Thursdays At Eight

  The baby shower lifted Julia’s spirits. Mine, too, and everyone’s. I never realized how strongly I’d feel about Julia’s baby. My admiration for her grows all the time. In some ways, she’s stronger than the rest of us put together. When she first discovered she was pregnant, I expected her to quietly terminate the pregnancy. I wanted to ask her why she didn’t, especially when it became clear what an inconvenience the baby was going to be in all their lives. We would’ve understood and we certainly wouldn’t have judged her. But she didn’t do it.

  Julia has taught me so much about inner strength and conviction. Even now, when the outcome with Zachary remains so uncertain, in my heart of hearts, I feel she did the right thing.

  What with my own career, or lack thereof, my sister’s problem and Julia’s baby, I feel emotionally drained. This heat isn’t helping, either. It’s miserable, and just now that’s the way my whole life feels.

  Karen set aside her journal and took a sip from her glass of iced tea. She stretched out her legs as she tried to make herself comfortable on the patio chair—a cast-off she’d rescued from her parents’ garage. At least this apartment had a balcony, tiny though it was. She sighed; her confusion seemed to be growing, until she felt as though she was walking in waist-deep mud. Every step forward was impeded.

  Wiping away the sweat on her face, she got out of her chair, wincing as her bare thighs stuck to the vinyl cushion. She recalled summers as a child when she’d wait with her sister to hear the ice-cream truck come down the street. Then she’d race Victoria to see who could reach it first.

  Her heart ached constantly over the estrangement between her and Victoria. In the past, weeks had often gone by, whole months during which they didn’t speak, but that was different. It just meant they lived dissimilar lives, had dissimilar interests. It didn’t mean they didn’t care about each other. They were sisters.

  “That does it,” Karen muttered and without further thought, went inside to grab her wallet and car keys, then headed out. She made only one stop along the way.

  Standing in front of her sister’s door, she leaned on the doorbell.

  Victoria appeared, looking frazzled and worn-out. She would’ve slammed the door shut if Karen hadn’t put out her foot to prevent it.

  “Remember when we were kids and we used to race to the ice-cream truck?” she asked.

  “We’re no longer children,” Victoria muttered. Her hand was on the door, ready to close it.

  “I usually won, didn’t I?”

  “Is there a point to this question?” Victoria feigned boredom.

  Karen was tempted to remind her sister that she was the actress in the family. “Here,” she said instead, and thrust out a chocolate-coated ice-cream bar with the wrapper peeled off. Unfortunately, in the late-afternoon heat, it’d already started to melt.

  Victoria stared at it, as though she didn’t know what to say.

  “Go ahead, take it,” Karen said.

  “Do you seriously believe that offering me ice cream will wipe out what you did? You don’t get it, do you?”

  “No. Why don’t you tell me?”

  “No.”

  “I’m so sorry, Vicki. I never meant for any of this to upset you. I was only trying to help. I’m here now because I want us to talk this out.”

  The bar continued to melt and Karen caught the melting chocolate in the palm of her hand.

  “Come inside and get rid of that before it leaves a mess on my porch,” Victoria snapped. She opened the door wider so Karen could enter the house.

  The foyer and living room were immaculate—even with a three-year-old underfoot all day. Karen’s gaze fell on the coffee table and she was astonished to see that the magazines were not only in precise rows but stacked in alphabetical order.

  “Throw that out.” Victoria eyed the melting ice-cream bar and nodded toward the kitchen.

  Karen discarded it in the sink and thought it was a real shame her sister hadn’t eaten it. Victoria was thinner than she remembered. Too thin.

  “Where’s Bryce?” she asked. Normally her nephew would be leaping around her the minute she arrived.

  “It’s naptime.”

  Victoria didn’t offer her anything to drink or suggest she sit down, so Karen stood with her back to the kitchen sink. A moment of stilted silence followed.

  “How are you?” she asked. She searched Victoria’s face and bare upper arms for bruises.

  “None of your damn business.”

  Karen swallowed an angry retort, reminding herself that she hadn’t come here to argue. “How’s Bryce?”

  Victoria shrugged.

  “How many times can I say I’m sorry?”

  “I thought I could trust you… I thought, I hoped, you’d be the one person in the world I could talk to.”

  “And then I blew it. Is that what you’re saying?”

  “How could you tell Mom? She’s the last person I expected you to go to.” Victoria’s sense of betrayal seemed to overwhelm her; fears gathered in her eyes. “Do you hate me so much?” she cried.

  “No, of course I don’t hate you—”

  Victoria didn’t allow her to finish. “Now Mom’s full of questions and Dad talked to Roger, and everything’s a thousand times worse, all thanks to you.”

  “You don’t actually think I could hate you?” Karen asked, close to tears herself. “You’re my sister. The thought of anyone abusing you is more than I can bear.”

  “Sure, it is,” Victoria taunted. “As I remember, you did your fair share of hitting me, too.”

  “We were just kids!”

  Victoria turned her back. “Go away.”

  “No, I can’t. I won’t leave. Not until we’ve settled this.”

  Victoria shook her head. “Nothing you can say is going to make things right.”

  “You let your husband hit you.”

  Victoria whirled around so she was facing her once again. “He didn’t mean it,” she said heatedly.

  Karen wanted to scream with frustration. How could her sister defend Roger? “Are you telling me it was an accident?”

  Victoria refused to answer.

  “You’re furious with me because I said something to our mother. That was an accident, too, but you won’t even give me a chance to explain.”

  “Roger loves me.”

  “I love you, too,” Karen said. “You’re my sister.”

  It looked for a moment as though Victoria was prepared to listen. Karen could actually see the indecision in her face—until they heard the sound of a car door slamming.

  “Roger,” Victoria whispered, and her eyes widened with panic.

  A minute later, the door off the garage opened and Roger stepped into the kitchen. He hesitated when he saw Karen, and his lip curled with contempt.

  “I didn’t invite her,” Victoria explained hurriedly.

  “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of my house,” he threatened.

  “Nice to see you, too,” Karen muttered.

  Roger set his briefcase on the kitchen table and Karen watched as the blood drained from Victoria’s face.

  “I want to talk to my sister,” Karen insisted.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  “Victoria can speak for herself, thank you,” Karen said curtly, hands clenched at her sides. She wanted to hurt him the same way he’d hurt her sister.

  “Fine, you tell her,” Roger ordered his wife.

  “It would be best if you left now,” Victoria said, her voice low and pleading. “Please, just go.”

  Karen wanted to leave, but she was afraid of what would happen to Victoria if she did. She couldn’t understand why her sister let Roger control her like this, why she let him belittle and abuse her.

  “Shall I phone the police?” Roger asked no one in particular. He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer.

  “Maybe you should,” Karen said as calmly as her frantically beating heart would allow. “I’m sure they’d b
e interested in talking to me.”

  Roger slammed the beer down on the counter; at the violence of his action, Victoria cringed and leaped away. “Get the hell out of my house,” he shouted.

  “I’ll go, but Victoria and Bryce are coming with me.”

  “No way.”

  “Victoria?” Karen stared at her sister, silently begging her to walk out the door and not look back.

  Her sister wavered, and for a few seconds it seemed that she just might do it.

  Hope surged within Karen and she smiled in encouragement.

  “Fine, go,” Roger stated calmly, as though bored by the whole scene. “But Bryce stays with me.”

  Any chance of her sister leaving was destroyed by those few words.

  “I’ll stay,” she whispered.

  Roger’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Courage is the price that life exacts for granting peace.”

  —Amelia Earhart

  Chapter 34

  CLARE CRAIG

  When Leslie Carter unexpectedly walked into the Chevy dealership on a Friday evening early in August, Clare did a double-take. As general manager she had to oversee the sales staff and approve each deal. She was chatting on the phone with the head of the service department when she saw Leslie.

  He had a luxurious tan from long days of sailing in the sun. He wore shorts and boat shoes and was so handsome it was difficult to take her eyes off him.

  She watched as he approached the receptionist, who turned to shoot a glance in her direction. Clare swiftly ended the phone conversation, stepped away from her desk behind the glass wall and hurried into the showroom.

  “Leslie, hi,” she said, extending her hand. She felt a strong and immediate urge to hug him, but suppressed it, since this was only the second time she’d seen him. They’d talked occasionally over the intervening months and there’d been a couple of postcards, even some e-mail messages, especially after Zachary’s birth. But she’d forgotten what he looked like.

  Absurd as it seemed, she’d forgotten he was this attractive, this downright good-looking.

  Leslie stared at her extended hand, as though he was having the same thought—that this was too formal a greeting for someone who’d become a friend. He smiled warmly before clasping it between his own two hands.

  “When did you get back?” she asked.

  He peered at his watch. “About three hours ago.”

  He’d come almost directly to find her. His answer flustered and thrilled her.

  “I thought I’d take you to dinner, if you’re free.”

  “Let me find out.” She already knew there was nothing scheduled for that evening, but glancing over her appointment calendar would give her a few minutes to gather her wits. With Michael living at the house now, she wasn’t exactly free. But she didn’t want to launch into a long explanation about her ex-husband or why he was living with her.

  “Janet, would you get Mr. Carter a cup of coffee?” she asked as she disappeared into her glass office.

  She made a pretense of looking in her book, then dialed the house. She couldn’t very well announce that she had to check with her children before she agreed to a dinner date.

  Alex answered on the second ring, his voice hushed.

  “How’s Dad?” she asked.

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “I’m going to be late, is that all right?”

  Alex was silent. “How late?” he finally asked.

  The boys took turns staying with Michael. He didn’t want or need constant attention, but at this stage of his disease, no one was comfortable leaving him at the house alone. He was usually in a drugged state, and growing weaker day by day.

  Mick and Alex were with him during the days, and she often relieved them in the evenings.

  “I’ll be home before eight,” Clare said. She and Alex reviewed the medication schedule for Michael, then she hung up.

  Leslie was waiting for her. He stood when she returned to the showroom.

  “When would you like to leave?” she asked.

  “Is now too soon?”

  “Now would be perfect.”

  Clare knew Leslie’s arrival had stirred a lot of interest among the staff, but it didn’t bother her. Her long hours had brought the dealership back to prosperity within a few months. With the staff’s cooperation, she’d averted chaos and financial disaster. Her ideas had been welcomed and put into action, and all the employees had rallied around her. With some inventive, humorous television advertising, the dealership was reaching record sales.

  True, the hours she’d put in were grueling. The reasons behind her renewed ambition, her drive, weren’t entirely clear, even to her. Yes, the dealership was Mick and Alex’s heritage, but there was more to it than that. Clare had something to prove to herself, and to Michael.

  Living with her ex-husband wasn’t easy; despite that, she felt the decision had been right. For Michael, for her and for their sons.

  Clare didn’t spend a lot of time alone with Michael. Because of her hours at work, she often didn’t arrive home until he was asleep. But he remained in her thoughts—and in her heart. It had come as a revelation to discover she still loved him. Not the same way she had when they were married, of course. Now she loved him because of what they’d had, what they’d once been to each other. She loved him as the man who’d fathered her children.

  “What’s your favorite kind of food?” Leslie asked as he escorted her outside.

  “Italian,” she said automatically.

  “Mine, too. Ever been to Mama Lena’s?”

  Clare nearly tripped over her own feet. “Yes.” It had been Michael’s and her favorite restaurant.

  Some emotion must have been evident in her response because Leslie immediately said, “Someplace else?”

  “Please,” she whispered, not eager to explain.

  “Luckily there’s any number of good Italian restaurants close at hand. You choose.”

  Clare did, and before long they were sitting across from each other in an elegantly spare room, dipping warm bread into a small dish of flavored olive oil.

  “I didn’t know you were planning to get back this soon,” Clare said, taking a leisurely sip from her glass of Chianti.

  “I wasn’t.”

  “Have you had a chance to check in with Julia and Peter yet?” she asked.

  “I talked briefly to Peter earlier this afternoon,” Leslie told her. “He was on his way to the hospital to relieve Julia, so we didn’t get much of a chance to chat. He sounded pretty stressed so I didn’t keep him long.”

  “I know.” Liz gave her an almost daily update on the baby’s progress.

  “How is Zachary?”

  Clare shook her head, unsure how to respond. “This is such an incredible baby. He wants to live so much. Julia and Peter are with him practically every minute. I talked to Julia the other day about his progress, and it’s as though she’s speaking in a foreign language. All these medical terms and procedures…”

  “Little Zack’s going to make it, isn’t he?”

  “We hope so. I gather that most of Zachary’s problems have to do with his lungs. He isn’t even supposed to be breathing air this soon, and it causes serious complications.”

  “Poor little boy.”

  “You can’t imagine how small he is,” Clare told Leslie. “Julia showed us a photograph at our baby shower, and he’s barely as big as Peter’s hand.”

  “Can they hold him?”

  “They have.” Clare wasn’t sure how often. “Julia showed us another picture of Peter in a rocker with Zachary against his bare chest.” Then feeling she should explain why Peter had removed his shirt, she added, “The baby needs Peter’s body heat in order to keep warm. He can’t regulate his own body temperature yet.”

  Leslie nodded.

  “I pray every day that he survives.” It was a prayer every member of the breakfast club shared.

  From the subject of Zacha
ry, they turned to talk of Leslie’s adventure, sailing from California to Hawaii, and then the return flight home. The sailboat was berthed at Kauai while Leslie took a break from sea life. His crew of three had dispersed, two of them planning to stay in Hawaii, the other heading up to Alaska. He’d fulfilled his dream, achieved his goal and now had some decisions to make.

  The meal was delicious; Clare had ordered a Caesar salad and her favorite eggplant dish. They lingered over a second glass of wine and then espresso. When they finished, Leslie drove her back to the dealership.

  Precisely at eight, Clare arrived home, just as she’d promised. After dropping her purse on the kitchen counter, she ventured into the den, where they’d set up Michael’s hospital bed.

  “I’m back,” she announced.

  Mick sat at his father’s bedside, the two of them watching television. Every time Clare saw Michael, she felt a sense of shock. He’d lost so much weight that he barely resembled the man she’d known. His skin held a yellowish tinge and his face was gaunt and drawn. The ravages of the cancer seemed more apparent every day.

  “Who’d you go out to dinner with?” Mick asked. “Alex didn’t say.”

  “A friend.”

  “Male or female?” Michael asked, turning his attention on her.

  She hesitated, then decided there was no reason not to tell the truth. “Male.”

  Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Anyone I know?”

  She shook her head.

  “I might,” he insisted. “You can’t say that until I have a name.”

  “Leslie Carter,” she told him reluctantly. “He’s Julia Murchison’s uncle.”

  Michael frowned, and she could tell he was displeased. “Did you have a good time?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She wasn’t going to lie, but she didn’t intend to rub his face in it, either. This wasn’t a revenge tactic. Her dinner with Leslie had been a pleasant outing and she refused to feel guilty about it.