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“And not Michael’s?”
“No,” she said so loudly that it attracted the attention of several people dining nearby. “No,” she repeated, more softly this time. “It’ll be awkward for everyone if Michael shows up. Not just me, but the other parents, too. His presence will be a distraction. Besides, I’m scheduled to work the concession stand.”
“I see,” Liz murmured with a darkening frown. “But I—”
The arrival of their meal interrupted whatever Liz was about to say. The waitress brought two huge Caesar salads piled high with sautéed shrimp, clams, scallops and an assortment of other seafood delicacies. Clare studied the salad for several minutes before she could produce enough enthusiasm to reach for her fork.
“Oh, Clare, you don’t know what you’re missing.” Liz eagerly stabbed a fat shrimp.
Clare shook her head. “I’m not hungry,” she said. Pushing aside a mound of seafood until she uncovered the lettuce, she managed a mouthful of that.
“Back to your dilemma,” Liz said, looking thoughtful. “I think I have a solution.”
Clare glanced up hopefully. “Tell me.”
“You’re going to contact Michael yourself.”
“What?” The fork slipped from Clare’s fingers and fell to the table. She retrieved it, glaring at her friend. “You must be joking.”
“Not at all.”
“I have no intention of ever speaking to Michael again.”
Without a pause Liz sprinkled some pepper on her meal. “Don’t you think that’s a bit drastic?”
“There’s no reason on this earth important enough for me to contact Michael Craig.”
“What about your sons? Aren’t Mick and Alex important enough?”
“Well, yes…but it’s been over a year—”
“Does it matter how long it’s been?”
“No, but…” Clare returned, growing frustrated. Liz made it sound like a foregone conclusion that she’d sort this out with her ex-husband in a calm and reasonable fashion—when reasonable was the last thing she felt. “Let me get this straight. You’re suggesting I phone Michael and the two of us would decide which games each of us will attend.”
“Correct.” Liz beamed her an encouraging smile.
“Why do I have to be the one who calls him? Can’t Michael understand this is awkward for me—for all the parents?”
“It’s unlikely. Men don’t think that far ahead.”
Clare hesitated, doubting she could swallow another bite. The knot in her stomach had doubled in size. She’d come to Liz looking for suggestions and sympathy. Her friend had offered a little of both, but Clare didn’t think she could follow her advice. “I—I can’t do it,” she admitted, her voice faltering.
“You can and you will.”
“I don’t think so…”
It’d been almost thirteen months since she’d heard Michael’s voice. Clare wasn’t sure she could trust herself not to respond to him in anger. Liz couldn’t understand that, couldn’t know. If her friends had any idea of the rage she still battled, it would frighten them. In fact, the intensity of her own anger terrified Clare.
“I’m not saying you should ask him to a picnic lunch.”
Despite herself, Clare smiled.
“All you need to do is make a phone call. Suggest you split the games up. He attends half and you attend the other half. It’ll save you both a lot of angst.”
“Couldn’t I write him instead?”
“Sure. Just as long as you communicate with him.”
“I prefer that we not speak.” Clare wondered why she hadn’t thought of that sooner. A written explanation wouldn’t leave room for any misunderstanding. She’d be clear, succinct and to the point. Michael believed in brevity—he was always quoting that line from Hamlet about “the soul of wit.” Well, then he’d find her message very witty, indeed.
“Whatever’s most comfortable for you,” Liz said.
“I wouldn’t even need to write a letter,” Clare went on, feeling inspired. “I could take the schedule and underline the games he can attend and tell him to stay away from the ones I’ve selected.” She wouldn’t mention the dinner. That was between Alex and his father—but ultimately she blamed Michael. He’d lived a lie for several months before confessing to the affair, and apparently her son had learned that kind of deception.
“You could mail him the schedule,” Liz agreed without much enthusiasm. “When’s the next game?”
“Tomorrow.” As she answered, Clare realized that even with overnight delivery service, Michael wouldn’t get the schedule in time for the upcoming game. Okay, so she’d skip this game and make arrangements for someone to replace her at the concession stand. No big deal—only it was. It was a very big deal.
“Clare?”
Clare looked up.
“You didn’t hear me, did you?”
“Hear what?” Her friend was right; she’d been so caught up in her own thoughts she hadn’t heard a word in the last few minutes.
“I said your heart will tell you the best thing to do.”
Now that was an interesting concept. If she’d listened to her heart, Michael would have died an agonizing death two years ago.
And she’d be making license plates in a federal pen.
Chapter Six
LIZ KENYON
“You may be disappointed if you fail, but you are doomed if you don’t try.”
—Beverly Sills
January 19th
Here it is Friday night, and I’m nestled in front of the television watching Seinfeld reruns and munching on popcorn while writing in my journal. I’m almost tempted to feel sorry for myself. Even Tinkerbell is showing signs of sympathy by sitting in my lap. Steve never did understand my affection for cats, but he liked Tinkerbell.
Work this week was dreadful. I hardly had a chance to deal with one crisis before I was hit with another. I don’t even want to think about the nurses going out on strike. I didn’t get home before seven once this entire week, so it’s no wonder that all I want to do is hibernate in front of the TV tonight!
The weekend’s already arrived, which means an entire week has vanished. It makes my word for the year, time, all the more significant. I’m feeling a sense of panic—a sense that if I don’t do something now, the weeks and months will slip through my fingers. Spring will be here, and then autumn and I won’t have accomplished any of what I’ve planned so carefully—travel, catching up on the books stacked by my bed, doing some charitable work, learning a new skill.
At the Soroptimist meeting last week, before everything at the hospital went to hell in a handbasket, Ruth Howe, the head librarian, talked about a program at the juvenile detention center. The librarians are taking turns reading the Harry Potter books over the loudspeaker system each night. There are only three librarians, and Ruth came to the meeting hoping to find more volunteers.
It seems she read about such a program in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spoke of the difference this had made in the young people’s lives. When she first proposed the idea here, the detention center told her there was little they could do to control noise. She was welcome to come in, but the staff couldn’t guarantee that anyone would listen.
Ruth and the other librarians weren’t dissuaded. As expected, their reception was lukewarm in the beginning, but they faithfully showed up every night, despite the hoots and hollers of protest. Apparently the disruptions didn’t last long. According to Ruth, the reading period is the only hour of the day or night when the facility is absolutely quiet. For many of the teenagers, this is the first time in their lives anyone has ever read to them.
I knew right away that it was something I’d like to do. Ruth got a couple of volunteers at the meeting, and I was tempted to sign up right then, but I hesitated…
A while back, I read something smart. The exact wording escapes me now, but I remember the meaning: I need to stop and consider my options before volunteering for something. If I say yes, then I need to think about what I’m saying no to first. In other words, if I were a volunteer reader at the detention center tonight, what wouldn’t I be doing? The answer is obvious—sitting in front of the TV watching reruns, writing in my journal and fighting Tinkerbell for the last of the popcorn.
Where would I rather be?
But after a work week like this, would I feel like trekking all the way to Charleston Street to read a chapter or two aloud? I don’t know how good I’d be. Reading to my grandchildren is vastly different from trying to entertain adolescent felons. Still, it appeals to me and is something I’m going to consider.
I’m afraid this whole year will speed by, and I won’t have achieved anything. I’m determined to make some kind of contribution to society.
When I volunteer for an activity, I’m going to do so wholeheartedly and with absolute commitment. That means I have to pick the right one…
Chapter Seven
CLARE CRAIG
“If you think you can, you can. And if you think you can’t, you’re right.”
—Mary Kay Ash
At noon on Saturday, Clare checked her e-mail messages for the sixth time that day. It hadn’t occurred to her until after her lunch with Liz that she could contact Michael without speaking to him or sending a letter. E-mail. She hardly ever used it herself, since she considered it a time-waster. But she remembered that Michael, who was enthralled with anything high-tech, did much of his correspondence by e-mail.
Her message had been short.
Michael:
Unless you want an
embarrassing scene, I suggest
you stay away from Alex’s
soccer match this afternoon.
Next Tuesday’s game is all
yours.
You will receive a schedule
of which games I’m attending.
You’re free to attend the other half.
It’s up to you.
Hugs and kisses.
Not!
Clare
It’d taken her most of an hour to write those few words. She hoped the small touch of humor would help.
By one o’clock, her stomach was so queasy she couldn’t even manage a cup of tea. She hadn’t asked him to e-mail her back but had assumed he would, if for no other reason than to confirm that he’d read her message. Clare needed his assurance that he’d do nothing to embarrass her in front of her friends. That was all she wanted; she should have known better than to expect cooperation from Michael.
At two, just an hour before she had to leave for the game, Clare found herself so agitated, she actually broke into a cold sweat. Her queasiness had developed into full-blown nausea. When she couldn’t bear it another minute, she reached for the phone.
She hadn’t called the dealership in a very long time, but the telephone number was still on her speed-dial. She punched the button.
“Craig Chevrolet,” the receptionist answered in a light, pleasant voice. “How may I direct your call?”
“I’d like to speak to Hollie Hurst,” Clare said. No reason to talk to Michael when his secretary knew his schedule.
“One minute, please.”
She was put on hold while an easy-listening radio station played in the background. The receptionist was new. Clare hadn’t recognized her voice and wondered briefly what had happened to Janet Harris. She wanted to think the young mother had quit in protest when she learned of the divorce, but that wasn’t likely. Everyone at the dealership had stayed on. Being rational, she had to suppose it wasn’t a question of personal loyalties. Michael, after all, signed the checks.
“Michael Craig.”
“What happened to Hollie?” Clare demanded before she thought to slam down the receiver without identifying herself.
There was a short, shocked pause, followed by, “Clare?”
“I asked to speak to Hollie.”
“She has the weekends off.”
Clare should have remembered that. Recovering quickly, she lowered her voice. She hadn’t expected him to pick up the phone, but she wasn’t about to let him know the effect he’d had on her. “Well, hello, Michael.”
“What’s the matter, did the support check bounce?” He didn’t bother to disguise his sarcasm.
Clare smiled. Thanks to Lillian, Michael was required to send her a hefty check each month. He had to be feeling the pinch.
“I guess you haven’t read your e-mail?” she asked.
“Should I have?” He snorted. “I’ve been busy, you know. Making money I don’t get to keep. You sent me an e-mail? What for?”
“I’d hoped to avoid this,” she muttered.
He sighed as though bored with the conversation. “Instead of exchanging useless banter, get to the point, would you?”
“It’s about Alex—”
