A Mother's Homecoming(27)

He was torn between telling her to take all the time she needed and urging her to hurry; the longer they left Pam sitting there all alone, the greater the chance she might talk herself into bolting.

“Go put on whatever you’ll be most comfortable in,” he advised his daughter, “but do it fast. I know how you hate being late.”

A few minutes later, Faith spun back into the room in a brightly patterned top and denim skirt. Somewhere along the way, she’d also pulled the braid loose; her long hair was still kinked into ripples where it had been plaited together. “Ready,” she sang.

That makes one of us. “All right.” He stood. “Just let me grab my keys, and—”

“Got ’em!” She jangled the key ring in her hand. “And your wallet’s on the counter. You can get it on our way out the door. Let’s go!”

Tension pinched the back of Nick’s neck. One would think they were on their way to a circus, or—realizing that she was a young woman now and not a happy-go-lucky six-year-old—some kind of sweepstakes giveaway shopping spree. Faith gave no sign of being on her way to meet a mother who had ditched her and then never bothered to send so much as a birthday card for the next twelve years. He prayed his daughter would be the same person on the other side of this meeting, that however Pam answered the girl’s questions, she would do so with gentle diplomacy. It would kill him for Faith to feel unwanted or unworthy.

Mimosa was not a big town—you could generally get from any Point A to Point B in under fifteen minutes. But today, it seemed like they made their trip in three. Not a single light turned red in their path, no cars pulled in front of them on the narrow roads.

The moment of reckoning had come.

Faith yanked off her seat belt while he was still parking. “Do you think she’s already here? Do you think I’ll be taller than her? These boots have a heel on them. You’re not staying, right?”

“We’ve already been over that,” he grumbled. Could his daughter make it any clearer that she wanted him nowhere on the premises? He’d agreed to go across the street and browse the hardware store to give the two ladies their privacy. “But I’ll have my cell phone in my hand the whole time. Yours is charged, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course, Dad.”

“Call me or text me if you—”

“Relax,” she teased. “I’m the one who should be nervous. You already know this woman.”

He held open the door to the diner for Faith, scanning the room over the top of her head to see if he spotted—Thank you, God. The bunched muscles in his neck and shoulders unclenched when he saw Pam sitting in a booth over to the side. Even though she’d given her word, he’d had his doubts that she would follow through.

“There,” he told his daughter softly. “That’s her.”

Faith stopped so suddenly in the entrance that he almost tripped over her. He gave her shoulder a squeeze of encouragement, and she was off again. Even though his legs were far longer, he had to quicken his stride to keep up with her.

Pam had stood, rising to meet them. She lifted a hand to just below her shoulder, where it fluttered for a moment before dropping to her side. He recognized the incomplete gesture; she used to fiddle with the ends of her hair all the time. Faith did, too—when she was little, if she’d been feeling shy, she actually stretched her hair in front of her face. Maybe it was a girl thing.

Pam smiled tremulously at their daughter. “You must be Faith.”

She nodded. “Hi, M—” Abruptly she swung her gaze back to Nick, asking in a stage whisper, “What do I call her?”

“Pam,” he said. “Pam Wilson, meet Faith Shepard.”

Pam cleared her throat. “Won’t you have a seat?”

With one last nervous glance at her dad, Faith slid into the booth opposite her birth mother. Nick took that as his cue to make himself scarce.

“If you two don’t need me, I have some errands over at the hardware store. Just across the street,” he reminded his daughter. He didn’t want her to forget for a second that he was close if she needed him.

Faith nodded impatiently, but Pam looked stricken. “You’re not staying?” she asked.

“I thought the two of you would rather chat alone. Girl talk.”

After a second’s hesitation, Pam nodded gamely. “Of course.”

Despite her even tone, her expression was unmistakable. He would know it anywhere because he’d seen that same expression countless times in his own reflection: Don’t let me screw this up. Parenting—particularly parenting a soon-to-be teenage girl—was like juggling flaming objects while walking a tightrope blindfolded with no safety net. Even if it was only for thirty minutes, Pam was getting a taste of what he experienced every day. Feeling an unexpected bond with her at that moment, he smiled at her. She smiled back, and he had the oddest realization.