Tanya Michaels - A Mother's Homecoming

“Hey, sis.” He carried the cordless phone toward the living room. Call it male pride, but if his kid sister was about to lecture him on his parenting deficiencies, he didn’t want to chance Faith overhearing. Halfway out of the kitchen, he circled back to collect Faith’s cell phone off the island, throwing her a pointed look as he did so. Somehow the phone that had originally been purchased “for emergencies” sent and received an awful lot of texts.

“I thought you might need to talk,” Leigh said hesitantly.

He frowned. It was highly unlike Leigh to be tentative, especially where Faith was concerned. Normally the women in his family lobbed their unsolicited opinions at him with all the subtlety of grenades.

“To tell the truth,” he said, “I’m not much of a conversationalist right now. It’s been a rough day, and I’ve got a pounding headache.” Amazing how half an hour with a twelve-year-old girl could be more skull-crushing than a six-hour shift surrounded by jackhammers and other power tools.

“I understand,” Leigh agreed. “But Nick …? However much it’s against the manly men code to talk about your feelings, you’re gonna need an adult to vent to. I remember how badly wrecked you were before, and Faith was just a baby then. This time, she—”

“Wait.” Nick paced the living room, trying to process his sister’s words. What before and this time? “You’re not talking about Faith getting detention, are you?”

“She got detention!” For a second Leigh’s voice rose in outrage. But then she regrouped. “Not why I phoned, one problem at a time. I assumed you’d heard because I’ve already got three calls from Granny K’s, but … Your rough day’s about to get worse, bro.”

He stopped by a row of shelves where younger, sweeter Faiths grinned at him from myriad frames. “Just say it quick, Leigh. Like ripping off a bandage.”

“Pamela Jo Wilson is back.”

No. After almost thirteen years, he’d come to believe he’d never have to hear those words. Squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned his head against the top shelf. Pamela Jo? Visions of handbaskets danced in his head—all plummeting straight downward and taking him along for the ride.

PAM TURNED THE KEY in the ignition. While she wasn’t one-hundred-percent enthusiastic about driving over to Meadowberry, she was definitely ready to leave the diner. The meal had been a dismal failure. Although Violet was too well-bred to simply bolt when the conversation had grown horribly awkward, it was as if she’d become too afraid to say anything else. She’d abruptly stopped talking, shutting the barn door after the horse had already escaped. At which point, it broke its leg and had to be shot.

Honestly, how could Violet have worried about making it any worse?

The two women had endured the rest of dinner in virtual silence. When Pam couldn’t take any more, she’d asked for a to-go box and brought the painful evening to a close. Until her aunt and uncle returned tomorrow, her options seemed limited to renting a room at Trudy’s or sleeping in her car. That’s all her day needed, to be arrested for illegal loitering.

Although Pam drove by several subdivisions with stately brick entrances and cookie-cutter houses, Meadowberry Street had been established long before any newfangled neighborhood zoning. The winding lane was dotted with an odd assortment of residences, from modest ranch houses to a rare cottage to a grandiose three-story house to a rust-sided trailer that looked like it would blow away in a strong gulf breeze.

There was no telling where Nick lived—she slouched low in her seat and steadfastly avoided reading the names on mailboxes—but Trudy’s plantation-style “mansion” was unmistakable. It wasn’t necessarily the biggest home, but it was far and away the most ornate with its columns and decorative arches. In the golden summer dusk, it was easy to see the place needed some paint and repair. Still, Pam would bet it was picturesque in the moonlight.

She felt a moment of kinship with the old house. I don’t look my best in direct sun anymore, either. There were two driveways—one that curved into a horseshoe in front and a gravel drive that ran alongside the house and disappeared in the back. Maybe it had once been a servant’s entrance. It took Pam safely out of sight of anyone who might be watching from across the street.

Where the driveway met the backyard, a barefoot woman in a denim housedress and wide-brimmed straw hat stood watering plants. She spun around at the sound of Pam’s car, splattering the driver’s side window with water. Pam waited until the hose had been safely lowered before opening her door.

“Who the hell are you?” the woman demanded in a thick accent. “You look worse than some of the halfmangled critters my cat brings into the house.”

Pam was so startled she almost grinned. Apparently this little old lady hadn’t received the memo about Southern hospitality. “Pam Wilson, ma’am.”

The woman jerked a thumb toward herself. “Trudy. And this is my place.”

“I heard in town that you sometimes rent to boarders,” Pam began.

A white brow hitched in the air. “Awfully late to be dropping by unannounced in search of a room.”

It was barely twilight, but since Pam didn’t relish the idea of sleeping in her car, she nodded contritely. “I apologize for the hour.”

Trudy sniffed. “There are four rooms upstairs, twenty-five dollars cash each. Tonight, all of them happen to be available. Ladies and married couples only. I don’t house any single men traveling alone, even with Cappy for protection. And no gentleman callers!”

“Absolutely not.” Pam wondered absently whether Cappy was a hound dog, husband or sawed-off shotgun.

“The bedrooms each have small private bathrooms with a shower stall, but I don’t guarantee hot water.” The woman tossed this comment out belligerently as if she doubted Pam were tough enough to weather a cold shower. “There’s one TV, downstairs in the common area. You’re free to use the microwave, but other than that, my kitchen is off-limits. I’ll need to see some ID. Is there a Mimosa citizen who can vouch for you?”

“Violet Keithley is the one who recommended you,” Pam said as she reached into her car for an old driver’s license. Technically it hadn’t expired yet, but the address was hopelessly out of date. “I just need a place to stay the night until my aunt Julia gets back tomorrow.”

Trudy nodded sharply. “Well, come on then, if you’re coming. In another few minutes, I’ll be missing my program.”

After grabbing her duffel bag and leftover chicken-fried steak from the car, Pam followed Trudy—no last name; Mimosa, Mississippi’s answer to Cher and Madonna—into the house. The air-conditioning rattled through the vents in a feeble attempt to ward off the day’s heat. It wasn’t the cool bliss of this afternoon’s gas station, but it was a vast improvement over Pam’s car. In her tired, grungy state, a shower sounded like heaven, no matter what the temperature of the water.

It was a humbling commentary on her life that the cranky septuagenarian and her run-down house were easily the best things to happen to Pam today.

NICK YAWNED, wishing that the day’s forecast called for rain. The cheery morning sunlight that filled his kitchen was doing nothing to help his headache. He estimated that between turning off the late-night sports show before bed and getting up to fix Faith eggs a couple of hours ago, he’d slept a total of … about four minutes. Thoughts of Pamela Jo Wilson had kept him awake all night.

No, he corrected himself as he chugged a third cup of coffee in the now-empty house. He hadn’t been thinking about Pamela Jo, the person. He’d been over her for years. His mind had only been occupied with the possible repercussions of her visit.