Thursdays at Eight. Debbie Macomber
the television was tuned to one of the interminable New Year’s Day football games.
“Haven’t a clue,” Julia said, secretly amused.
“Come sit with me,” Peter invited, holding out his hand.
A dozen objections ran through her mind. The kitchen was a mess and she was behind with the laundry, but she couldn’t refuse him.
They snuggled up on the leather couch with Julia’s head on his shoulder and his arm around her. It was peaceful; the only sound came from the television, the volume kept purposely low.
“I saw you writing in your new journal,” he mentioned absently, his gaze on the TV.
“It’s perfect,” Julia said, cuddling close and expelling her breath in a long sigh.
Peter turned to study her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He seemed to accept that, but Julia decided to confide in him about her gratitude plan. “Do I complain too much?” she asked, not certain she was going to like the answer. “The reason I ask is that I want to make an effort to be more appreciative.”
“Really.” Peter’s gaze wandered back to the screen.
“I’m making a list.”
“Good for you.”
Julia doubted he’d even heard her. Still, she continued. “I want to work on me this year.”
“That’s nice, sweetheart.”
Julia stifled a groan. “The kids are growing up and before long it’ll be just the two of us.”
“Hey, I’m in no rush,” he joked.
“I’m not, either, but it’s inevitable. Adam will get his driver’s license this year and we’ll be lucky to see either him or the car after that.” Their son was a responsible boy and it would help Julia immeasurably not to be transporting him to and from track practice, which was an irony of its own. Driving him to the track so he could run.
“Zoe’s going to be in high school soon,” Peter added.
It seemed just the other day that their daughter was seven and missing two front teeth.
Peter slipped his hand inside Julia’s blouse and cupped her breast. “I like the way we christened the New Year.” His mouth nibbled at her neck with a series of kisses that grew in length and intensity. Julia straightened, and their lips met in a kiss they normally reserved for special nights.
“There are advantages to one’s children growing up,” Peter whispered, as his hands grew bolder with her breasts.
“Oh?”
“They seem to stay in their rooms a great deal more.”
“That they do,” Julia agreed, twining her arms around his neck and luxuriating in his kiss.
“Mom. Dad.” Adam walked into the family room, his face clouded with sleep.
Peter quickly removed his hand and an embarrassed Julia tucked in her blouse.
Their son took one look at them and frowned darkly. “What’s going on?”
“Ah…nothing,” Julia mumbled, glancing away.
Adam wandered into the kitchen and made himself a cup of hot chocolate.
“I thought you two would be over the mushy stuff by now,” he muttered disgustedly as he returned. “It’s embarrassing to catch your parents in a lip lock.”
“You just wait,” Peter told his son. “When you’re forty, you’ll see things very differently.”
Adam gave them an odd grimace, then carried his cup back toward his room. “I’m going online,” he announced as he disappeared down the hallway.
“Where were we?” Peter asked and reached for Julia again.
Chapter Five
CLARE CRAIG
“Advice is what we ask for when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.”
—Erica Jong
“This is so nice,” Liz Kenyon said, sliding into the booth across from Clare in the Victorian Tea Room on Friday afternoon. Clare dredged up a smile, although the year wasn’t beginning well. Barely two weeks into January, and the issues with Michael were once again staring her right in the face.
Clare was pleased—no, she was relieved—to see her friend, even though they’d had breakfast with the others just the day before. There were things she needed to talk about that she wasn’t comfortable saying in front of the whole group. Liz was the person who’d understand. Who might even have some practical advice or at least encouragement.
The restaurant was close to Willow Grove Memorial where Liz worked as administrator, which made it convenient for both of them.
A decisive woman, Liz picked up her menu, looked at it for no more than a minute, then set it aside.
Clare required much longer to make her selection, but only because she found it difficult to concentrate. Her head reeled, and making the simplest choice seemed beyond her at the moment. Spinach salad or a Monte Carlo sandwich? It wasn’t a life-and-death decision but it took more effort than she was able to muster. There didn’t seem to be a dish appropriate for spilling out one’s heart to a friend.
When she finally closed her menu, Clare glanced up to see that Liz was watching her. “Are you okay?” Liz asked quietly.
With anyone else, Clare would have plastered on a phony smile and offered reassurances. She didn’t think she could fool Liz. Nor did she want to.
Just as she was about to explain, the waitress arrived to take their orders, and looked to Liz first.
“I’ll have the seafood sauté salad,” Liz said and handed her the menu.
The woman nodded. “Good choice,” she murmured.
She turned to Clare, but by then neither the spinach salad nor the sandwich sounded appetizing. “I’ll have the same thing.”
“Very good,” the waitress said in the same approving tone she’d used earlier.
Liz waited until the woman was out of earshot. “I thought you didn’t like seafood.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why’d you order the seafood sauté salad?”
Clare wasn’t aware of what she’d ordered; furthermore she didn’t really care. She hadn’t planned this lunch so she could eat. She needed support and advice, not food. “Oh, well,” she muttered.
“Clare, what is it?” Liz studied her, staring hard. “Something to do with Michael, no doubt?”
Clare nodded and chewed at her lower lip. “Alex and Michael have been meeting behind my back,” she said bluntly. “I knew they were talking—Alex admitted as much shortly after the first of the year. Then on Tuesday, Alex said he wouldn’t be home for dinner because he was working late. It was a lie. I phoned the computer store and learned that Alex had left before five.”
“You asked him about it?”
Clare nodded. “He’d gone to dinner with his father. He didn’t mention Miranda, but I suspect she was there, too.” The knot in her stomach tightened at the thought of her son dining with her ex-husband and his live-in lover. The pain never seemed to go away. Whenever Clare felt she was making progress, some new crisis would emerge. Some emotional stumbling block—like this one. She just hadn’t expected it to involve her youngest son.
“It bothers you that Alex is seeing his father?” Liz asked.
“No.” Well, she didn’t really like it, but she was