Thursdays At Eight

by Debbie Macomber

  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….

  “If you think you can, you can. And if you think you can’t, you’re right.”

  —Mary Kay Ash

  Chapter 7

  CLARE CRAIG

  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.

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

  —Bette Midler

  Chapter 8

  KAREN CURTIS

  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.<
br />
  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.