A Mother's Homecoming(64)
“None taken. You can ask her about it when you see her tomorrow.”
Faith babbled happily for the rest of the ride home, and Nick did his best to follow her patter, but his mind was on autopilot. He found himself thinking about Pam. His daughter wasn’t the only one with a big crush.
Crush, hell. I’m in love with her.
He doubted now that he’d ever truly stopped loving her, not completely. He’d been very angry with her for a very long time, interspersed with periods where he’d managed to shove his feelings down and not think about her. It was like he’d had emotional frostbite. When it came to his romantic relationships, he’d had a certain unshakable numbness. Seeing her again had thawed him out in a way that wasn’t always pleasant. He’d had more temperamental outbursts in Pam’s first two weeks back in Mimosa than during his entire marriage to Jenna.
But there was no escaping the truth—he wanted the same thing now that he’d wanted at sixteen, to have a family and a forever with Pamela Jo Wilson. Was it his imagination, or did Faith want that, too? She could have suggested a shopping trip with her aunt Leigh or even Morgan and her mother, but she wanted to spend that with Pam instead.
Shockingly, he thought that Pam would actually agree to go dress shopping. She’d probably even be cheerful about the prospect, which made her a completely different woman than the one who’d backed away from him a month ago with panic-stricken eyes when he’d asked her to have a milk shake with her daughter. She’d changed during her time in Mimosa. As far as he could tell, all for the better.
The big question was, had she changed her mind about staying?
HER AUNT LEFT after dinner, and now Pam was all alone in the house again. Normally around this time, she would sit outside for a few minutes and listen to night fall around her. It had become something of a meditative ritual. However, rain had started sprinkling shortly after Nick and Faith left and it was now pouring.
Pam found herself drifting from one room to the next, compiling a mental checklist. The plumber was due on Friday; the fresh coat of paint on the bedroom walls looked great, but she had to hang all of the new trim around doors and floor; she’d received a call that her order of glass was in and would be delivered tomorrow—several window panes had to be replaced. Granted, the external landscaping was … well, nonexistent, and the hole in the kitchen where a dishwasher should be bothered her, but the house was becoming downright cozy. It had meant a lot to have Faith here today and feel proud of the work she’d done, not ashamed that this house was her past.
Recalling her promise to Faith, Pam dragged her feet to the closet where she’d stored the guitar case as soon as she’d taken up residence. Pam withdrew the case, which was heavier than she remembered, and carried it to the couch. Inside was the guitar that had represented so many of her dreams, almost none of which had materialized. At one time, she’d looked at this guitar and seen her entire future. Now it was the wood and string embodiment of a million mistakes.
Just looking at it made her thirsty.
It’s a guitar. No more, no less. She’d faced down an enraged mother on more than one occasion, often wondering if this would be the time Mae actually lost it enough to wallop her. She’d faced her own addiction and hadn’t let changing locations become an excuse for dropping the program. Surely she could face a single acoustic guitar.
Play it again, Pam.
Lips twitching in a sardonic smile, she strummed a couple of notes from “As Time Goes By,” but it wasn’t a song she knew well. The guitar deserved better. After a moment, she started “Amazing Grace,” stopped, then started again, singing along this time. She progressed to faster country songs and classic rock, attempting some Skynyrd and Boston numbers, frustrated at how much she got wrong. It felt like she was trying to play with someone else’s fingers.
The thought stopped her, and she quit in the middle of a Rolling Stones song. Someone else. How much of her was the same Pamela Jo Wilson who’d grown up in this house, hating her mother and loving guitar, and how much was simply Pam—a slightly older, slightly wiser, more tired, more realistic, much more centered person?
Recalling her wild weekend with Nick, spent mostly on his living room floor and tangled in his bed, she grinned. Maybe not so old or tired.
She settled into Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” which had been the theme for her and Nick’s senior prom and kept right on playing for hours, taking only the occasional break, until her voice started to go and she’d developed blisters. When she accidentally sliced one of those blisters open, she put the guitar aside, blinking in surprise. It was morning?