A Mother's Homecoming(11)
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.”