A Mother's Homecoming(23)

“‘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?