A Mother's Homecoming - By Tanya Michaels Page 0,53

word of her in front of Faith. But the day Pamela Jo leaves town, I plan to dance a damn jig.”

Well, it was a start anyway.

Chapter Twelve

When headlights flashed through the untreated windows at the front of the house, Pam assumed her aunt and uncle had forgotten something. After all, they’d only left about ten minutes ago. She went to the front door, which she’d locked behind them, and was surprised to glimpse Nick coming up the sidewalk. Her first panicked reaction at seeing him out here unannounced on a Friday night was that something must have happened to Faith. But logic kicked in as she was opening the door—in an emergency situation, it would have been quicker to simply call her.

Still, she couldn’t help greeting him with, “Is everything okay? Faith, is she—”

“She’s fine,” he assured her. “She’s at a slumber party at her friend Tasha’s house. Of course, Morgan was invited, too, so they’ve probably all sneaked out and are merrily toilet-papering the neighborhood even as we speak.” He swatted away a couple of moths that were drawn to the light spilling from the doorway. “Can I come in?”

Pam took a step back, giving him room.

He glanced around, his expression unreadable. “You’re making progress.”

“Thanks,” she said shyly. She felt like a painter who’d had an unexpected visitor to the studio, viewing a potential masterpiece when it was only half-finished. Did Nick see the as yet unrealized charm in the place, or was his vision obscured by holes that still needed to be spackled in the walls and a naked lightbulb shining where she hadn’t hung the new fixture?

Furnishings in the house were sparse but adequate. In the living room, she had a couch from her uncle’s store and an Ole Miss beanbag chair. The closest she had to a table was a crate, but Uncle Ed was expecting a shipment of secondhand furniture from an estate sale next week; there might be something promising in that. She didn’t have a television, which wouldn’t have done her any good, anyway. Although the electricity was on, as well as running water in all but the smaller bathroom at the end of the hall, there was no gas or cable right now. The only cooking she could do was in the microwave, but it would be November before anyone would need central heating out here.

A semi-stocked refrigerator hummed in the next room, Aunt Julia had given her a free-standing, antique linen wardrobe for towels and sheets, and in the main bedroom, there was a futon that pulled out into a queen-size bed. Beats sleeping in my car.

She gestured graciously toward the new sofa. “Have a seat. Want a bottle of water? Afraid I’m pretty limited in my refreshment options.”

“No, thanks. I’m good. Did I catch you at a bad time? If you have a few minutes to take a break, I thought maybe we could talk.” He patted the cushion next to him.

Pam’s self-preservation instincts murmured that she should ignore the patting and take the beanbag chair, but that was ridiculous. She didn’t want to sit at his feet, looking up at him like a child at story time, and there was plenty of room on the couch. She’d survived sitting right next to him in his living room the other day. We were chaperoned then.

They hadn’t been alone in a dark house, in the exact room where they’d first made love. She brushed her hands over the denim cutoffs she wore, trying to dust away the memories with the grit. Staying as close to the opposite edge as possible, she sat with him.

“I probably don’t smell so good,” she said bluntly. “I’ve been working hard since two o’clock this afternoon.”

Nick laughed. “You smell fine, but thanks for the warning.”

Curiosity was eating at her. “If you’re not here because of Faith,” she wondered, “what was so important that you drove out after dark instead of just picking up the phone?”

“Because I thought what I had to say, you deserved to hear in person.” He drew a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

She frowned. “Is this still about losing your temper on the phone earlier in the week? That’s behind us.”

“No, this is about our marriage.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re sorry about our marriage?” Not that she blamed him—she’d be sorry if she married her, too—but she was still surprised that it had merited a middle-of-the-night visit.

“I’m sorry I screwed it up so badly and didn’t do more to protect you. You have to