Thursdays at Eight

“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.