A Mother's Homecoming(43)
“Thanks for coming,” he said, ushering her inside. “It’s decent of you to help me out, considering that Faith’s sudden delinquent tendencies aren’t your problem.”
She tried not to be stung by the reminder that she wasn’t a real part of Faith’s life. Hadn’t Pam told herself all along that was for the best?
“And considering the way I yelled at you over the phone,” Nick added, his expression twisting in momentary self-disgust. “It won’t happen again. Faith’s a bright kid. If we want her to take us seriously as a united front, we can’t be at each other’s throats behind the scenes. Truce—for her sake?”
Pam nodded, knowing full well all the reasons he had to be angry with her and grateful that he was taking the high road. Unfortunately, declaring a cease-fire didn’t automatically dispel the tension. She cast about for safe conservation.
“Something smells wonderful.”
“Thanks. Gwendolyn’s soup recipe, in the slow-cook pot. I thought we’d have some salad with it.”
“Sounds good to me.” She set her purse down next to a decorative umbrella stand that seemed like a female purchase rather than something a man would think to buy. As she followed him toward the kitchen, she noted a half-dozen more ornamental touches that seemed feminine in nature. His mom, his sister? Or were these things left over from his marriage to Jenna? At the sight of a whimsical throw pillow featuring a unicorn at a waterfall, she added Faith to her list of potential decorators.
The kitchen was fabulous, full of light and open space and built-in shelves stocked with simple but top-of-the-line equipment. She made an involuntary whimpering noise. “No way will the kitchen at Mae’s house ever look like this. I don’t care how long people worked on it. The chefs at Le Cordon Bleu could consult on the kitchen design, and it would still be a nightmare.”
Nick chuckled. “A nightmare? Guess I won’t ask how the renovations are going.”
She scowled. “Let’s not speak of it.”
He lifted the glass lid on the slow-cooker and stirred the soup, wafting the warm, rich smells of cumin and garlic and peppers through the room.
“Mmm.” She breathed in deeply. “One of these days, I’ve got to take up cooking. It’s a hobby, sort of, but only as a spectator sport. Most of the shows I watch now are food-related.” She loved them, but tried to skip over episodes where they focused on the perfect wine pairings and cocktails to complement each dish.
“Yeah? Same here,” Nick admitted with a grin. “My favorites are the ones where they travel somewhere exotic and try local cuisine. About the most exotic place I ever made it to was Destin, Florida. Faith and I vacationed at the beach for a few days.”
That was a shame. Although Nick seemed reasonably content with his life—disastrous choices in wives aside—she remembered all the places they’d talked about seeing together. If she hadn’t been pregnant, curtailing his college football plans, where would he be today?
Nick shook his head. “Who knows? Maybe one day I’ll take Faith to France. But you … Seen a lot of places?”
“I’ve seen a lot of the exact same places in a lot of different cities. No matter where I was, it all started to feel alike.” She’d been unhappy and jaded. At fifteen, she would have sworn that merely setting foot in Nashville or Hollywood would make her euphoric. But that had been a kid’s dreams, bearing no resemblance to reality.
She’d learned the hard way that you couldn’t just go to a new place and find joy there, not if you brought misery and guilt with you.
Changing the subject, she gestured at the produce laid out on the kitchen island. “What can I do to help?”
He set her to work washing and tearing romaine leaves at the sink while he chopped vegetables behind her. The steady rhythm was lulling, as was the simple, companionable silence between them. It wasn’t until she noticed the strange limpness in her frame—her body unexpectedly relaxing—that she realized how much tension she’d been carrying lately. With golden afternoon sun streaming through the window and the comforting aroma of homemade soup curling around them, she felt far more mellow than she had since setting foot in Mimosa. This was why many people drank, she mused. That first glass of wine or sip of rich liquor? This warm, calm sensation, as if the soul had just breathed a contented sigh, was what people wanted to duplicate.
Nick broke into her thoughts. “Not that it’s any of my business, but if the house renovations are so hellish, have you considered not doing them? Not doing them yourself, I mean. It might be worth it to hand the job over to a professional.”