Thursdays at Eight

“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.