneven parking lot was empty at this hour, and Pam pulled up as close as she could to the edge of the cemetery. She climbed out of the car, leaving her headlights on for illumination. The headstones closest were the ones that had been there longest, so she automatically went to the back row, looking for a stone not so weathered by time. Even though she had to squint to read it, she made out her mother’s name. Mae Danvers Wilson, Mother and Sister.
Pam swallowed, turning the words over in her head—especially the “mother” part. “You weren’t much good at it,” she said candidly. The sentiment might be disrespectful of the dead, but it was still true. “Wherever you are now, I hope you know I came back. I wanted to see you.”
The odds weren’t good that they would have hugged it out and gone on to be lifelong friends, but whatever happened would have been better than this, this piercing sense of incompleteness. This hollow feeling of unfinished business was a major reason she’d agreed to Nick’s request this afternoon. Pam wasn’t worthy of being anyone’s mom—she hadn’t even been sober a full year—but if letting Faith meet her would give the girl any kind of closure, then her daughter deserved it.
“Your granddaughter’s beautiful,” Pam said. Seeing that school picture had been a jolt, like banging a funny bone against a doorjamb. Tingly and painful all at once. Pam almost envied Mae for the years she’d spent in Mimosa, theoretically able to watch Faith from afar. Truthfully, though, Pam doubted her mother had crawled out of the bottle long enough to care that she was a grandmother. And Pam knew without a doubt that the Shepards never would have let Mae, who
’d disowned Pam and hadn’t even attended the wedding, anywhere near Faith. Rightfully so. Faith should be protected from selfish, destructive alcoholics.
Pam took a deep breath. “I’m trying to forgive you, Mom. Some days I’m better at it than others. I wish things could have been different.” She stopped, then felt foolish, as if she were waiting for a response she knew would never come. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in Mimosa, but I’ll come back again. I’ll bring flowers next time.”
Blinking against the glare of the headlights, Pam made her way back to the car. Flowers would help alleviate the grimness of the stark, simple stone. Mae Danvers Wilson, Mother and Sister. If Pam had somehow killed herself during the worst of her drinking, she wouldn’t even have had that much to claim. She’d never had a sister and she’d completely forfeited her right to be a mother. Still, she thanked God that she’d realized something was unnaturally wrong with her in time, that she hadn’t stuck around to damage her own daughter. She wanted Faith to grow up secure in Nick’s love and the adoration of all the Shepards; she never wanted her daughter to be the one standing in a dark cemetery with decades worth of bad memories and self-doubt.
“STRUCTURALLY SOUND, but needs a lot of work. And a lot of love.”
Pam slanted Ed a sidelong glance. Is he talking about the house or me? As a guest in her aunt and uncle’s home for the last couple of days, she’d realized there was a lot more to the man than she’d guessed. As a teen, she’d viewed him as the henpecked, somewhat simpleminded husband of an overbearing woman. But this week she’d witnessed the subtle affection between the couple. Also, she’d learned that while Uncle Ed didn’t talk much, his words often carried more than their superficial meaning.
The man was eerily insightful. She suspected that when she’d said she was going out for a drive to see how the town had changed, he’d somehow known she was going to an AA meeting at a nearby church. Pam had been slow to broach the subject with them because Julia was still so obviously upset by her late sister’s drinking and alcohol-related death.
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