Thursdays at Eight

“Is there a legitimate purpose for this call?”

“Yes.” She made herself sound calm and businesslike. “I understand you’re planning to attend Alex’s soccer games.”

Clare could feel Michael’s tension through the phone line. “Do I need to call my attorney? Is that what you’re saying?”

Clare laughed softly. “I can’t believe you want to tangle with Lillian Case again.”

“I’ll do whatever is necessary if you try to keep me away from my son.”

“Michael, really!” Her aggrieved tone was convincing, she thought. She was a better actress than she’d realized. Hell, Karen should take lessons from her.

“Do you enjoy this? Do you get some kind of sick thrill out of making my life miserable?”

Clare could almost see his face getting red. She could feel his anger—and she loved it. The exhilaration she experienced now made up for the months of strained, angry silence. Had she known the sense of triumph, of satisfaction, this would give her, she’d have phoned him much sooner.

“I didn’t say anything about preventing you from seeing his games, did I?” she asked, again maintaining a cool, even voice. “If you want to go to Alex’s soccer matches, that’s perfectly fine with me.”

“You’re damn straight I have a right to see Alex play!”

If he’d shut up long enough, he’d learn she had no objection to his being there. “Michael, listen,” she said, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.

“No, you listen! If I need to have my attorney call yours, then so be it.”

“Michael—”

“I’m warning you, Clare, I’ve had all I can take of your bullshit.”

“I didn’t phone to start an argument.”

“The hell you didn’t.”

“No, really. All I wanted was to set up some sort of schedule. For Alex’s sake.” She waited for him to react.

“What do you mean?”

“Alex’s soccer games. I was hoping we could be civilized about this. The last thing I want is to get the courts involved. Not again.”

“I don’t relish the idea myself.”

She’d just bet he didn’t. “You have to know how difficult it was for me to call you.”

Silence.

“We haven’t spoken in more than a year. I’ve put up with the situation, got on with my life. It isn’t like I’ve made a pest of myself, is it?”

“Just say what you have to say.”

“You want to attend Alex’s soccer matches. So do I. He’s my son, too. But I think it’d be best all the way around for us not to show up at the same time. That way Alex can concentrate on his game instead of what’s happening off-field between his parents.”

“All right,” Michael said, sounding guarded.

“I tried to avoid this. If you’d read your e-mail, we could have solved everything without all this…unpleasantness.”

“I assumed Alex told you I was planning to be there.”

“Originally, all he said was that you might start coming to the games. Thursday night, he dropped the news—he said you were coming to this game. But that’s not enough notice for me. Keith’s mother asked me to help her at the concession stand and it would be irresponsible to cancel at the last minute. If you’d gotten back to me, I might have been able to find a replacement. I can’t now.”

“In other words, you don’t want me there this afternoon.”

“Exactly.”

He hesitated. “All right, but I’m going to next Tuesday’s game.”

“And I won’t,” she said sweetly. “Now, was that so hard?”

“No,” he admitted grudgingly.

“Goodbye, Michael,” she said and replaced the receiver. Slumping in the chair, she buried her face in her hands. It shocked her to realize how badly she was trembling.

She’d talked to her ex-husband. During their conversation, she’d felt rage, exhilaration and a sense of bitter victory.

What she felt now was despair.

Chapter Eight

KAREN CURTIS

“The worst part of success is to try finding someone who is happy for you.”

—Bette Midler

This lunch was destined to be even worse than Karen had imagined. As she stood in the foyer of the yacht club restaurant, she saw her mother pull up to the valet attendant and step out of her Lexus. Catherine Curtis wore a pastel-blue linen dress with a huge wide-brimmed matching hat and white gloves. Victoria looked like her twin, only she had on a tailored blue suit with a white collar. Apparently, three-year-old Bryce was spending the day with his father. Karen was disappointed; she’d looked forward to seeing her nephew. It went without saying that her mother and sister weren’t going to approve of her jean overalls from Old Navy.

“Hi, Mom,” Karen said, standing when they entered the yacht club.

Her mother’s expression spoke volumes. “Karen.” She leaned forward and presented her cheek for Karen to kiss.

“You’re early,” was her sister’s sole greeting.

“My car’s on the fritz, so I took the bus.” Actually, Karen had made a day of it, shopping in Willow Grove that morning, then catching the bus out to the marina. She’d read the current Vanity Fair during the forty-minute ride, which had been relaxing and enjoyable, calming her before the inevitable confrontation.

Her mother and Victoria exchanged glances.

“Don’t worry,” Karen said in a stage whisper. “No one saw me get off the bus. Certainly no one who’d connect me with the two of you.”

“Shall we have the hostess seat us,” her mother said, ignoring the comment.

“Yes, let’s,” her sister piped in with phony enthusiasm. The two headed in the direction of the restaurant, leaving Karen to trail behind. The temptation to slip away was almost overwhelming, but the consequences wouldn’t be worth it. So, like an obedient child, she followed them.

The hostess directed them to a window table and handed them menus before she left. Karen sat across from her mother and sister and gazed out at the marina for several minutes. The water sparkled in the January sun, and boats of every size lined the long dock. Everything from the simplest sailboat to yachts with price tags that ran into the millions.

“What looks good to you?” Victoria asked Catherine. Karen observed, not for the first time, that Victoria rarely made a decision without consulting their mother.

“The crab and shrimp quesadillas, perhaps. With a small avocado salad.”

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Victoria said, closing her menu. “What about you?” she asked Karen.

“I’ll have the crab Louis.”

“Excellent idea,” Catherine said approvingly.

At least Karen had enough ordering savvy to please her mother.

Catherine set aside her menu and focused her attention on Victoria. “How’s Roger?”

Karen frowned. She’d hoped all conversation regarding the twit would be over by now. They’d probably spent the entire drive out to the club admiring Roger and then discussing Karen—her lack of direction, her fanciful dreams, her multiple shortcomings.

Victoria smiled benignly at her mother. “Busy, as always.”

Wishing now that she’d taken the time to change out of her jean overalls and into her new skirt, Karen leaned sideways, searching for the shopping bag. She’d purchased the skirt in a close-out sale, so the price was affordable. It would be the perfect thing to wear on the days she subbed for the school district; in fact, it was the most respectable thing she’d bought in years. She could hurry into the ladies’ room and make a quick change. That way, she’d definitely gain a few points with her mother. Easy points.

Pretending to be enthralled by the witless conversation taking place, Karen edged the shopping bag closer with her foot. She reached for it without success, so she had no option but to lean down, peek under the table and grab it.

All at once her mother turned and glared at her accusingly. “What exactly are you doing?” she demanded.

Caught in the act, Karen flashed a brilliant smile. “What do you mean?”

“You’re squirming around like a two-year-old in church.”

“Oh,” she said innocently. “I was getting my bag.”

“Your bag? Whatever for?”

“I thought I’d change into my new skirt.”

Her mother nearly leapt out of her seat, then regained control. Tight-lipped, she spoke in a slow, stiff voice. “This is neither the time nor the place for you to be changing your clothes.”

“I intended to put it on in the ladies’ room,” Karen told her.

“At the Yacht Club? Karen, do I need explain that the facilities here are not dressing rooms?”

“Mom, don’t get all worked up. I should’ve changed earlier. I meant to…” She hadn’t, but then how could she know that her mother and sister would arrive looking like they expected to have lunch with the Queen of England?

“Please.” Her mother was breathing hard. “Don’t embarrass me any further.”

“Embarrass you?” Karen asked in a puzzled voice. She’d had good intentions, and for her efforts she was rewarded with a hard, cutting look.

“Shall we order?” Victoria said, her voice slightly raised as the waitress approached the table.

Both her mother and sister ordered the shrimp and crab quesadillas, plus avocado salads as planned, and Karen asked for the crab Louis. As soon as the waitress left, the three went quiet.

Victoria was the first to speak, asking Catherine about her bridge club. It wasn’t long before the two of them were involved in a meandering conversation about people who were of little or no interest to Karen.

She tried to comment once, but was cut off when their lunch arrived. The discussion continued with Karen feeling more and more out of place. It was just as bad as she’d feared. Worse.

Suddenly her mother turned her attention entirely on Karen. “You haven’t contributed to the conversation once.”

There was a very good reason for that; she couldn’t get a word in edgewise. “What would you like to know?” she asked carefully.

Catherine raised her eyebrows. “You could tell me about school. I always knew you’d end up teaching. You’re so good with children.”

Karen felt gratified by the unexpected praise.

Victoria stared at her with more enthusiasm than necessary, obviously taking their mother’s cue. “Mom’s right,” she announced. “You’d make a wonderful teacher. You’re enjoying it, aren’t you?”

“Well, enjoying isn’t exactly the word I’d use. It’s, um, a challenge.”

“All children are a challenge,” her mother said pointedly.

“How many days a week are you working?” Victoria asked.

“No more than three. Two’s better, but that’s pushing it financially. Teaching is exhausting and the little darlings couldn’t care less, especially when they’ve got a substitute.”

“Personally, I think teachers are grossly underpaid,” Victoria said.

Her sympathy didn’t go unappreciated, and Karen found herself warming to her sister. “Me, too. What I’m really hoping for is a part in a commercial. I’m trying out for another spot next week. The director liked me the last time and wants to see me again.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed and she put down her fork.

“Naturally, I’d love a role in a weekly series,” Karen added. “But according to my agent I need a few credits first. She thinks I should get my feet wet doing commercials. Plus, the pay isn’t bad, and there are residuals. Then she wants me to audition for a part in a situation comedy.”

With great deliberateness, her mother smeared a dollop of sour cream on the quesadilla, and Karen saw that her hand shook as she did so.

“Even if you got a part in a commercial, you’d go back to substitute teaching, wouldn’t you?” Catherine asked.

“Well, yes, I suppose, but teaching is only a means to an end for me. I—”

“I thought you were finally putting your college degree to good use. Your father and I paid a great deal of money for your education. You can’t imagine how much it distressed us to hear that you’re more interested in…in cleaning toilets than in making something worthwhile of your life.”

“It wasn’t exactly a housecleaning job,” Karen muttered. “Not that there’s—” She stopped abruptly, forcing herself to swallow the rest of her retort. “I deeply appreciate my education, Mom.” Which was true, but only because it allowed her to support herself while trying out for acting roles.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Victoria asked, once again diverting the conversation to a different subject.

“Jeff and I went out the other night.”

“Jeff Hansen?” her mother asked. “Isn’t he the boy from your high-school drama group?”

“Yes, he’s teaching aerobics classes at Body and Spirit Gymnasium, and wants to get back into acting. I hooked him up with my agent.”

“Oh, dear,” Catherine murmured. “I play bridge with his mother…She was so pleased when Jeff got a real job, and now this.”

“Why do you think acting is such a horrible career?” Karen burst out. “Can you explain that to me once and for all?”

Her mother sighed as though the answer should be obvious. “You mean you don’t know? Just look at the class of people who become professional actors! They’re all involved with drugs and not a one of them stays married. These women get pregnant and most don’t even bother to marry the child’s father. They have babies by a bunch of different men. They take their clothes off for the whole world to see. They have absolutely no morals, Karen—and everyone knows the successful ones sleep with their casting directors. The unsuccessful ones are just unemployed.”

“That’s so unfair,” Karen cried, not caring that she’d attracted attention to herself. “You’re judging me by what’s in the tabloids. There’s more to being an actress than what those headlines scream and furthermore, you can’t believe everything you read!” The only true thing her mother had said was that remark about unemployment, which Karen chose to ignore. “Besides,” she added, “not all actors use drugs.”

“I’ve read about those Hollywood parties with the drugs and sex and God knows what else. I don’t want my daughter mixing with that kind of crowd.”

“Mom, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“I do. They’ll lure you in. Weird cults and casting couches…”

“I’m not doing drugs,” Karen insisted. “I’ve never come across a cult, weird or otherwise. And I’ve never even seen a casting couch, let alone done anything on one.”

“What about this director? He wants you to audition for another commercial?”

Karen sighed. “It’s for a dog-food commercial. He told my agent he liked my style and—”

“I’ll just bet he did,” her mother said, lips pinched tight. “Exactly what are you going to have to do for that role?”

Enough was enough. As politely as possible, Karen placed the pink linen napkin on the table and picked up her purse. “I think it’d be best if I left.” She kept her voice expressionless.

“Sit down right now!” her mother ordered. “I won’t have you making a scene by leaving before we’ve finished our lunch.”

Karen reached down for her shopping bag and held onto it with both hands. “If you’re worried about creating a scene, then I suggest that the next time we meet, you refrain from insulting me.”

“All I said was—”

“Thank you for lunch.” Karen did her best to hide her anger—and disappointment. She should’ve known better. Whenever she saw her mother, they always played out some version of this encounter. The simple truth was that her family didn’t respect her and had no confidence in her talent or, apparently, her judgment. And that hurt.

“Karen, wait,” Victoria pleaded, rising to her feet.

Karen shook her head, fearing that if she stayed she’d end up saying something she’d regret.

Chapter Nine

JULIA MURCHISON

“What a wonderful life I’ve had! I only wish I’d realized it sooner.”

—Colette

January 25th

List of Blessings

1 The security of order. Everything neatly in its place. Yarn arranged by color to form a rainbow effect in the store.

2 The welcome feel of my mattress after a long day on my feet.

3 Music and the way it nurtures me.

4 Zoe’s snit fits when everything doesn’t go exactly as she wants it to. Could this daughter of mine be taking after me? Never!

5 My customers, eager to create something lasting and beautiful.

I haven’t been feeling well for weeks, and with my newfound determination to take care of myself physically, I’ve made an appointment to see Dr. Snyder, even though it means I’ll have to leave the Thursday breakfast group early. The last time I saw Dr. Snyder was November when I had that dreadful flu bug and was flat on my back for an entire week.

I guess I haven’t fully recovered from that virus. I assumed I’d feel better after the holidays, but I don’t. In fact, I seem to be more tired now than ever. I can’t seem to get enough sleep. Twice last week, I went to bed before Adam and Zoe did.

Peter, who almost never complains, mentioned it at breakfast this morning. But this is more than exhaustion. I’m constantly running to the bathroom. Could be I’ve developed a bladder infection. I certainly hope not.

My whole system is out of whack. Even my period is late. I’ll be forty this year, but I didn’t expect menopause to hit me this early. If it did, though, I wouldn’t complain.

Reading this, it almost sounds like I’m pregnant. It’s been so many years since I had the kids, I didn’t put it together until just this minute. But that’s impossible. I’ve been on the pill for years, and with the flu and the busyness of the season, Peter and I haven’t been that active sexually.

After Zoe was born, Peter intended to have a vasectomy, but because we were both so young, the doctor advised us to hold off making that decision for a few years. We talked it over and agreed to wait. I went on the pill once I’d finished nursing, and all concern vanished from our minds. Five years later, Peter made an appointment for the vasectomy; I can’t remember why he didn’t go through with it. He’d gone in for his preliminary exam, but after discussing it with the specialist, he decided he wanted to think this through more carefully. So I continued taking the pill. Which is ninety-nine percent effective…

I’m not pregnant. I couldn’t be. I’m methodical about my vitamins and my birth control pill. I don’t miss. Ever. I refuse to think like this. A pregnancy now would be a disaster. I’m finished with the baby stage and couldn’t imagine going back.

No need to borrow trouble when a baby simply isn’t a possibility. Besides, I’d know if I was pregnant. I did with Adam and Zoe. Both times, within ten days of conception, I sensed the changes in my body. It felt as though everything inside me had welcomed this new life taking shape. There’s no celebration happening now.

I’m ending this right here because I can’t deal with what I’m thinking. I am not pregnant. I don’t want to be pregnant and I refuse to torment myself with something that has only a onepercent chance of being true.

“I don’t need a urine test,” Julia insisted, meeting Dr. Lucy Snyder’s unyielding gaze. “I already told you a pregnancy just isn’t possible.”

Dr. Snyder rolled the stool closer to the examination table where Julia sat, clutching the paper gown to her stomach, her bare feet dangling.

“The pelvic exam suggests otherwise,” Doc Snyder said quietly.

“I can’t be pregnant.” Julia didn’t know why she felt the need to argue when a pregnancy was now almost a certainty. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with her state of mind.

“With the pill, there’s always that slight risk,” the doctor murmured.

Julia adamantly shook her head.

“You say you never missed a pill? Not even once?”

“Not even once!” Julia cried, fighting back emotion so negative her voice actually shook.

Dr. Snyder read the chart. “What about when you had that flu virus?”

“I took my pills,” Julia said.

“You kept them down?”

“Down? What do you mean down?” Julia asked.

“According to the chart, you suffered projectile vomiting for three days.”

Julia’s forehead broke into a sweat. “Yes…And I didn’t eat solids for a full seven days.” Her stomach hadn’t tolerated anything other than weak tea and a few sips of chicken broth.

“I’d like you to have a urine test,” the doctor said. “Just to be sure, one way or the other.”

Numbness was spreading through Julia’s arms and legs as she nodded. Dr. Snyder patted her shoulder and quietly slipped out of the room.

If she was pregnant, Julia could pinpoint the night it happened—after the tremendous success of her first yarn sale. She’d been incredibly happy. Adam and Zoe had spent the night with her sister, and Julia and Peter had celebrated with a rare evening out, followed by an incredible night of lovemaking.

After providing the nurse with the necessary sample, Julia slowly dressed. Her fingers trembled as she fastened the buttons of her blouse. She’d just finished when Dr. Snyder came into the cubicle with the results.

Their eyes met, and in that instant Julia knew the awful truth. It was what she’d dreaded most. She was pregnant. Whatever Dr. Snyder said after that was a complete blur. She walked out of the office in a stupor and toward the parking garage.

The next thing Julia knew, she was at Benjamin Franklin Elementary, the grade school where Peter had been principal for the last four years.

“Mrs. Murchison, this is a pleasant surprise,” the school secretary said warmly.

For the life of her, Julia couldn’t recall the older woman’s name, although she’d been working with Peter as long as he’d been at Ben Franklin. Linda Dooley, she remembered. It was Linda.

“Is Peter available?” Managing the question demanded full concentration on Julia’s part. Her head continued to buzz, her mind skipping from one irrational thought to another. She’d left Dr. Snyder’s not knowing where she was driving or what she was going to say or do once she got there. Obviously, she’d made a subconscious decision that Peter, her calm and reasonable husband, would supply the answers.

“You go on in.” A look of concern came over Linda. “Is everything all right, Mrs. Murchison?”

Julia shook her head. Nothing was right. Her entire life was off-kilter. She didn’t want this baby, didn’t want to deal with this pregnancy. Churchgoing, God-fearing woman that she was, her reaction would have shocked all who knew her.

“Julia?” Peter stood when he saw her. “What’s wrong?” He left his desk and placed an arm around her shoulders, then gently guided her to a chair.

Julia sank down gratefully. Her legs had lost all feeling, and she felt on the verge of collapse.

Peter appeared to sense the gravity of the situation without her having to say a word. “What is it?” he asked. “Your mother?”

Julia shook her head again.

“Sweetheart, tell me.”

Her eyes and throat burned with the need to cry, but she refused to allow it.

“You saw Dr. Snyder?” her husband prompted.

She nodded wildly. “The flu…” she managed, willing herself not to weep. Tears humiliated her. She wasn’t like some women who used tears for effect. Nor did she look particularly fetching with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose.

Peter’s hands clasped hers. “It was more than the flu?”

Julia whispered, “Yes…”

“It isn’t…cancer, is it?” Her husband had gone pale at the very word.

“No, you idiot!” she shouted, knowing even as she spoke how unreasonable she was being. “I’m pregnant!”

Peter stared at her blankly as though he hadn’t heard or, like her, didn’t want to hear.

“Don’t look at me like this is a surprise or anything,” Julia snapped. He was to blame, dammit! If he’d gone ahead with the vasectomy, they wouldn’t be facing this situation now.

“Ah…” Peter straightened and buried his hands in his pockets. “Were we planning on having a third child?” If this was an attempt at humor, she wasn’t laughing.