Thursdays At Eight

by Debbie Macomber

  “We can’t afford a car now.” Adam glared at her, resentment in every word.

  “Or a vacation,” Zoe chimed in, close to tears.

  “Stop it!” Peter banged his fist on the table. “Just listen to you,” he said. “Just listen! You’re only thinking about yourselves.”

  Rarely had Julia seen her amiable, easygoing husband display such anger and disgust.

  “No one said it was our duty to provide you with a vehicle just because you’re turning sixteen. Nor is there anything written about a parent’s obligation to take children on expensive vacations. Your mother and I know you’re disappointed about missing out on those things, but guess what, life is filled with disappointment. I’m ashamed of your selfishness. You think a little embarrassment in front of your friends, or having to share your bedroom with a younger brother or sister, is some major tragedy. Get a little perspective!”

  Both children stared openmouthed at their father.

  “Your mother and I have tried to be patient, to give you time to accept our news. But you know something? This baby is entitled to as much love and welcome as you received when you came into our family.”

  Silence followed. Then Zoe sniffled and bowed her head. “Can I be excused?”

  “You’re finished with your dinner?” Most of her meal remained untouched.

  Zoe nodded.

  “All right.”

  “Me, too,” Adam muttered.

  Frowning, Peter waved him off and the children hastily left the table.

  Julia could tell by the belligerent way they stalked out of the room that nothing had changed.

  Her husband shook his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more disappointed in my children.”

  “Give them a chance,” Julia urged, feeling guilty about her own ambivalence and resentment. Peter was right. This child deserved the same love as Adam and Zoe. Unfortunately the kids weren’t the only ones who needed to hear it. Julia had to remind herself, as well.

  List of Blessings

  Irene Waldmann

  Salt and how desperately I miss it

  Comfortable shoes

  March 21st

  Adam and Zoe are barely speaking to Peter and me. The last few days have been a real strain. Peter suggested we just let them have their little temper tantrum and not react to it. Eventually they’ll come around. I only hope he’s right. I knew they were upset with us; I hadn’t realized it was to this extent.

  Peter came to the shop after school this afternoon. He had a copy of a newspaper article from the early 1990s. It was about a Manchester high-school graduate by the name of William Waldmann who’d been killed in Desert Storm. He was the only child of Irene and Brad Waldmann.

  The other night at dinner, when I mentioned Irene’s name, Peter had said it sounded familiar. So he looked it up on the school Internet and found the article.

  My heart aches for Mrs. Waldmann. Her only son. I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose a child. The grief would be unbearable. Knowing this helps me understand why she was so willing to knit a baby blanket for me. There are no grandchildren in her future.

  Georgia stopped by the store this morning on her way home from work. Her job at the gallery has the craziest hours; they spent all night setting up for a major exhibit that’s opening today. She filled in for me while I ran to Dr. Fisk’s for my appointment. Thankfully I was in and out in forty minutes, which is something of a record. I hate leaving the shop, but there’s no help for it. Nor was I comfortable closing for even an hour; I’ve done that too many times already. If there’s one thing customers demand, it’s consistency. If I say my store’s open from 10 to 5, then I’d better be open during those hours.

  Georgia brought me a new maternity top. I looked at it and wanted to weep. She was only trying to be kind, but I hate the thought of growing into that.

  Liz came for her knitting lesson at lunchtime.

  She says the tension at the hospital is getting to her, and she finds that knitting helps relax her at night. We’ve done some squares, just to practice different stitches, and today she bought yarn to make a sweater for her granddaughter. We cast on and began, following a simple pattern I selected for her.

  I wasn’t fooled. She comes more to check up on me than because of any real desire start knitting. I know she and the others are worried about me. The last few weeks I haven’t said much at breakfast. I won’t for a while yet. I told Liz that, and the reasons for it, and she understood. I’m trying my hardest to make the best of this situation. I’m disappointed in my children, but no more than I am in myself.

  “Only friends will tell you the truths you need to hear to make…your life bearable.”

  —Francine du Plessix Gray

  Chapter 21

  THURSDAY MORNING BREAKFAST CLUB

  Karen arrived at Mocha Moments early, and ordered her current favorite latte, a caramel and mocha combination that tasted like a liquid candy bar with twice as many calories. Luckily, Karen didn’t need to worry about her weight. A lot of her friends were fanatical about every morsel they put in their mouths. Not Karen; she ate what she wanted and when she wanted. A good metabolism was just the luck of the draw, she supposed.

  She carried her drink to the table and slid into a chair, planning to talk to her friends about Victoria. She had great news, too, about getting the hair spray commercial, and she was eager to let everyone know. Still, it was her sister’s dilemma that preoccupied her most. She was grateful Victoria had reached out to her, even if she’d now begun to back off. Karen wanted to help her older sister, but deciding how to do that was giving her a major headache.

  Liz entered the coffee shop and walked up to the counter to order her breakfast. Liz was almost always the first to arrive, but today Karen had come early.

  The majority of people were creatures of habit, she mused, and the four of them were no exception. They sat at the same table whenever they could, even choosing the same chairs. Every week Liz ordered the same thing. Plain ol’ coffee and a croissant. Clare had an espresso and a scone with blackberry jelly, and Julia always ordered tea, herbal tea now that she was pregnant, and a muffin. Only Karen varied her orders; there might be comfort in predictability, but she found more reassurance in being different.

  She wished again that her mother was more like Liz. Karen got on far better with her father, but her mother had dominated him for years. She used to wonder if there’d been a mix-up at the hospital and she was actually someone else’s daughter. Or if she’d been adopted—a favorite childhood fantasy of hers.

  “Good morning,” Liz said, sitting down gracefully. “You’re bright and early this morning.” She wore a dark red suit with a double-breasted jacket and straight skirt. The matching high heels were fabulous. So few women wore heels anymore, and Liz, already tall, didn’t need the height. They made her look more powerful, yet strikingly feminine.

  “Morning,” Karen returned with a smile.

  Clare and Julia were only minutes behind Liz. Soon all four were at the table, each with her signature breakfast.

  “Karen was here when I arrived,” Liz said, and the other two women turned to her. This was obviously Liz’s way of letting them know there was something on Karen’s mind.

  “Is it your sister?” Clare asked. At their previous week’s breakfast, Karen had finally told them about Victoria’s situation.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Guys, I want to throttle her. Her husband punches her in the face. First she won’t let me call the police, and now…now she’s acting like it was all a big mistake.”

  “She wants to put the whole thing behind her, right?” Liz asked, frowning thoughtfully.

  “Yes, but it’s more than that. She’s embarrassed she even phoned me.”

  “This isn’t the first time Roger’s hit her, is it?” The question came from Clare.

  Karen couldn’t be sure, but she guessed this was a pattern between Victoria and her husband. Abuse, followed by apologies and promises. Roger w
as a bully who took out his frustrations on his wife. Six years earlier, when Victoria had started dating Roger, there’d been an incident that Karen had never forgotten. It’d happened at a family function—Thanksgiving dinner, if she remembered correctly. A command performance.

  Victoria had brought Roger to meet the family, and all through dinner her mother had fussed over him, ingratiating herself in a way that made Karen cringe. The entire meal had been a disaster. Her mother had set out her best china and silver in an effort to impress Victoria’s wealthy beau. She’d chatted endlessly, casually dropping names as if their family was part of the social circle that frequented the elite clubs and shops of Beverly Hills.

  As the miserable meal progressed, Karen had watched Roger drink glass after glass of wine. She noticed that at every opportunity he criticized Victoria until her sister had dissolved into tears and run from the table.

  Karen’s first inclination was to go after her and advise her to dump the creep. He might come from a wealthy family and work at an established law firm, but that didn’t excuse bad manners or classless behavior. Before she could move, their mother had apologized for Victoria’s rudeness.

  Karen had been furious. To her parents’ dismay, she’d stalked out of the room. The ensuing argument with her mother had resulted in Karen’s leaving in a huff. She’d threatened never to return, although of course she did. But her already difficult relationship with her mother grew even more strained.

  Within a week of that infamous Thanksgiving, Victoria and Roger were engaged. Their wedding had been a gala event, with her mother using the opportunity to do some major sucking up. From the moment Victoria married Roger, Catherine Curtis had placed her eldest daughter on a pedestal. Karen thought wryly that her mother never complained about Victoria not using her college degree; in fact, she’d encouraged her to stay home and be the kind of wife “a man of Roger’s standing” required.

  “I think Roger might have hit her before,” Karen said, although she had no actual evidence. “I do know he’s been abusing her emotionally for years.”

  “You weren’t able to convince her to file a police report?” Julia asked, shaking her head as though she found it difficult to comprehend how any woman would endure such treatment from her husband.

  “Not for lack of trying,” Karen informed her friends. She’d done everything but make the call herself. Victoria had seemed so small and broken when they’d first talked. Karen was forced to wait until Monday morning, after Roger had left for the office, before Victoria would let her visit.

  The bruises on her cheek and upper arms were dark and ugly. Karen was enraged, but didn’t dare show it. She talked to her sister about contacting the authorities, calling her doctor, visiting a women’s crisis center—taking some kind of action—but Victoria wavered and then later refused to discuss it.

  “It was all her fault, right?” Clare said. “That’s what she told you, isn’t it?”

  Karen nodded. “That’s exactly what Victoria said. If she’d had Bryce in bed when Roger returned from his client dinner, everything would’ve been okay. Can you believe it?”

  “I’m afraid that sort of confused thinking is typical of abused women.”

  “I just can’t understand why this is happening to my sister,” Karen said.

  “It’s not uncommon,” Liz told her. “And the women’s reactions are more complex than many people understand. It’s easy for us to say she should leave him, but she may be feeling shame, fear, desperation, even a sense of aloneness.”

  “In a way, things are even worse now,” Karen murmured.

  “Worse?” Julia repeated. “Has he hit her again?”

  “I almost wish he had. It might help Victoria see the light.”

  Liz pulled the corner off her croissant and slowly shook her head. “My guess is the bastard’s turned into a regular Prince Charming.”

  Karen stared at the older woman. “How’d you know?”

  Liz answered with a sad smile. “I’ve seen it far too often. And I’ve heard of quite a few similar cases.”

  “He’s so sorry,” Karen said in a syrupy sweet voice, imitating her sister. According to Victoria, Roger was sick with remorse the minute he saw her bruises. He’d begged her forgiveness, apparently close to tears, and seeing how sorry he was, Victoria agreed. “It’ll never happen again,” Karen reported, “or so Victoria claims.”

  “Until next time,” Clare added, her deep voice weighted with sarcasm.

  “What can I do?” The frustration and anger were consuming her. Any excitement she felt over getting a role in a commercial paled against what she’d learned about her sister. Victoria was all she could think about. This was her sister, and although they had their differences, Karen couldn’t tolerate the thought of anyone mistreating her.

  “You can’t talk to your parents?” Julia asked.

  “No. I wish I could, but…I can’t.” Karen had considered that herself, and after careful thought, recognized that it would only cause more problems within the family. In Victoria’s current state of mind, she might deny the entire incident and then hate Karen for breaking her confidence. The same went for contacting social services. Roger would be furious and Karen was convinced he’d take it out on Victoria.

  “You could suggest Victoria get some counseling,” Liz advised.

  “I’ve already tried that—she said no. Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. Roger’s the one who needs therapy.”

  “Your sister could use some help herself,” Clare said, not mincing words. “She’s letting her husband beat her and then making excuses for him.”

  “True.” But Karen hated to admit it.

  “Talking out my feelings with a counselor after Michael left helped me tremendously,” Clare told her.

  “Speaking of Michael, how is he?” Karen asked, anxious now to change the subject.

  “He’s finished with the second round of chemotherapy,” Clare said. She pulled her scone apart, turning it into a pile of crumbs. “I haven’t seen him in several days, but Alex calls him every afternoon.”

  “Does that bother you?” Julia asked. “Because it would me.”

  Clare shook her head, but Karen didn’t know if that was an answer to Julia’s question or if she simply didn’t have one.

  “I always thought I wanted to see him suffer….” she finally said.

  “And now that he is, you’re finding it difficult to watch,” Liz murmured.

  Clare nodded.

  “Is the…girlfriend around?” Karen wondered whether Michael was getting any support, emotional or otherwise, from Miranda Armstrong.

  Shrugging, Clare reached for her espresso. “I wouldn’t know. She must be, because he’s still at the house.”

  Michael had moved into a rental place with Miranda Armstrong and if he was still living at the same address, presumably it was with her. Karen thought that was a reasonable assumption.

  “How’s Mick dealing with this?” she asked.

  Clare’s sigh said it all. “Not well. He isn’t speaking to his father. He’s angry with Alex and infuriated with me. He said we’re the most screwed-up family he’s ever known and wants nothing to do with us.”

  “He doesn’t mean it,” Karen rushed to assure her friend. “I’m always saying stuff like that to my parents. Oh, I mean it at the time, but I regret it later.”

  “When was the last time you talked to Mick?” Liz asked.

  “Sunday afternoon.”

  “Give him a week,” Julia suggested.

  “Two weeks,” Karen said, “then call him yourself. That’s what my father usually does. He has his little speech down pat. I can almost recite it along with him, but by the time he phones I’m always glad he does, so I listen and pretend to take his advice.” It was all part of her family’s particular routine; every family had its own version. Actually, she was grateful her father stepped in when he did, breaking the stalemate between her and her mother.

  “Little speech?” Clare was s
miling, which pleased Karen.

  “Yeah. First Dad says he can’t understand why my mother and I can’t get along. Then he goes on to remind me of the importance of family. He finishes up by telling me how much he loves his girls. When we’re done, I feel better and apparently so does my mother.”

  Karen didn’t mention that she never spoke to her mother during these conversations. Vernon Curtis was the peacemaker in the family.

  “How’s life treating you?” Julia asked, looking at Liz.

  “No complaints,” she responded.

  “Have you run into Dr. Jamison lately?” Clare wanted to know.

  For all her bitterness over her failed marriage, Clare was something of a romantic, Karen thought.

  “No,” Liz said abruptly.

  “He’s been at the hospital, though, hasn’t he?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” She focused her gaze across the room, refusing to meet their eyes. “Sean and I have agreed to disagree.”

  “Is that regret I’m seeing in you?” Julia asked softly.

  Liz considered her question for a long moment. “Perhaps. But it’s been six years since Steve was killed. In that time, I’ve learned I don’t need a man in my life. If and when I decide to become involved, it’ll be with a man who appreciates and respects me.”

  “You might not need a man,” Karen said, leaning closer, “but that’s not the same as wanting one.”

  “Besides, you had your kids around for most of those six years,” Clare added, “and now you’re alone.”

  “She’s right,” Julia said emphatically. “With your son and daughter moving out of the area, this is the first time you’ve had to deal with certain issues—like being alone and what you want to do with your future. There are no distractions around you now, and it makes a difference.”

  Liz would make a great poker player, Karen decided. Her face was unreadable. “Maybe I’ll get serious about dating,” she said, but Karen couldn’t tell if she meant it or not.

  “You need to start dating, too,” Julia said, staring at Clare.