Книга - Thursdays at Eight

Thursdays at Eight
Debbie Macomber


Perfect for fans of Maeve Binchy' - CandisEvery Thursday at eight, four women meet to talk and share their lives.As one life-changing year unfolds it becomes a true celebration of friends helping each other through the tough times. Having just suffered a heartbreaking divorce, Clare is bitter and angry. Then she learns some devastating news about her ex-husband. Elizabeth, in her late fifties, is recently widowed and finds herself back in the dating game. And that means putting the past behind her.Twenty-something Karen is desperate to be an actress – if only her parents didn’t want her to be more like her respectable sister. Julia is turning forty. Her kids are finally in their teens and she’s just started her own business. Now she finds out that she’s pregnant.









Praise for Thursdays at Eight by DEBBIE MACOMBER


“Macomber’s women serve as bedrock for one another in this sometimes tearful, always uplifting tale that will make readers wish they could join this charming breakfast club.”

—Booklist

“Not simply a work of fiction but the culmination of personal experiences that translate into the meaning of life for women in particular and people in general. Friendship—rather, friendships—is what the book is all about. [Macomber] builds on her reputation of giving women readers what they want in the books they read.”

—The Sunday Oklahoman

“Thursdays at Eight is a novel of everyday women confronted with extraordinary circumstances, and Macomber tells their stories with a depth of mature insight that is both compassionate and unfailingly honest. These are women with guts and fortitude, courage and determination, and readers will recognize the same strength of character found in the novels of venerable authors Rosamunde Pilcher and Maeve Binchy.”

—Amazon.com

“As always, Macomber draws rich, engaging characters.”

—Publishers Weekly




Thursdays at Eight

Debbie Macomber











www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


July 2010



Dear Friends,



Thursdays at Eight was originally published in 2001 and launched my hardcover writing career. I remember how excited I was as I held this book in my hands for the very first time. When I was originally published back in the early 1980s, having my titles appear in hardcover was a dream and, back then, it seemed an impossible one. I’ve learned a great deal about goal-setting since I rented that typewriter all those years ago. Dreams do come true!

Another lesson I learned with this book was that some of the very best story ideas are right under our noses. When I first moved out of my home office and rented space in a commercial building, I found I was making business decisions I felt completely inadequate to make. The one thing I did know was to ask other successful women some key questions. Filled with purpose I invited five women, all business owners and/or entrepreneurs, to my home for tea. The others knew one another on a casual basis but not as friends. We had such a good time we decided to meet every…you got it…Thursday morning for breakfast.



That was seventeen years ago now. Of the five there are three original members. Diana married and moved away. Stephanie, our dear Stephanie, we lost to ovarian cancer. Betty, the bank president, has since retired, and while Lillian continues in her law practice she, too, is looking toward retirement. Sandy O’Donnell joined us a few years ago. I’m still part of the group, too. We meet regularly to encourage, support and inspire one another. Through the past seventeen years we’ve gone through deaths, divorces, marriages, aging and dying parents, major and minor health issues and just about everything else together. We’re the very best of friends and in some ways as close as sisters.



After we started meeting, it was Stephanie who suggested we each take a word for the year. I thought it was a wonderful idea and it was that concept (and, of course, the fact that we met regularly as a group) that inspired Thursdays at Eight. I hope you enjoy this story and that it will inspire you, too.

Enjoy.






P.S. I love hearing from my readers. You can reach me through my Web site at www.debbiemacomber.com and fill out a guest book entry, or write me at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.


This story is dedicated to Lillian Schauer, Betty Roper, Sandy O’Donnell and the memory of Stephanie Cordall. The wonderful, wise and fascinating women of my Thursday morning breakfast group.




Chapter One


CLARE CRAIG

“It’s the good girls who keep the diaries; the bad girls never have the time.”

—Tallulah Bankhead

January 1st

A promise to myself: this year is a new beginning for me. A fresh start, in more ways than one. I’m determined to put the divorce behind me. About time, too, since it’s been final for over a year. Okay, thirteen months and six days to be exact, not that I’m counting…well, maybe I am, but that’s going to stop as of today.

Michael has his new life and I have mine. I’ve heard that living well is the best revenge. Good, because that’s what I intend to do. I’m going to live my life as a successful, happy (or at least, contented) single woman and mother. This is my vow. I will no longer expect another person to provide me with a sense of worth. I don’t need a husband to make me feel complete. It’s been a struggle to let go of the marriage, but holding on to all that pain and anger is getting me nowhere. I’m sick of the pettiness, sick of fighting and sick to death of the resentment, the bitterness. I just never thought anything like this could possibly happen to Michael and me.

I saw divorce mow down marriages all around us, but I somehow thought we were safe…

It didn’t help any that I ran into Marilyn Cody over the Christmas holidays. She hadn’t heard about the divorce, and when I told her my husband had left me for a twenty-year-old—correction, my ex-husband (I still have trouble remembering that)—I could see how shocked she was. Then, apparently thinking she was giving me good advice, Marilyn suggested I find myself a boy toy (or is it toy boy?) to get my confidence back. She was actually serious, as though going to bed with a man only a few years older than my own children would make me feel better. Marilyn is a good example of why I can’t remain friends with the people Michael and I once associated with.

Losing Marilyn as a friend is no great loss, anyway. I read the pitying look in her eyes, and I didn’t miss her innuendo that I could’ve kept my husband if I hadn’t let myself go. It was all I could do not to get in her face and defend myself—as though that would prove anything. As a matter of fact, I happen to weigh within fifteen pounds of what I did at twenty-five, and damn it all, I take care of myself. If anyone’s suffering from middle-age spread, it’s Michael. The audacity of Marilyn to imply that Michael’s affair is somehow my fault!

How the hell was I supposed to compete with a girl barely out of her teens? I couldn’t. I didn’t. Every time I think about the two of them together, I feel sick to my stomach.

The journal-writing class has helped. So did meeting Liz, Julia and Karen. They’re my friends, and part of my new life. Forming a solid relationship with each of these women is one of the positive changes I’ve made. As the saying goes, “Out with the old and in with the new.” I’m glad the four of us have decided to continue seeing each other, even though the class isn’t being offered again. Thursdays for breakfast was an inspired idea.

Writing down my thoughts is the only way I got through the last six months. This should be a good time in my life. Instead, I’ve been forced to start over—not my choice and not my fault! Okay, fine. I can deal with it. I am dealing with it, each and every day. I hate it. I hate Michael, although I’m trying not to. The best I can say at this point is that I’m coping.

I will admit one thing. Michael’s affair has taught me a lot about myself. I hadn’t realized I could truly hate anyone. Now I know how deep my anger can cut…and I wish to hell I didn’t.

My mistake—and I made a few—was in delaying the divorce as long as I did. Eternal optimist that I am, I clung to the belief that, given time, Michael would come to his senses. I was convinced that eventually he’d see how much he was hurting me and the boys. An affair with a twenty-year-old was sheer madness. Surely he’d wake up one morning and realize he’d destroyed his entire life—and for what? Good sex? I doubt she’s that incredible in the sack.

In retrospect, I could kick myself for waiting so many months to see an attorney. I merely postponed the inevitable, because I was so sure he’d admit what he was doing and put an end to it. How I prayed, how I longed for the opportunity to save my marriage. If only Michael would come home again. If only he’d give us another chance. Little did I understand that his actions had utterly destroyed the foundation of our lives together. The minute he told me he’d fallen in love with Miranda (sure he had!), I should’ve hightailed it into a lawyer’s office and set the divorce in motion. Doing that would have saved me a lot of grief.

At a particularly low point, when I was feeling absolutely desperate, I signed up for counseling. The irony didn’t escape me, even then. I wasn’t the one defiling our wedding vows, yet I was the one making appointments with a shrink!

Then, on a particular Thursday morning about a year and a half ago, I got up after another restless, miserable, lonely night. I remember leaning against the bathroom sink in such emotional pain I couldn’t even stand upright. I looked at myself in the mirror and barely recognized my own face. Something happened in those moments. Nothing I can precisely identify, but the experience changed me. The victim disappeared and there I stood, straight and tall, glaring back at my reflection, determined to survive. Michael might want to kill our marriage, but he wouldn’t kill me in the process. In retrospect, I realize that was when I’d reached my limit.

I got dressed and marched myself right down to Lillian Case’s office. If there’s anything to smile about regarding this ugly divorce, it’s the misery Lillian put Michael through. Michael repeatedly claimed he wanted a friendly divorce, but as Lillian said, it was far too late for that.

The boys still aren’t speaking to him. I’m not sure Mick ever will. Alex was always close to his father, and I know he misses Michael. We don’t talk about him. I wish we could, but nothing I can say is going to take away the pain of having their father walk out the door. What Michael failed to understand was that in leaving me, he abandoned his children, too. He didn’t just betray me. He broke faith with us all.

I probably should have figured out what was happening—that was what Marilyn seemed to insinuate. I did suspect something was wrong, but never, ever would I have guessed this. I thought maybe a midlife crisis or boredom with our marriage. Maybe that was how he felt; maybe it’s why he did what he did. But he should’ve been honest with me about his feelings—not had an affair. Bad enough that my husband screwed another woman, but a friend’s daughter?

I can only imagine what Carl would think if he were alive. It’s all so crazy. Just a few years ago, Michael and I attended the party Kathy and Carl threw for Miranda’s high-school graduation. Our top car salesman keels over from a heart attack and Michael, being a caring friend and business-owner, helps the grieving widow with the funeral arrangements and the insurance paperwork. Even crazier is the fact that I actually suggested it.

My one concern at the time was that Michael might be getting too close to the widow. Only it wasn’t Kathy keeping my husband entertained all those nights. It was her twenty-year-old daughter. I don’t think Kathy or I will ever get over the shock of it.

Michael still doesn’t fully appreciate the consequences of what he’s done. He sincerely believed that once we were divorced, everything would return to normal between him and his sons. Mick set him straight on that score. Alex, too. I know Michael hasn’t stopped trying, but the boys won’t be so easily won over. I’ve done my best to stay out of it. Nothing will ever change the fact that he’s their father; how they choose to deal with him is up to them. I refuse to encourage either boy to forgive and forget, but I won’t hold them back from a relationship with Michael, either. The choice is theirs.

Twenty-three years of marriage and I never looked at another man. Damn it all, I was a faithful, loving wife. I could have tolerated an affair if he’d given it up and returned to our marriage. But, no, he—

Okay, enough. I don’t need to keep repeating the same gory details. As I said, this is a fresh start, the first day of a new year. I’m giving myself permission to move on, as my psychobabbling counselor used to put it.

Part of moving on is belonging to the breakfast group—and continuing to write in my journal. Liz suggested we each pick a word for the year. A word. I haven’t quite figured out why, let alone which word would best suit me. We’re all supposed to have our words chosen before we meet next Thursday morning at Mocha Moments.

I’ve toyed with the idea of beginnings, as in new beginnings, but I don’t want to carry that theme around with me for the next twelve months. At some point, beginnings have to become middles and potential has to be realized. I guess I’m afraid I won’t be as successful as I want to be.

What I really need to do is discover who I am, now that I’m single again. For twenty-three years my identity was linked to Michael. We were a team, complementing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. I was always better with finances and Michael was the people person. He took a part-time job selling cars the first year we were married in order to supplement our budget, and quickly became the top salesman. His degree was in ecology and he had a day job at the town planning office but made three times the money selling cars. Soon he was working full-time at the dealership and I was stretching every dollar he made, creating a small nest-egg.

Then we had the chance to buy the Chevrolet dealership—the opportunity of a lifetime. We scraped together every penny we could. By the time the paperwork was finished, we didn’t have a cent between us, but we were happy. That was when we—

I can’t write about that, don’t want to dwell on how happy we were in those early years. Whenever I think about it, I feel overwhelmed by the pain of loss and regret. So much regret…

Word. I need a word. Not memories. I can’t tie my new identity to the past and to who I was; I’ve got to look toward the future. So I need a word that fits who I am today, the woman I’m becoming. The woman I want to be.

Just a minute here. Just a damn minute! Who I was, who I want to be. Why do I have to change? There’s nothing wrong with me! I wasn’t the one who ripped the heart out of this family. I was a good wife, a good mother. I was faithful…

FAITHFUL.

That’s it. My word. Not beginnings, not discovery, but faithful. From the moment I spoke my vows I was faithful to my husband, my marriage, my family. All these years I’ve been faithful to myself; I’ve never acted dishonestly and I’ve always put my family responsibilities above my own desires. I don’t need to find myself. I found out who I am a long time ago and frankly I happen to like that person. I wasn’t the one who changed; Michael did.

This feels good. The burden isn’t on my shoulders to prove one damn thing. I’ll remain faithful to me.

Happy New Year, Clare Craig. You’re going to have a wonderful year. No financial worries, thanks to Lillian Case and a judge who’s seen far too many men mess up their family’s lives. Michael will be spending twenty very long years paying off my share of the dealership. Plus interest. I have the house, a new car every year, health insurance, the boys’ college expenses and enough money to live comfortably.

I don’t have anything to worry about. I can do whatever I want. I certainly don’t have to work if I don’t feel like it.

Hey! Maybe getting a job wouldn’t be a bad idea. Maybe I should put my two decades of experience back into play. Didn’t I recently hear that Murphy Motors was advertising for a general manager? With my experience, I could work any hours I chose. News of my taking that job would really get Michael. It’s what he deserves. Turnabout is fair play (another of those handy sayings). Oh, God, it’s awful of me, but I love it.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. It’s taken a long time to feel anything but horrendous, crushing pain. I’m smiling now, just thinking about the look on Michael’s face when he learns I’ve been hired by his largest competitor.

Marilyn Cody was wrong, but then so was I. Living well isn’t going to teach Michael a thing, is it? Knowing that he’s lying awake at night, worrying about me sharing all his insider secrets with the Ford dealership—now, that will go a long way toward helping me find some satisfaction. And once I’m satisfied, I’ll start to concentrate on living well.

“Mom, can we talk?”

Clare Craig glanced up from her desk to find her seventeen-year-old son standing in the doorway of the family room. They’d spent the morning taking down the Christmas decorations, as they always did on January sixth—Epiphany, Twelfth Night—and getting Mick ready to return to college. How like Michael he looked, she thought with a twinge of sorrow. Michael twenty-five years ago, athletic, handsome, fit. Her heart cramped at the memory.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Alex stepped inside, dressed in his soccer uniform. The holiday break was already over; school had begun earlier in the week. Mick had left that morning for college in San Francisco.

Clare capped the end of her fountain pen and set aside the checkbook and bills in order to give her younger son her full attention. “What can I do for you?”

Alex avoided her gaze. “We haven’t been talking as much as we used to,” he mumbled, walking slowly toward her desk.

“I’ve been busy.” The Christmas tree had only come down that morning, but she realized he wasn’t referring to the last few days; he meant over the past year.

“I know,” he said with a shrug, his eyes darting around the room. “It’s just that…”

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

He raised his head and their eyes briefly met. Reading her younger son had never been a problem for Clare.

“How about if we talk in the kitchen?” she suggested. “You thirsty?”

The hopeful look on his face convinced her to abandon paying the bills. She’d get back to all that later.

“Sure.” He led the way through the large family room and into the kitchen.

Clare loved her expansive kitchen with its double ovens and large butcher-block island. Shining copper pots and kettles dangled from the rack above, the California sunlight reflected in their gleam. Clare had designed the kitchen herself and spent countless hours reviewing every detail, every drawer placement, every cupboard. She’d taken pride in her home, in her skill as a cook and homemaker.

These days it was unusual for her to prepare a meal. Alex had a part-time job at a computer store, and if he wasn’t at school or work, he was with his friends or on the soccer field. Cooking for one person hardly seemed worth the effort, and more and more often she ordered out. Or didn’t bother at all.

“I’ll get us a Coke,” Alex said, already reaching for the refrigerator handle. Clare automatically took two glasses from the cupboard.

Alex placed the cans on the round oak table. Many a night, unable to sleep, the two of them had sat here while Clare sobbed in pain and frustration. Alex had wept, too. It hadn’t been easy for a teenage boy to expose his emotions like that. If Clare didn’t already hate Michael for what he’d done to her self-esteem, then she’d hate him for the pain he’d brought into their children’s lives.

“Mick and I had a long talk last night.”

Clare had surmised as much. She’d heard them in Alex’s bedroom sometime after midnight, deep in conversation. Their raised voices were followed by heated whispers. Whatever they were discussing was between them and she was determined to keep out of it. They needed to settle their own differences.

“He’s upset with me.”

“Mick is? What for?”

Alex shrugged. He seemed to do that a lot these days.

“Brother stuff?” It was what he generally said when he didn’t want to give her a full explanation.

“Something like that.” He waited a moment before pulling back the tab on his soda can and taking a long swallow, ignoring the glass she’d set in front of him.

“Does this have to do with Kellie?” Alex and the girl across the street had been dating for a couple of months. Mick had dated her last summer and Clare wondered if the neighbor girl was causing a problem between her sons.

“Ah, Mom, we’re just friends.”

“If you and your brother had a falling-out, why don’t you just tell me instead of expecting me to guess?”

He lowered his eyes. “Because I’m afraid you’re going to react the same way Mick did.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

Alex took another drink of his Coke. Clare recognized a delaying tactic when she saw one. “Alex?”

“All right,” he said brusquely and sat up, his shoulders squared. “I’ve been talking to Dad.”

Clare swallowed hard, but a small shocked sound still managed to escape. She felt as though she’d taken a punch to the solar plexus.

“Are you mad?” Alex asked, watching her anxiously.

“It shouldn’t matter what I think.”

“But it does! I don’t want you to feel like I’ve betrayed you, too.”

“I…”

“That’s what Mick said I was doing. First Dad and now me. Mom, I swear to you, it isn’t like that.”

“Michael is your father,” she said, her mind whirling as she struggled with her conflicting emotions. Alex would never intentionally do anything to hurt her. As much as possible, Clare had tried not to entangle her sons in this divorce. When Michael moved out of the family home and in with his underage sweetheart, the two boys had rallied around her as if they could protect her from further pain. It didn’t work, but she’d cherished them for their show of sympathy and support.

“He called…Dad did.”

“When?” Now she was the one avoiding eye contact. She distracted herself by opening the can of Coke and pouring it carefully into her glass.

“Last week at Softline.”

“He phoned you at work?” She shouldn’t have been surprised; Michael was too much of a coward to risk having her answer the phone here at the house. Naturally he’d taken the low road.

“He invited me to dinner.”

“And you’re going?”

Clare felt her son’s scrutiny. “I don’t know yet. Mick doesn’t think I should.”

“But you want to, right?”

Alex stood and paced the area in front of the table. “That’s the crazy part, Mom. I do and I don’t. I haven’t talked to Dad in over a year—well, other than to say I wasn’t going to talk to him.”

“He is your father,” Clare said, to remind herself as much as her son.

“That’s what Kellie said.”

Sure Kellie said that, Clare mused darkly. She hadn’t seen her mother betrayed and then dumped like last week’s garbage. Kellie had two loving parents. She couldn’t even imagine what divorce did to a person’s soul or how it tore a family apart.

“I told Mick and I’m telling you. If my seeing Dad hurts you, then I won’t do it.”

Clare forced a smile but wasn’t sure what to say.

“Kellie thinks I should be talking to Dad,” he said, studying her closely, as though the neighbor girl’s opinion would influence her. Clare wasn’t particularly interested in what Kellie thought, but she knew how difficult the last two years had been for Alex, knew how badly he missed Michael.

“Kellie’s right,” she said briskly. “You and your father should be communicating.”

“You don’t mind?”

His obvious relief was painful to hear. She swallowed and said, “Alex, you’re my son, but you’re also your father’s.”

“I can’t forgive him for what he did.”

“I know,” Clare whispered. She sipped her Coke in order to hide the trembling in her voice, although she was fairly certain Alex had noticed.

Her son glanced at his watch, did a startled double-take and bolted out of the chair. “I’m late for soccer practice.”

“Go on,” she said, waving toward the door.

“Dad said he might start coming to my games,” Alex said, the words rushed as he hurried to the back door.

“Alex—”

“Sorry, Mom, gotta go.”

Oh, great! Now she had to worry about running into her ex at their son’s soccer games. And what about his girlfriend—was she going, too? If Alex chose to have a relationship with his father, that was one thing, but Clare couldn’t, wouldn’t, be anywhere in Michael’s vicinity when he was with Miranda.

The anger inside her remained deep and real, and Clare didn’t trust herself to control it. But under no circumstances would she embarrass her teenage son, and if that meant not attending the games, then so be it. Almost immediately, the resentment sprang up, as strong as the day Michael had left her. He’d already taken so much! How dared he steal the pleasure she derived from watching Alex play soccer? How dared he!

For a long time she sat mulling over her conversation with Alex. She knew how relieved he was to have this out in the open. Alex had been on edge for a while now, and she’d attributed his tension to the upcoming SATs. But it wasn’t the tests that were bothering him, or his relationship with his girlfriend or even his part-time job. It was Michael. Clare was positive of that.

Once again her ex-husband had gone behind her back.



January 15th

I got the job! There was never any doubt I’d be hired. Dan Murphy nearly leaped across the desk when he realized what he had. He gave me everything I wanted, including the part-time hours I requested. He’ll go ahead and hire a full-time manager and I’ll be more of a consultant.

Damn, it feels good. I’ve never experienced this kind of spiteful satisfaction before—and I do recognize it for what it is. Until these last two years, I had no idea I could be so vindictive. I don’t like this part of me, but I can’t seem to help myself.




Chapter Two


LIZ KENYON

“The teeth are smiling, but is the heart?”

—Congolese proverb



January 1st

For the first time in my fifty-seven years I spent New Year’s Eve alone. I ordered in Chinese, ate my chicken hot-sauce noodles in front of the television and watched a 1940s movie starring Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. They sure don’t make films like that anymore. Then at midnight, I brought in the New Year sipping champagne all by myself. I was in bed a few minutes after twelve, my thoughts full of Steve.

After six years the memories aren’t as painful as they were in the beginning. What continues to haunt me are the last minutes of my husband’s life. I wonder what went through his mind when he realized the huge semi had crossed the yellow line and was headed straight toward him. I wonder obsessively if his last thoughts were of the children or me, or if in those split seconds there’d been time to feel anything but panic and fear. I keep imagining his absolute terror when he knew he was about to be hit. Witnesses said he’d done everything possible to avoid the collision. At the last second, he must have faced the gut-wrenching horror of knowing there was nothing he could do. I’ve lived through my husband’s final minutes a thousand times. The sound of the impact—crunching metal and shattering glass—the screeching tires, his scream.

I thank God he died instantly.

As I lay in bed, I remembered our last morning together, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday instead of six years ago. April twentieth was an ordinary day, like so many others. We both got up and dressed for work. He helped me fasten my necklace and took the opportunity to slip his hand beneath my sweater. While I made breakfast, Steve shaved. We sat across from one another and chatted about the morning news, then he kissed me goodbye as I left for the hospital. I remember he said he had a staff meeting that afternoon and might be late for dinner.

An hour later my high-school sweetheart and husband of thirty-one years was dead. My life hasn’t been the same since; it’ll never be the same again. I’m still trying to accept the fact that Steve won’t come bursting through the front door wearing his sexy grin. Even now, I sleep on the far right side of the bed. Steve’s half remains undisturbed.

The last three months have been hard. I knew when Amy phoned to tell me Jack had been transferred to Tulsa that being separated from my daughter and grandchildren was going to be difficult. What I didn’t realize was how difficult. Spending time with Andrew and Annie was what kept me sane after losing Steve. I miss them so much! And then, as if my daughter and her family moving to another state wasn’t bad enough, Brian had to go and move out on his own. My son always did display impeccable timing.

He got a great job offer and I don’t begrudge his taking it for a minute. And yet I have to admit I wish it hadn’t happened quite so soon. It was hard to let him go and keep a smile on my face. I’m glad he’s happy, though, and adjusting to life in Orange County. At the same time, I’m sorry he’s living so far from Willow Grove. A couple of hours doesn’t sound like much, but I know my son and he’s far more interested in his social life than in visiting his widowed mother. That’s the way it should be, I suppose, only I can’t help feeling abandoned. First Amy, Jack and the grandkids, then Brian—and all at once I’m alone. Really alone.

I understand why I went to bed with thoughts of Steve. All my distractions have moved away. Even with the champagne, I couldn’t sleep. After an hour I gave up trying. I sat in the dark with an afghan wrapped around my legs and contemplated my future. During the holidays I put on a brave front, acting as though I’m okay about being alone. I didn’t want the kids to know how wretched I was feeling. Brian was here for Christmas, but he has friends he wanted to see and there’s a new girl in his life. I wonder if that son of mine is ever going to settle down. I guess he’s one step closer now, living on his own; at least that’s what I tell myself. Amy and I talked, but she phoned me and I know that with a single income and a large mortgage, they’re on a tight budget, so the conversation was short. Normally I would’ve called back but it sounded so hectic there with the kids opening their gifts and all the craziness of Christmas morning. I put phoning off until later and then just didn’t.

As for New Year’s Eve, spending it alone was my choice. Sean Jamison casually suggested we get together for dinner. The problem with this doctor is that outside of his work, everything’s casual with him. I’m not going to make the mistake of getting involved with a man who has a reputation as a womanizer (although I readily admit his interest flatters my ego). Besides, I’m older than he is. Not by much, six years, maybe seven, just enough to make me a little uncomfortable…not that I’d seriously consider dating him, anyway. My major complaint, in addition to the age difference, is that he’s the exact opposite of Steve, who was genuine and unassuming. The good doctor is stuck on himself.

Still, he’s obviously an interesting man. I wouldn’t mind talking to him on a strictly-friends basis. Nothing romantic or sexual. Just conversation, maybe over coffee or a drink. After all, everyone can use another friend.

Speaking of friends, when Clare, Julia, Karen and I met after our last journal-writing class, we decided to continue the friendship by meeting for breakfast every Thursday. I came up with the suggestion that we should each take a word for the year. A word to live by, to help us focus our thoughts. A word to reflect what’s happening in our lives and what we want to do and be. I’m not sure where that idea came from, probably some article I read, but it struck a chord with me.

Karen loved the idea, but then Karen’s young and enthusiastic about everything. That’s what makes her so much fun and why she fits in so nicely with the rest of us. We each bring something individual to the group, and yet we connect…

Last night, I started thinking about my word, considering various possibilities. I still hadn’t found the right word. It’s like trying on dresses at Nordstrom’s for a special occasion. I only need one and I want it to be perfect. It has to fit properly, look wonderful and feel great. My thoughts went around and around—Steve, my job, Amy and Brian. My word for the year—love? Change? Something else? Strangely, unexpectedly, I found myself remembering Lauren. Lauren. My baby daughter, whom I never had a chance to know. The baby I held in my arms so briefly. Born too soon, she died during the first week of her life, nearly thirty-six years ago. Every year on the date of her birth, Steve would bring me a bouquet of daisies, to let me know he hadn’t forgotten her or the pain we endured as young parents, losing our first child. I’m really not sure why I started thinking about Lauren just then.

Determined to dwell on the present and not the past, I turned my attention to searching out a suitable word for the year. It took a while but I found one that feels right for me. As I sat in the shadows, unable to sleep, listening to the grandfather clock tick away the minutes, my word came to me.

TIME.

I’m fifty-seven. In three years I’ll be sixty. Sixty. I don’t feel close to sixty and I don’t think I act it. Still, it’s the truth, whether I choose to face it or not. There always seemed to be so much time to do all the things I’d planned. For instance, I always thought that someday I’d climb a mountain. I don’t know exactly why, just because it sounded like such a huge accomplishment, I guess. Now I know I won’t be doing any mountain-climbing, especially at this stage of my life. It all comes down to choices, I guess. Besides, I’ve got other mountains to climb these days.

At one point, when we were in our twenties, Steve and I wrote a list of all the exciting things we were going to do and the exotic vacations we planned to take. The years slipped away and we were caught up with raising our family and living our lives. Those dreams and plans got pushed into an indefinite future. We assumed there’d always be time. Someday or next year, or the year after that. This is a mistake I don’t intend to repeat and why the word time is appropriate for me. I want to be aware of every moment of my life. And I want to choose the right plans and dreams to fulfill in the years that are left to me. As soon as I settled on my word, I was instantly tired and fell promptly asleep.

Because I didn’t go to sleep until after two, I slept late. I didn’t make breakfast until past noon. I had the television on for company, but football’s never interested me. That was Steve’s game, though, and I found it oddly comforting to keep the channel on the Rose Bowl. For a few hours I could pretend that my husband was with me. The house didn’t feel quite as big or as empty.

The house…that’s something else I have to consider. I should make a decision about continuing to live here. I don’t need three thousand square feet, but this was the home Steve and I bought together, where we raised our family. With the way real-estate prices have escalated, I’m sitting on a lot of money that could well be invested elsewhere.

It’s silly to hold on to this place. The house was perfect when Andrew and Annie came to spend the weekend. Two rambunctious grandchildren need all the space they can get. It didn’t bother me then or when Brian lived at home. We needed a big house in order to stay out of each other’s hair, but for just me…Actually it’s the thought of getting it ready to sell—sorting through all the stuff that’s tucked in every nook and cranny, then packing up fifty-seven years of accumulated junk—that’s giving me pause.

After Steve died, my friends advised me to delay any major decisions for twelve months. That’s good advice to remember now. What I’m experiencing is a second loss. The loss of my children. I’m the only Kenyon left in Willow Grove.

I’m not entirely alone, however. My friends are here—those I’ve known all my married life, although it seems we’ve drifted apart since Steve died. My new friends live here, too—the women I met in the journal-writing class. I’m grateful to Sandy O’Dell for recommending I enroll. It was exactly what I needed, and I’ve learned a lot about myself through the process of writing down my thoughts every day. I wish now that I’d kept a diary when I was younger. Perhaps then I’d have found it easier to understand and express my own feelings.

Our teacher, Suzanne Morrissey, was an English professor assigned to the class at the last minute. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any idea where to start, although she gave it a good try. Mostly, she had us read and critique literary journals, which was interesting but not all that useful. Still, I suppose keeping a journal isn’t really something that can be taught. It’s something you do.

What came out as I wrote in my journal was this deep sense of loss and abandonment I’ve felt since Steve’s death. I’d assumed that after six years I’d dealt with all that, but coupled with Amy and Jack’s move to the mid-West, followed by Brian’s moving out…well, it’s too much.

Amazing, isn’t it, that I can cope with one crisis after another in my job at the hospital yet feel so defeated by the events in my own life?

Clare and I have been spending quite a bit of time together. That’s probably natural, her being recently divorced and me a widow. Clare’s situation is similar to mine a few years back when I realized, to my dismay, that my friends came in couples. Most of them are matched sets. Like me, Clare has come to recognize that she lost not only her husband but the framework of her social world, which crumbled right along with the marriage. Although her circumstances are different from mine, the outcome has been the same. The dinners, card-playing, even something as uncomplicated as a night at the movies—it all seems to be done in pairs.

Within a few months of Steve’s death, I found myself drifting away from the very people I’d once considered our dearest friends. We have so little in common anymore that I couldn’t see the point.

It was awkward, too. People didn’t know what to say after the accident. In fact, I didn’t want anyone to say anything. What I needed was someone to listen. Few of my friends understood that.

Clare’s had a hard time adjusting to the divorce. Losing the people she once considered her friends is a bitter pill after everything she’s been through with Michael. Maybe she should have taken it up with the attorney: custody of the friends. Who gets to stay friends with whom?

Really, it’s odd that Clare and I should have bonded at all. We’re very different kinds of people; in our previous lives, we probably wouldn’t have felt the slightest interest in knowing each other. Right now, Clare’s angry and bitter and struggling not to be. I still have my share of anger, too, yet I’m more accepting of the events that led me to this point (but then, my husband didn’t leave me for another woman). I enjoy Julia and Karen, too, but it’s Clare I identify with most. Perhaps it’s the loneliness. That’s something we both understand. Something people can’t truly appreciate until they’ve experienced it themselves.

Time. This should be the best time of my life. I have a fabulous career. When I started out at Willow Grove Memorial, I never dreamed that one day I’d end up as the hospital administrator. My children have grown into responsible adults. I had a wonderful marriage and I’ve got lots of memories to sustain me. Yes, this should be a good time, and it will be—once I learn how to live contentedly by myself.

Liz stared at the phone on her desk, dreading its ring. Her Monday had begun badly, and already she could see that this first week of the new year was going to be a repeat of December, with many of the same problems she’d faced then. The hospital was no closer to a new contract with the nurses’ union, and the state health inspectors were scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. In addition, she’d had several hot flashes and been downing Chai tea with soy milk all morning. This was not a good start to the year, she thought gloomily.

She got up and removed her jacket, placing it on a hanger. Then she unfastened the top button of her white silk blouse and rolled the long sleeves past her elbows. Picking up a piece of paper from the desk, she fanned her flushed face and paused to look out the sixth-floor window to the parking lot below.

“I can see I’ve cornered you at a good moment.” It was a deep male voice, one Liz immediately identified.

“Dr. Jamison,” she said in a crisp, professional tone. He was rarely at Willow Grove Memorial. Most of his patients were admitted to Laurelhurst Children’s Hospital, where he worked primarily with premature infants. Sean Jamison was an excellent pediatrician but he had a well-deserved reputation for being demanding, impatient and arrogant—an arrogance that found expression in his womanizing behaviour. Liz couldn’t fault his medical skills, but when it came to dealing with staff, he could use a few lessons in emotional maturity.

“Come now,” he said, his voice seductive, “we know each other well enough for you to call me Sean.”

Liz stepped behind her desk and resumed her seat, motioning for him to sit down, too. “How can I help you?”

“This is more of a social visit.” He claimed the closest chair and struck a casual pose, crossing his legs and balancing one ankle on the opposite knee. He relaxed, leaning back as if he was settling in for a long visit. “I stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m busy,” she said quickly, thinking he might have time for chitchat but she didn’t.

He ignored her lack of welcome. “How was your New Year’s Eve?”

So that was it. He’d asked her out—well, sort of. What he’d done was propose that they get together, the invitation flavored with sexual innuendo, and she’d promptly refused. Although she’d been a widow for six years, Liz rarely dated. Opportunities were available, had she been interested. For the most part, she wasn’t.

“I had a lovely night. What about you?” From Sean’s reaction she’d realized it wasn’t often a woman turned him down. Liz had certainly heard all the rumors about Dr. Jamison. He was tall, sandy-haired and craggy-faced, with an undeniable presence; comparisons to Harrison Ford were regularly made—by women from twenty to sixty. Sean possessed the ageless appeal of a man who was smart, handsome, wealthy and single. The hospital was full of gossip about him, and more than one of the female nurses had fallen under his spell. Divorced for ten years, Sean Jamison seemed to consider himself a prize to be caught. He never dated anyone for long and Liz disliked his arrogant approach in romance as much as she deplored his indifference to staff relations.

Liz and Steve had met in high school, and other than the normal ups and downs that were part of any longstanding relationship, they’d had a good, solid marriage. She wasn’t interested in a fling, no matter how handsome or wealthy the man.

Sean’s attention confused her, although she’d never allow him to see that. From what she understood, he generally went out with women several years younger than he was. While Liz kept fit and watched her diet, she wasn’t a trim thirty-year-old. With loving humor, Steve had suggested that her hourglass figure had begun to show an hour and ten minutes. She still smiled whenever she thought of that.

“Stayed home New Year’s, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, and crossed her arms, letting him know she wasn’t open to a discussion involving her private life, “but as I said, I had a perfectly lovely evening.”

“All alone?”

“I happen to enjoy my own company.” Standing, she braced both hands on the edge of her cherrywood desk. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“I’m willing to give you another chance to go out with me.”

“No, thanks.”

He grinned, dismissing her rejection as though it was her loss, not his. Then he stood and turned away, ambling toward the door.

“Sean,” she said, shocking herself just a little.

His smile firmly in place, he raised his eyebrows. “Change your mind?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” she said, knowing that for some reason she didn’t want this conversation to end the same way the others had.

“No?” He arched his eyebrows again, affecting a look of mild surprise.

“This is the second time you’ve stopped by my office to ask me out.”

He didn’t comment.

“I’ve turned you down both times,” she reminded him. “And I’m wondering if you’ve asked yourself why.”

“It’s self-explanatory,” he murmured. “You’re afraid.”

“It’s more than that.”

He shrugged carelessly, and she could practically read his response. No big deal. Plenty of women willing to take him up on his offer.

“It’s your attitude.”

For the first time in their lengthy association, Sean appeared to be at a loss for words.

“I’m not some bimbo you can schmooze into bed. This might come as news to you, but there’s more to a relationship than what happens between a man and a woman in the bedroom.”

He stared at her, as if daring her to continue. “I happen to think you’re one of the finest pediatricians in this state,” she went on. “I respect your diagnostic and medical skills, and I’ve seen the way you are with the children. My regard for your professional abilities is immense. But your manner with most people in this hospital leaves a lot to be desired, and frankly I’m not impressed.”

“Is this the long version of why you’re not interested in dating me?” he asked with barely disguised disdain.

“Actually…I’d like to get to know you.”

His look implied that he wasn’t sure he should believe her. “You have an odd way of saying so.”

Despite his apparent indifference, she knew this couldn’t be easy on his ego. “I suspect there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“Great. Your place or mine?”

Liz wanted to groan out loud. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said! “Neither.” She held the door for him and added soberly, “When you’re ready to see me as an intelligent, mature woman whose professional interests are compatible with yours, let me know.” She leaned against the open door. “Otherwise you’re wasting your time.”

“I doubt that,” he said as he stepped past and paused to touch his lips to her cheek. “Give me a call when you’re ready for some excitement in your life.”

Liz rolled her eyes. Forget it, Doctor. I have enough excitement just dealing with all the staff complaints against you.

Some people never learned.




Chapter Three


KAREN CURTIS



“The thing that makes you exceptional, if you are at all, is inevitably that which must also make you lonely”

—Lorraine Hansberry



January 1st

I woke at noon, nursed a tall, half-caff/decaf, double-sweet mocha latte for breakfast. Nichole phoned and wanted to hang out at the mall so we did. I ran into Jeff, who’s working at Body and Spirit Gym, and we talked for a while. He’s wasting his life teaching Tae-Bo classes to a bunch of overweight business executives who don’t care about anything beyond their corporate image. I found it really hard to hold my tongue. Jeff is letting his talent go down the drain and it upsets me.

Jeff and I made a vow to one another in high-school drama class that we wouldn’t give up the dream. It was all I could do not to grab him by the shoulders and remind him. It’s too soon to throw away the future, I wanted to tell him. Although I kept my mouth shut, I could see that Jeff was eager to make his escape. Hanging with me made him uncomfortable; it forced him to face what he’s doing.

What bothers me most is knowing Jeff isn’t the only one who’s given up; Angie and Burt did, too. Last I heard, Sydney and Leslee had regular nine-to-five jobs. So did Brad. Out of the seven of us who made up the acting ensemble, there’s only me left. I refuse to surrender to the mundane. I refuse to take second-best. I am an actor. Currently a starving one, but that’s beside the point.

All right, I’ll step down from my soapbox. God forbid, my biggest fear is about to become a reality. I’m beginning to sound like my mother, the Woman Who Always Knows Best. Now there’s a thought to send me screaming into the night.

She and Dad insisted I get a college education. I disagreed, stood my ground, fought the good fight, but then—during a period of below-poverty-level existence—I caved. Hey! They might’ve won the battle, but the war’s all mine. Since the day I was born, my domineering mother has attempted to run my life. From the moment I enrolled in college, she’s demanded I be a teacher. A lifelong occupation, she said. A good job for a woman. Give me a break!

Well, I have that precious degree, but it’s in history with a minor in education. I have no intention of using it, except where it’ll aid my acting career. Fortunately I’ve found a way in which to do that. Oddly enough, it also means my mother’s kind of getting what she wants. But that’s just a by-product. The important thing is I’m getting what I want.

You see, I’m a substitute teacher. Temporary and part-time. Due to the severe teacher shortage currently happening in southern California, anyone with a college degree—and it doesn’t matter in what—can be hired as a substitute teacher. Isn’t that incredible? I can have a degree in basket-weaving and qualify as a teacher for a whopping two-hundred-and-fifty bucks a day. Now, I don’t mind telling you that’s good money for part-time work. What’s so fantastic is this: I can pick and choose the days I want to teach.

If I can fit subbing into my schedule, I spend two or three days a week in a classroom. Three at the most. That way, I still make enough money to support myself. On the days I don’t work, I can audition for whatever’s available.

Before the holiday break, my agent sent me out to audition for a TV commercial for a new kind of toilet brush. The district called first thing that morning and without fear of losing my job and without so much as a twinge of guilt, I said I had other plans. No problem; they simply went to the next name on the list. I headed out the door, knowing there’ll be a job for me another day, if I want it. Sadly, I didn’t get the commercial, but rejection’s the name of the acting game.

As soon as school starts up after the holidays, I’ll be ready to go back to substitute teaching. With so many days off, I have to admit I’m experiencing a bit of a cash-flow problem. Christmas didn’t help, and neither did the cost of the one-day acting workshop last week. In fact, Jeff bought my latte for me today. But never mind, I’ll survive. I always do, despite my mother’s dire predictions.

I know I’m an embarrassment to her. She can’t brag about me to all her society friends the way she does Victoria. My sister had the good judgment to marry an up-and-coming attorney who raised our family’s social standing an entire notch. As far as I’m concerned, Roger is a twit, but no one’s asking for my opinion. Good thing, too, because I’m not afraid to give it.

One positive aspect of Victoria’s brilliant marriage is that Mom and Dad’s attention is now focused on my sister and her first child instead of on me (although I do have to admit my nephew’s a real cutie!). Basically Mom’s been leaving me alone. Thank God.

I once heard a psychology professor say that the females in his class should take a good look at their mothers because in all likelihood we’ll be just like them as we mature. Heaven help me—say it ain’t so!

Mother means well. I can’t fault her there. It’s just that I’m such a bitter disappointment to her. Mom’s so…so sterile. So predictable. There’s no passion in her soul. I’m nothing like her, so I don’t know how Professor Gordon could categorically state that in a few years I’ll resemble her.

If anyone’s like Mom, it’s Victoria. To her, what people think and say is of ultimate importance. Social standing. Appearances. Money. None of that interests me. Well, maybe the money part, but only enough to get by. Unless I earn it doing what I love, and that’s acting. I guess I’m a woman who needs an audience. As a kid, my first word wasn’t Mom or Dad but look.

When Mom heard I’d tried out for a role in a toilet-brush commercial, she freaked. The very thought of her daughter appearing on national television and admitting she cleaned toilets would have mortified her. However, I was thrilled with the part and devastated when I learned it’d gone to someone else. But that’s all part of the business…And as Dad keeps saying, I’ve got a university degree to “fall back on.”

Liz, Clare and Julia are three surprises that came out of me finishing my credits to get my degree. I love these guys and I’m thrilled we’ve decided to keep meeting, just the four of us. Me and three smart, professional women. I don’t know what exactly I offer the group. My guess is comic relief.

The only reason I took that journal-writing class was because I needed an easy credit, and from the course description this was a simple way to raise my GPA. From the time I was a kid, I’ve kept a journal. There must be twenty spiral-bound notebooks tucked away in my bedroom closet, and they document my entire life. I signed up for the class, convinced I’d be bored out of my mind, and became friends with three of the most fascinating women I’ve ever met.

The English professor who taught the class was a real ditz. I knew more about keeping a journal than she did. But I didn’t miss a single session, and that’s only because of Liz and the others. They’ve kind of adopted me and I’m grateful. What I like is the perspective they give me, being older and all. Liz is the sort of person I wish my mother could be. Hey, if my mother wants to change me, then I should be granted the same privilege. If I’m a disappointment to her as a daughter, then she should know she’s not my picture of the ideal parent, either.

Unlike Mom, Liz has been nothing but encouraging about my acting career. I know what the chances are of actually making it, but I can’t allow unfavorable odds to dissuade me from trying. This is my dream. My life’s ambition. If I don’t go after it now, I never will. I honestly don’t understand why my mother can’t support my choices.

Enough already. This entire journal is turning out to be about my mother instead of me. I’d prefer not to deal with her today, or any day. Besides, Liz gave us an assignment.

I need a word before we meet next Thursday. We’re all selecting a personal word. It’s supposed to have special significance in our lives. Maybe I should use this as an acting exercise, do some free association.

Actually, I rather like that idea. Let’s see. Acting. Goal. Audition. Wouldn’t it be great to audition for a TV show like Friends? Friends. New friends. Liz, Clare and Julia. What I love about them is that they’re so accepting of me. I love that they laugh at my jokes and make me feel a real part of the group. If only my mother were half as accepting…

That’s it. I’ve got it! Acceptance. I want my parents to accept me for the person I am. I might not have turned out the way they envisioned, but I’m a good, decent, honest person. That should count for something. If my parents can welcome a twit like Roger into the family, they should be able to cope with a daughter who wants to act. And no, Mother, I don’t think performing in a toilet-brush commercial is beneath me. I was emotionally wiped out for a week when someone else got the role.

ACCEPTANCE. I’ve got to be me. Ol’ Blue Eyes really knew what he was talking about. Acceptance. I like it. My hope is that one day my mother will accept me for who I am and be just as proud of me as she is of Victoria.

Fresh from her first audition of the year, Karen excitedly wrote in her journal, sitting at her usual window table at Mocha Moments. The upscale coffee shop was bustling as customers moved in and out. She’d been the one to recommend the place to the breakfast group and felt good about the way they’d applauded her suggestion. Two summers ago she’d stood behind that counter, concocting lattes and serving up fiber-filled bran muffins. Despite being fired for repeated absences, she maintained a friendly relationship with the manager and often stopped by. She did almost all her journal-writing at this very table.

She was about to leave when Jeff slid into the chair across from her. “Whatssup?” he asked.

“Hey, Jeff.” It was great to see him. One advantage of teaching those fitness classes was that he looked positively buff. His shoulders were muscular and his chest had filled out. He wore a winter tan so rich, it must have come out of a booth.

“Thought I’d find you in here,” he said, flashing a smile. Oh, yeah, he was the California poster boy, all right, with his gorgeous white teeth, whiter than ever against the tan, and his sun-streaked blond hair.

“You were looking for me?” Her ego wasn’t immune to having this hunk seek her out, especially here, where everyone knew her. They’d been together some in high school, but nothing serious. Her mother’s generation called it dating, but all Karen and Jeff had really done was hang out together. They were part of the acting ensemble, and their commitment had been to that, which left little time for anything social.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Jeff leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m impressed with your determination. You believe in yourself.”

“Jeff, you’ve got as much talent as I do. You can make it, I know you can.”

“Yeah, I know, but it takes more than talent.”

Talent was cheap, Karen knew that; she ran into it everywhere. And as Jeff said, it wasn’t enough. What made the difference was drive, determination and plain old-fashioned stubbornness.

A slim strawberry blonde with her hair tied back in a ponytail came into the coffee shop and walked up to the counter, where she placed her order. Jeff’s attention drifted from Karen to the blonde. She wore navy-blue spandex and a matching sports bra, her face glistening with sweat. It was obvious that she’d recently been at the gym.

“You know her?” Karen asked.

“She’s in one of my classes, along with her sugar daddy.”

Karen stared. It couldn’t be, could it? She’d once been at the mall with Clare, meeting for lunch, when a pert blond woman, younger than Karen, had emerged from Victoria’s Secret. Clare had pointed her out. Could this be the woman Clare’s husband had dumped her for? Miranda Something? Nah. The world got smaller all the time, but it wasn’t that small. “What’s the name?” she asked.

“Miranda.”

“No kidding! What about the sugar daddy?”

Jeff frowned as he mulled over the question. “I don’t remember.”

“It isn’t Michael, is it?”

His eyes widened. “I think it might be. Yeah, I think it is. You know him?”

“Of him,” she muttered, checking out the other woman. So this was Miranda. Clare had told her a bit of the story; Liz had told her more, and over the last few months, Karen had picked up a few of the nastier details.

“He dumped his family for her.”

Jeff’s attention went back to Miranda. “She’s not bad-looking,” he said thoughtfully.

“What’s Michael like?”

Jeff frowned again. “You interested in him?”

“No.” She wanted to clobber him for being so stupid. “He was married to a friend of mine. Tell me about him.”

Jeff seemed to be at a loss. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Personality-wise he seems all right, but he’s not much of an athlete. He had trouble keeping up with the class. Must’ve dropped out because I haven’t seen him around lately.”

“But you’ve seen Miranda?”

“Oh yeah, she’s there.”

“Really?” Karen’s gaze narrowed as she studied the other woman more closely. “What do you think she sees in him?” she asked Jeff.

“The sugar daddy?” Jeff said. “What they all see. He’s got money to burn.”

Karen shook her head. “There’s got to be more than that.”

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t. I told you, it’s just that I know his ex-wife and I’m curious.”

Jeff raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Miranda’s okay, I guess. I don’t know why she hooked up with this older guy, but as far as I’m concerned, to each his—or her—own. It’s not exactly unusual, Karen. I see this sort of thing at the gym. The older men come in and hit on the younger women all the time. It’s part of life in the fast lane.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“Me?” Jeff laughed. “Hey, I get more attention than I can handle. I’m happy to share the wealth.”

“I wonder where he is this afternoon.” Karen wondered aloud.

“Michael? Either she completely exhausted him and he’s still too weak to get out of bed, or he’s hard at work, keeping Miranda in the style to which she’s become accustomed.”

Karen doubted that. Clare’s attorneys had taken her ex to the car wash. If Michael Craig was hard at work, the pennies weren’t being spent on Miranda. Looking at the other woman, Karen felt a pang of something approaching pity. There had to be a real lack in this girl’s life, or she wouldn’t have hooked up with a man old enough to be her father.



January 16th

The first few times I filled in as a substitute were fun, but lately it’s gotten to be like real work. Maybe it’s because I’ve been with a group of junior-high kids all week. They wear me out fast. Makes me wonder if I was that energetic at their age.

Today I got smart. Instead of standing at the front of the class all day yelling at kids who have no intention of listening, I brought in a huge bag of mini-chocolate bars. That got their interest. Why did it take me so long to figure out that a little thing like bribery would tame the savage beasts? (Yes, I know I’m misquoting!)

Mom phoned. It’s the first I’ve heard from her since Christmas. She wants to take me to lunch on Saturday. I agreed before I learned that Victoria was coming, too. Mom did that on purpose. She knows how I feel about Victoria. We don’t get along. Why should we, seeing that we don’t have a thing in common? Mom dotes on her precious Victoria. My entire childhood, I was treated like an outcast because I wasn’t like my perfect-in-every-way older sister. Apparently, all that’s changed since I started teaching. Now that I’m respectably employed (even if it’s only part-time) Mom’s free to brag about me to her friends, too.

As soon as I learned Victoria would be at lunch, I should’ve found an excuse to get out of it, especially when Mother told me we’d be going to the Yacht Club. But with my current cash-flow difficulties, I’m not above accepting a free lunch.

Jeff’s been interesting lately. He seems to be fired up about acting again and asked if I’d recommend my agent. I was happy to pass on Gwen’s phone number and apparently they’re talking. I don’t know if she’ll take him on or not; that’s not my decision. Jeff took me to dinner to thank me. There’s a great Mexican place close to the gym. It was good to see him and talk shop, to recharge my own enthusiasm. Focus, that’s what it’s all about. No one else is going to do this for me.

I’m still bummed about not getting the toilet-brush commercial, but Gwen said the feedback from the director was positive. She’s planning to send me for another audition with the same guy, although she warned me this next one involves a dog. She didn’t say what kind, and asked if I liked puppies. Who doesn’t? But let’s not forget what W. C. Fields said about working with kids and dogs…Anyway, the director liked me, but didn’t think I was right for the role of fastidious housewife. I guess he must’ve taken a look at my apartment. Cleanliness and order aren’t exactly my forte. If God had meant women to do housework, He wouldn’t have created men first.




Chapter Four


JULIA MURCHISON

“Parenthood: that state of being better chaperoned than you were before marriage.”

—Madeline Cox

January 1st

This leather-bound journal is a Christmas gift from my husband and I’ve been waiting until today to make my first entry. My hope is that every morning I’ll be filling the crisp, clean pages, writing out my thoughts, my concerns, my doubts, discovering who I am, one day at a time. That’s something I learned in the journal class, along with a whole lot more. Taking that class was one of the best things I’ve done for myself in ages.

It’s funny—here I am waxing poetic about this lovely journal that I’ve been waiting all week to start, and now that I have, I don’t know what to write.

I’ll begin with the kids, I guess. Adam and Zoe are growing up before my very eyes. It seems like only yesterday that they were babies. Now they’re both in their teens, and before Peter and I know it, they’ll be in college. It doesn’t seem possible that Adam will be driving this year! He’s champing at the bit to get behind the wheel. He’s ready, but I’m not sure Peter and I are.

Zoe at thirteen is turning into a real beauty. I look at her, so innocent and lovely, and can hardly believe my baby is already a young woman.

The Wool Station is a year old now. I’ve always loved crafts, and opening my own small knit shop was a risky venture. I thought about it for quite a while before making the commitment. Peter’s encouragement was all I really needed and he gave it to me. The store’s been wonderful for us both, bringing us together. And business has been good. The recent articles about all the celebrities knitting these days certainly didn’t hurt! More and more women are looking for ways to express themselves creatively; as well, knitting can calm and relax you—as effectively as meditation, according to one magazine I read.

Last year my shop brought in thirty-two percent more than my projected gross income. (Peter’s calculations, not mine. I’m hopeless with numbers.) At this point, we’re putting all the profit back into the business, boosting the inventory at every opportunity. I’m not making enough of a profit to draw a salary yet, but it won’t be long. A year, two at the most. I just wish I was feeling better physically. Lately—ever since the flu bug hit me before Thanksgiving—I’ve been under the weather. I didn’t bounce back nearly as fast as I thought I would. Being thrust into the holiday season right afterward wasn’t any help. I barely had a week to regroup when it was time for the big yarn sale. Then the shop was crazy all through December. Added to that were the usual Christmas obligations—buying gifts, wrapping them, sending cards, entertaining, etc. When I think about everything I’ve had to do, it’s no wonder I haven’t been feeling well.

Peter’s mother flew in for Christmas Day. She had a meeting in the area and combined business with pleasure. I’m writing this with my teeth gritted. I don’t enjoy dealing with my mother-in-law, who in my opinion never should have been a mother. She’s cold and self-important and all she seems to care about is her career and her volunteer projects. Naturally, I’m grateful she had Peter, otherwise I wouldn’t have my husband, but I swear the woman doesn’t possess a single maternal instinct. Peter was left with a succession of nannies and baby-sitters most of his childhood while his mother climbed the corporate ladder and sat on one volunteer board after another. I don’t disparage her commitment, just where it’s been directed for the past forty years. It irks me no end that she can fly halfway across the United States for her causes, but practically ignores her only son and her grandchildren. Okay, enough. I’ve already written copious pages about my relationship with my mother-in-law.

Onto a far more pleasant subject, and that’s the Thursday Morning Breakfast Club. We’re each supposed to choose a word for the year. I’ve been giving it some thought, but my mind was made up almost from the minute Liz mentioned the idea. I wanted to wait to be sure this is truly my word. Experience tells me my first instinct is often the best. Still, I’ve taken this week between Christmas and New Years to mull it over, and I think I’m going to go with GRATITUDE.

I want to practice gratitude. I know that sounds hokey, but instead of concentrating on the negative, I want to look at the positive side of life. After that horrible flu, I’m grateful for my health, and yes, I can even find reasons to be grateful for my mother-in-law. (She must have done something right, considering how Peter turned out.)

I’ve decided to start every journal entry with five things for which I’m thankful. I’m calling it my List of Blessings. That way I can begin my day on a positive note.

I feel the breakfast club has become my own personal support group. Every Thursday at 8—what a treat! And to think that I never would have enrolled in the journal-writing class if not for Georgia. Leave it to my cousin to con me into something I didn’t want to do, because she refused to go alone. Sure enough, I sign up for the class and three weeks later Georgia drops out. But I didn’t feel abandoned since I’d met Liz and Clare and Karen by then and we’d bonded like super glue. I stayed in the class so I could be with them.

It began with the four of us meeting after class. We’d go to the Denny’s restaurant near the college for coffee. Then when the session was over, Liz suggested we continue meeting. She’s the one with all the good ideas. It made sense that we get together at the same time as the original class, but with teenagers at home it’s difficult for me to take one night a week out of my already heavy schedule; doing that was hard enough while the course was in session. Trying to find a mutually agreeable time proved to be the biggest challenge. I suggested we meet for breakfast, and everyone leaped on that. Sometimes the obvious solution isn’t immediately noticeable.

Georgia’s sorry she dropped out of the class. I haven’t invited her to join our breakfast group. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to keep my newfound friends to myself, but I need this. I need them. The things we talk about, the things we share, are not always for Georgia’s ears. She might be my best friend and my cousin, but I wouldn’t want any part of the group’s conversation to be repeated. Georgia, God love her, couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.

Peter and I didn’t do anything all that exciting to bring in the New Year. The kids were with friends at church for an allnight youth program. We went out to dinner with the Bergmans. It’s tradition now that we spend New Year’s Eve together, but I wasn’t really up to it this year. I would have preferred a night with just the two of us, but I didn’t want to disappoint either Peter or our friends. We played cards and at the stroke of midnight, Peter opened a bottle of the best champagne we could afford and we toasted the New Year.

I didn’t mean to get sidetracked. My word is GRATITUDE, and the first thing I’m going to do is write my List of Blessings just so I’ll remember to keep counting them. Then, seeing that the house is quiet for once, I’m going to take a long nap.

COUNTING MY BLESSINGS



1 New beginnings.

2 My husband and his mother. God bless her!

3 Good friends like the Bergmans.

4 The sound of Adam’s laughter and the sweet beauty of my daughter.

5 Sleeping for ten uninterrupted hours.


“Hi, Mom.” Zoe walked into the kitchen not more than ten minutes after Julia woke up from her afternoon snooze. New Year’s was always a lazy day around their house. Her thirteen-year-old daughter fell into the seat across from her, landing clumsily in the chair. Zoe laid her head on the patchwork place mat and yawned. Her arms dangled loosely at her sides.

“Did you have a good time last night?” Julia asked.

“Yeah,” Zoe murmured with no real enthusiasm.

Julia knew that the church youth leaders had kept the kids active with swimming and roller-skating, plus a number of games that included basketball and volleyball. The night ended with a huge breakfast at 5:00 a.m., and from there everyone went home. Peter had picked up Adam and Zoe at the church, and Julia had assumed they’d sleep for much of the day. She was wrong.

“Did you and Dad have fun without us?” Zoe asked, as though she expected Julia to announce that the evening had been intolerably boring without their daughter to liven things up.

“We had a wonderful, romantic evening,” she said, wanting Zoe to realize that she and Peter had a life beyond that of being parents.

Zoe frowned. Yawning again, she stood and made her way back to her bedroom.

“What was that all about?” Peter asked, coming in from the family room where the television was tuned to one of the interminable New Year’s Day football games.

“Haven’t a clue,” Julia said, secretly amused.

“Come sit with me,” Peter invited, holding out his hand.

A dozen objections ran through her mind. The kitchen was a mess and she was behind with the laundry, but she couldn’t refuse him.

They snuggled up on the leather couch with Julia’s head on his shoulder and his arm around her. It was peaceful; the only sound came from the television, the volume kept purposely low.

“I saw you writing in your new journal,” he mentioned absently, his gaze on the TV.

“It’s perfect,” Julia said, cuddling close and expelling her breath in a long sigh.

Peter turned to study her. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He seemed to accept that, but Julia decided to confide in him about her gratitude plan. “Do I complain too much?” she asked, not certain she was going to like the answer. “The reason I ask is that I want to make an effort to be more appreciative.”

“Really.” Peter’s gaze wandered back to the screen.

“I’m making a list.”

“Good for you.”

Julia doubted he’d even heard her. Still, she continued. “I want to work on me this year.”

“That’s nice, sweetheart.”

Julia stifled a groan. “The kids are growing up and before long it’ll be just the two of us.”

“Hey, I’m in no rush,” he joked.

“I’m not, either, but it’s inevitable. Adam will get his driver’s license this year and we’ll be lucky to see either him or the car after that.” Their son was a responsible boy and it would help Julia immeasurably not to be transporting him to and from track practice, which was an irony of its own. Driving him to the track so he could run.

“Zoe’s going to be in high school soon,” Peter added.

It seemed just the other day that their daughter was seven and missing two front teeth.

Peter slipped his hand inside Julia’s blouse and cupped her breast. “I like the way we christened the New Year.” His mouth nibbled at her neck with a series of kisses that grew in length and intensity. Julia straightened, and their lips met in a kiss they normally reserved for special nights.

“There are advantages to one’s children growing up,” Peter whispered, as his hands grew bolder with her breasts.

“Oh?”

“They seem to stay in their rooms a great deal more.”

“That they do,” Julia agreed, twining her arms around his neck and luxuriating in his kiss.

“Mom. Dad.” Adam walked into the family room, his face clouded with sleep.

Peter quickly removed his hand and an embarrassed Julia tucked in her blouse.

Their son took one look at them and frowned darkly. “What’s going on?”

“Ah…nothing,” Julia mumbled, glancing away.

Adam wandered into the kitchen and made himself a cup of hot chocolate.

“I thought you two would be over the mushy stuff by now,” he muttered disgustedly as he returned. “It’s embarrassing to catch your parents in a lip lock.”

“You just wait,” Peter told his son. “When you’re forty, you’ll see things very differently.”

Adam gave them an odd grimace, then carried his cup back toward his room. “I’m going online,” he announced as he disappeared down the hallway.

“Where were we?” Peter asked and reached for Julia again.




Chapter Five


CLARE CRAIG

“Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.”

—Erica Jong

“This is so nice,” Liz Kenyon said, sliding into the booth across from Clare in the Victorian Tea Room on Friday afternoon. Clare dredged up a smile, although the year wasn’t beginning well. Barely two weeks into January, and the issues with Michael were once again staring her right in the face.

Clare was pleased—no, she was relieved—to see her friend, even though they’d had breakfast with the others just the day before. There were things she needed to talk about that she wasn’t comfortable saying in front of the whole group. Liz was the person who’d understand. Who might even have some practical advice or at least encouragement.

The restaurant was close to Willow Grove Memorial where Liz worked as administrator, which made it convenient for both of them.

A decisive woman, Liz picked up her menu, looked at it for no more than a minute, then set it aside.

Clare required much longer to make her selection, but only because she found it difficult to concentrate. Her head reeled, and making the simplest choice seemed beyond her at the moment. Spinach salad or a Monte Carlo sandwich? It wasn’t a life-and-death decision but it took more effort than she was able to muster. There didn’t seem to be a dish appropriate for spilling out one’s heart to a friend.

When she finally closed her menu, Clare glanced up to see that Liz was watching her. “Are you okay?” Liz asked quietly.

With anyone else, Clare would have plastered on a phony smile and offered reassurances. She didn’t think she could fool Liz. Nor did she want to.

Just as she was about to explain, the waitress arrived to take their orders, and looked to Liz first.

“I’ll have the seafood sauté salad,” Liz said and handed her the menu.

The woman nodded. “Good choice,” she murmured.

She turned to Clare, but by then neither the spinach salad nor the sandwich sounded appetizing. “I’ll have the same thing.”

“Very good,” the waitress said in the same approving tone she’d used earlier.

Liz waited until the woman was out of earshot. “I thought you didn’t like seafood.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why’d you order the seafood sauté salad?”

Clare wasn’t aware of what she’d ordered; furthermore she didn’t really care. She hadn’t planned this lunch so she could eat. She needed support and advice, not food. “Oh, well,” she muttered.

“Clare, what is it?” Liz studied her, staring hard. “Something to do with Michael, no doubt?”

Clare nodded and chewed at her lower lip. “Alex and Michael have been meeting behind my back,” she said bluntly. “I knew they were talking—Alex admitted as much shortly after the first of the year. Then on Tuesday, Alex said he wouldn’t be home for dinner because he was working late. It was a lie. I phoned the computer store and learned that Alex had left before five.”

“You asked him about it?”

Clare nodded. “He’d gone to dinner with his father. He didn’t mention Miranda, but I suspect she was there, too.” The knot in her stomach tightened at the thought of her son dining with her ex-husband and his live-in lover. The pain never seemed to go away. Whenever Clare felt she was making progress, some new crisis would emerge. Some emotional stumbling block—like this one. She just hadn’t expected it to involve her youngest son.

“It bothers you that Alex is seeing his father?” Liz asked.

“No.” Well, she didn’t really like it, but she was committed to her sons’ right to communicate with their father. In any event, that part wasn’t nearly as troubling as the lie. “I don’t want to stand in the way of the boys having a relationship with Michael. Our differences don’t have anything to do with Mick or Alex.”

“Is that lip service or do you really mean it?” Liz had a way of cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

“I mean it—at least I think I do. Sometimes it’s hard to know. I’m just so angry with Alex.”

“Alex, not Michael?”

“Michael, too, because it seems to me that Alex is imitating his father’s tactics. He didn’t want to admit he was having dinner with Michael, so he did it without telling me.”

“But he did tell you he’d been in contact with his dad.”

That was true enough. “Alex said Michael had phoned him. Well, this is a lot more than a simple phone call. What I object to most is the secrecy. As if my not knowing was somehow supposed to protect me.”

“What did Alex say when you confronted him?”

By the time her son had walked into the house, Clare had been so angry she’d barely been able to speak to him. To his credit, Alex didn’t deny seeing Michael. He calmly told her where he’d gone, then he went to his room, leaving Clare to deal with impotent rage. She was convinced this was Michael’s revenge for her taking the job at Murphy Motors.

“Alex lied to me, and I think Michael encouraged him.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know my ex,” she snapped.

“Clare,” Liz said softly. “I’m on your side, remember?”

“I know…I know. Part of me is relieved that the ice between Alex and Michael is broken. I mean, I realize how difficult our divorce has been on Alex. He was always so close to his father.” She felt herself tense as she thought of the pain her ex-husband had inflicted on their family. Poor Alex had been put in an impossible position. He loved both his parents and yearned to please Michael as well as her. That she could understand, but not the lie. Surely he knew what his dishonesty would do to Clare when she found out.

It wasn’t only his relationship with her that Michael had destroyed. Mick and Alex weren’t getting along, and Michael was the source of that trouble, too. He’d managed to drive a wedge between the two brothers, and Clare feared that was about to happen between Alex and her, too.

“On his way out the door recently, Alex oh-so-casually said that Michael might be attending the soccer games. Now I find out he’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.”

“And you won’t be there if your ex is?”

“Can you blame me?” She scowled. “At least Miranda’s not coming. Alex told me that much, anyway.”

“No, I don’t blame you.” Liz patted her arm. “It’s perfectly understandable,” she said. “I wouldn’t go under those circumstances, either.”

Clare instantly felt better. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“What do you mean?”

Michael had already taken so much from her, and Clare couldn’t tolerate his stealing more. “I enjoy watching Alex play. I’m the one who drove him to and from soccer practice for the last twelve years. I’m the soccer mom who treated the team to ice cream and slumber parties. The other parents are my friends.”

“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—”

“I have a right to see my son,” Michael snarled, not giving her a chance to explain.

“Did I say otherwise?” she returned in like tones. “Whether Alex sees you or not is his decision. Not yours and certainly not mine.”

“I agree,” he said, but his voice still held an edge.

“See? We can agree on some things,” she said with exaggerated sweetness.

“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.

“This is all your fault…”

His frown slowly evaporated into a soft, teasing smile. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

“No…” He hesitated, confusion in his eyes. “You’re really pregnant?”

Julia swore to herself that if he dared to smile again, she’d slap the grin off his face.





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