Kitabı oku: «Thursdays at Eight»

Praise for Thursdays at Eight by DEBBIE MACOMBER

“Macomber’s women serve as bedrock for one another in this sometimes tearful, always uplifting tale that will make readers wish they could join this charming breakfast club.”

—Booklist

“Not simply a work of fiction but the culmination of personal experiences that translate into the meaning of life for women in particular and people in general. Friendship—rather, friendships—is what the book is all about. [Macomber] builds on her reputation of giving women readers what they want in the books they read.”

—The Sunday Oklahoman

“Thursdays at Eight is a novel of everyday women confronted with extraordinary circumstances, and Macomber tells their stories with a depth of mature insight that is both compassionate and unfailingly honest. These are women with guts and fortitude, courage and determination, and readers will recognize the same strength of character found in the novels of venerable authors Rosamunde Pilcher and Maeve Binchy.”

—Amazon.com

“As always, Macomber draws rich, engaging characters.”

—Publishers Weekly

Thursdays at Eight
Debbie Macomber

www.mirabooks.co.uk

July 2010

Dear Friends,

Thursdays at Eight was originally published in 2001 and launched my hardcover writing career. I remember how excited I was as I held this book in my hands for the very first time. When I was originally published back in the early 1980s, having my titles appear in hardcover was a dream and, back then, it seemed an impossible one. I’ve learned a great deal about goal-setting since I rented that typewriter all those years ago. Dreams do come true!

Another lesson I learned with this book was that some of the very best story ideas are right under our noses. When I first moved out of my home office and rented space in a commercial building, I found I was making business decisions I felt completely inadequate to make. The one thing I did know was to ask other successful women some key questions. Filled with purpose I invited five women, all business owners and/or entrepreneurs, to my home for tea. The others knew one another on a casual basis but not as friends. We had such a good time we decided to meet every…you got it…Thursday morning for breakfast.

That was seventeen years ago now. Of the five there are three original members. Diana married and moved away. Stephanie, our dear Stephanie, we lost to ovarian cancer. Betty, the bank president, has since retired, and while Lillian continues in her law practice she, too, is looking toward retirement. Sandy O’Donnell joined us a few years ago. I’m still part of the group, too. We meet regularly to encourage, support and inspire one another. Through the past seventeen years we’ve gone through deaths, divorces, marriages, aging and dying parents, major and minor health issues and just about everything else together. We’re the very best of friends and in some ways as close as sisters.

After we started meeting, it was Stephanie who suggested we each take a word for the year. I thought it was a wonderful idea and it was that concept (and, of course, the fact that we met regularly as a group) that inspired Thursdays at Eight. I hope you enjoy this story and that it will inspire you, too.

Enjoy.

P.S. I love hearing from my readers. You can reach me through my Web site at www.debbiemacomber.com and fill out a guest book entry, or write me at P.O. Box 1458, Port Orchard, WA 98366.

This story is dedicated to Lillian Schauer, Betty Roper, Sandy O’Donnell and the memory of Stephanie Cordall. The wonderful, wise and fascinating women of my Thursday morning breakfast group.

Chapter One

CLARE CRAIG

“It’s the good girls who keep the diaries; the bad girls never have the time.”

—Tallulah Bankhead

January 1st

A promise to myself: this year is a new beginning for me. A fresh start, in more ways than one. I’m determined to put the divorce behind me. About time, too, since it’s been final for over a year. Okay, thirteen months and six days to be exact, not that I’m counting…well, maybe I am, but that’s going to stop as of today.

Michael has his new life and I have mine. I’ve heard that living well is the best revenge. Good, because that’s what I intend to do. I’m going to live my life as a successful, happy (or at least, contented) single woman and mother. This is my vow. I will no longer expect another person to provide me with a sense of worth. I don’t need a husband to make me feel complete. It’s been a struggle to let go of the marriage, but holding on to all that pain and anger is getting me nowhere. I’m sick of the pettiness, sick of fighting and sick to death of the resentment, the bitterness. I just never thought anything like this could possibly happen to Michael and me.

I saw divorce mow down marriages all around us, but I somehow thought we were safe…

It didn’t help any that I ran into Marilyn Cody over the Christmas holidays. She hadn’t heard about the divorce, and when I told her my husband had left me for a twenty-year-old—correction, my ex-husband (I still have trouble remembering that)—I could see how shocked she was. Then, apparently thinking she was giving me good advice, Marilyn suggested I find myself a boy toy (or is it toy boy?) to get my confidence back. She was actually serious, as though going to bed with a man only a few years older than my own children would make me feel better. Marilyn is a good example of why I can’t remain friends with the people Michael and I once associated with.

Losing Marilyn as a friend is no great loss, anyway. I read the pitying look in her eyes, and I didn’t miss her innuendo that I could’ve kept my husband if I hadn’t let myself go. It was all I could do not to get in her face and defend myself—as though that would prove anything. As a matter of fact, I happen to weigh within fifteen pounds of what I did at twenty-five, and damn it all, I take care of myself. If anyone’s suffering from middle-age spread, it’s Michael. The audacity of Marilyn to imply that Michael’s affair is somehow my fault!

How the hell was I supposed to compete with a girl barely out of her teens? I couldn’t. I didn’t. Every time I think about the two of them together, I feel sick to my stomach.

The journal-writing class has helped. So did meeting Liz, Julia and Karen. They’re my friends, and part of my new life. Forming a solid relationship with each of these women is one of the positive changes I’ve made. As the saying goes, “Out with the old and in with the new.” I’m glad the four of us have decided to continue seeing each other, even though the class isn’t being offered again. Thursdays for breakfast was an inspired idea.

Writing down my thoughts is the only way I got through the last six months. This should be a good time in my life. Instead, I’ve been forced to start over—not my choice and not my fault! Okay, fine. I can deal with it. I am dealing with it, each and every day. I hate it. I hate Michael, although I’m trying not to. The best I can say at this point is that I’m coping.

I will admit one thing. Michael’s affair has taught me a lot about myself. I hadn’t realized I could truly hate anyone. Now I know how deep my anger can cut…and I wish to hell I didn’t.

My mistake—and I made a few—was in delaying the divorce as long as I did. Eternal optimist that I am, I clung to the belief that, given time, Michael would come to his senses. I was convinced that eventually he’d see how much he was hurting me and the boys. An affair with a twenty-year-old was sheer madness. Surely he’d wake up one morning and realize he’d destroyed his entire life—and for what? Good sex? I doubt she’s that incredible in the sack.

In retrospect, I could kick myself for waiting so many months to see an attorney. I merely postponed the inevitable, because I was so sure he’d admit what he was doing and put an end to it. How I prayed, how I longed for the opportunity to save my marriage. If only Michael would come home again. If only he’d give us another chance. Little did I understand that his actions had utterly destroyed the foundation of our lives together. The minute he told me he’d fallen in love with Miranda (sure he had!), I should’ve hightailed it into a lawyer’s office and set the divorce in motion. Doing that would have saved me a lot of grief.

At a particularly low point, when I was feeling absolutely desperate, I signed up for counseling. The irony didn’t escape me, even then. I wasn’t the one defiling our wedding vows, yet I was the one making appointments with a shrink!

Then, on a particular Thursday morning about a year and a half ago, I got up after another restless, miserable, lonely night. I remember leaning against the bathroom sink in such emotional pain I couldn’t even stand upright. I looked at myself in the mirror and barely recognized my own face. Something happened in those moments. Nothing I can precisely identify, but the experience changed me. The victim disappeared and there I stood, straight and tall, glaring back at my reflection, determined to survive. Michael might want to kill our marriage, but he wouldn’t kill me in the process. In retrospect, I realize that was when I’d reached my limit.

I got dressed and marched myself right down to Lillian Case’s office. If there’s anything to smile about regarding this ugly divorce, it’s the misery Lillian put Michael through. Michael repeatedly claimed he wanted a friendly divorce, but as Lillian said, it was far too late for that.

The boys still aren’t speaking to him. I’m not sure Mick ever will. Alex was always close to his father, and I know he misses Michael. We don’t talk about him. I wish we could, but nothing I can say is going to take away the pain of having their father walk out the door. What Michael failed to understand was that in leaving me, he abandoned his children, too. He didn’t just betray me. He broke faith with us all.

I probably should have figured out what was happening—that was what Marilyn seemed to insinuate. I did suspect something was wrong, but never, ever would I have guessed this. I thought maybe a midlife crisis or boredom with our marriage. Maybe that was how he felt; maybe it’s why he did what he did. But he should’ve been honest with me about his feelings—not had an affair. Bad enough that my husband screwed another woman, but a friend’s daughter?

I can only imagine what Carl would think if he were alive. It’s all so crazy. Just a few years ago, Michael and I attended the party Kathy and Carl threw for Miranda’s high-school graduation. Our top car salesman keels over from a heart attack and Michael, being a caring friend and business-owner, helps the grieving widow with the funeral arrangements and the insurance paperwork. Even crazier is the fact that I actually suggested it.

My one concern at the time was that Michael might be getting too close to the widow. Only it wasn’t Kathy keeping my husband entertained all those nights. It was her twenty-year-old daughter. I don’t think Kathy or I will ever get over the shock of it.

Michael still doesn’t fully appreciate the consequences of what he’s done. He sincerely believed that once we were divorced, everything would return to normal between him and his sons. Mick set him straight on that score. Alex, too. I know Michael hasn’t stopped trying, but the boys won’t be so easily won over. I’ve done my best to stay out of it. Nothing will ever change the fact that he’s their father; how they choose to deal with him is up to them. I refuse to encourage either boy to forgive and forget, but I won’t hold them back from a relationship with Michael, either. The choice is theirs.

Twenty-three years of marriage and I never looked at another man. Damn it all, I was a faithful, loving wife. I could have tolerated an affair if he’d given it up and returned to our marriage. But, no, he—

Okay, enough. I don’t need to keep repeating the same gory details. As I said, this is a fresh start, the first day of a new year. I’m giving myself permission to move on, as my psychobabbling counselor used to put it.

Part of moving on is belonging to the breakfast group—and continuing to write in my journal. Liz suggested we each pick a word for the year. A word. I haven’t quite figured out why, let alone which word would best suit me. We’re all supposed to have our words chosen before we meet next Thursday morning at Mocha Moments.

I’ve toyed with the idea of beginnings, as in new beginnings, but I don’t want to carry that theme around with me for the next twelve months. At some point, beginnings have to become middles and potential has to be realized. I guess I’m afraid I won’t be as successful as I want to be.

What I really need to do is discover who I am, now that I’m single again. For twenty-three years my identity was linked to Michael. We were a team, complementing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. I was always better with finances and Michael was the people person. He took a part-time job selling cars the first year we were married in order to supplement our budget, and quickly became the top salesman. His degree was in ecology and he had a day job at the town planning office but made three times the money selling cars. Soon he was working full-time at the dealership and I was stretching every dollar he made, creating a small nest-egg.

Then we had the chance to buy the Chevrolet dealership—the opportunity of a lifetime. We scraped together every penny we could. By the time the paperwork was finished, we didn’t have a cent between us, but we were happy. That was when we—

I can’t write about that, don’t want to dwell on how happy we were in those early years. Whenever I think about it, I feel overwhelmed by the pain of loss and regret. So much regret…

Word. I need a word. Not memories. I can’t tie my new identity to the past and to who I was; I’ve got to look toward the future. So I need a word that fits who I am today, the woman I’m becoming. The woman I want to be.

Just a minute here. Just a damn minute! Who I was, who I want to be. Why do I have to change? There’s nothing wrong with me! I wasn’t the one who ripped the heart out of this family. I was a good wife, a good mother. I was faithful…

FAITHFUL.

That’s it. My word. Not beginnings, not discovery, but faithful. From the moment I spoke my vows I was faithful to my husband, my marriage, my family. All these years I’ve been faithful to myself; I’ve never acted dishonestly and I’ve always put my family responsibilities above my own desires. I don’t need to find myself. I found out who I am a long time ago and frankly I happen to like that person. I wasn’t the one who changed; Michael did.

This feels good. The burden isn’t on my shoulders to prove one damn thing. I’ll remain faithful to me.

Happy New Year, Clare Craig. You’re going to have a wonderful year. No financial worries, thanks to Lillian Case and a judge who’s seen far too many men mess up their family’s lives. Michael will be spending twenty very long years paying off my share of the dealership. Plus interest. I have the house, a new car every year, health insurance, the boys’ college expenses and enough money to live comfortably.

I don’t have anything to worry about. I can do whatever I want. I certainly don’t have to work if I don’t feel like it.

Hey! Maybe getting a job wouldn’t be a bad idea. Maybe I should put my two decades of experience back into play. Didn’t I recently hear that Murphy Motors was advertising for a general manager? With my experience, I could work any hours I chose. News of my taking that job would really get Michael. It’s what he deserves. Turnabout is fair play (another of those handy sayings). Oh, God, it’s awful of me, but I love it.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. It’s taken a long time to feel anything but horrendous, crushing pain. I’m smiling now, just thinking about the look on Michael’s face when he learns I’ve been hired by his largest competitor.

Marilyn Cody was wrong, but then so was I. Living well isn’t going to teach Michael a thing, is it? Knowing that he’s lying awake at night, worrying about me sharing all his insider secrets with the Ford dealership—now, that will go a long way toward helping me find some satisfaction. And once I’m satisfied, I’ll start to concentrate on living well.

“Mom, can we talk?”

Clare Craig glanced up from her desk to find her seventeen-year-old son standing in the doorway of the family room. They’d spent the morning taking down the Christmas decorations, as they always did on January sixth—Epiphany, Twelfth Night—and getting Mick ready to return to college. How like Michael he looked, she thought with a twinge of sorrow. Michael twenty-five years ago, athletic, handsome, fit. Her heart cramped at the memory.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Alex stepped inside, dressed in his soccer uniform. The holiday break was already over; school had begun earlier in the week. Mick had left that morning for college in San Francisco.

Clare capped the end of her fountain pen and set aside the checkbook and bills in order to give her younger son her full attention. “What can I do for you?”

Alex avoided her gaze. “We haven’t been talking as much as we used to,” he mumbled, walking slowly toward her desk.

“I’ve been busy.” The Christmas tree had only come down that morning, but she realized he wasn’t referring to the last few days; he meant over the past year.

“I know,” he said with a shrug, his eyes darting around the room. “It’s just that…”

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

He raised his head and their eyes briefly met. Reading her younger son had never been a problem for Clare.

“How about if we talk in the kitchen?” she suggested. “You thirsty?”

The hopeful look on his face convinced her to abandon paying the bills. She’d get back to all that later.

“Sure.” He led the way through the large family room and into the kitchen.

Clare loved her expansive kitchen with its double ovens and large butcher-block island. Shining copper pots and kettles dangled from the rack above, the California sunlight reflected in their gleam. Clare had designed the kitchen herself and spent countless hours reviewing every detail, every drawer placement, every cupboard. She’d taken pride in her home, in her skill as a cook and homemaker.

These days it was unusual for her to prepare a meal. Alex had a part-time job at a computer store, and if he wasn’t at school or work, he was with his friends or on the soccer field. Cooking for one person hardly seemed worth the effort, and more and more often she ordered out. Or didn’t bother at all.

“I’ll get us a Coke,” Alex said, already reaching for the refrigerator handle. Clare automatically took two glasses from the cupboard.

Alex placed the cans on the round oak table. Many a night, unable to sleep, the two of them had sat here while Clare sobbed in pain and frustration. Alex had wept, too. It hadn’t been easy for a teenage boy to expose his emotions like that. If Clare didn’t already hate Michael for what he’d done to her self-esteem, then she’d hate him for the pain he’d brought into their children’s lives.

“Mick and I had a long talk last night.”

Clare had surmised as much. She’d heard them in Alex’s bedroom sometime after midnight, deep in conversation. Their raised voices were followed by heated whispers. Whatever they were discussing was between them and she was determined to keep out of it. They needed to settle their own differences.

“He’s upset with me.”

“Mick is? What for?”

Alex shrugged. He seemed to do that a lot these days.

“Brother stuff?” It was what he generally said when he didn’t want to give her a full explanation.

“Something like that.” He waited a moment before pulling back the tab on his soda can and taking a long swallow, ignoring the glass she’d set in front of him.

“Does this have to do with Kellie?” Alex and the girl across the street had been dating for a couple of months. Mick had dated her last summer and Clare wondered if the neighbor girl was causing a problem between her sons.

“Ah, Mom, we’re just friends.”

“If you and your brother had a falling-out, why don’t you just tell me instead of expecting me to guess?”

He lowered his eyes. “Because I’m afraid you’re going to react the same way Mick did.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

Alex took another drink of his Coke. Clare recognized a delaying tactic when she saw one. “Alex?”

“All right,” he said brusquely and sat up, his shoulders squared. “I’ve been talking to Dad.”

Clare swallowed hard, but a small shocked sound still managed to escape. She felt as though she’d taken a punch to the solar plexus.

“Are you mad?” Alex asked, watching her anxiously.

“It shouldn’t matter what I think.”

“But it does! I don’t want you to feel like I’ve betrayed you, too.”

“I…”

“That’s what Mick said I was doing. First Dad and now me. Mom, I swear to you, it isn’t like that.”

“Michael is your father,” she said, her mind whirling as she struggled with her conflicting emotions. Alex would never intentionally do anything to hurt her. As much as possible, Clare had tried not to entangle her sons in this divorce. When Michael moved out of the family home and in with his underage sweetheart, the two boys had rallied around her as if they could protect her from further pain. It didn’t work, but she’d cherished them for their show of sympathy and support.

“He called…Dad did.”

“When?” Now she was the one avoiding eye contact. She distracted herself by opening the can of Coke and pouring it carefully into her glass.

“Last week at Softline.”

“He phoned you at work?” She shouldn’t have been surprised; Michael was too much of a coward to risk having her answer the phone here at the house. Naturally he’d taken the low road.

“He invited me to dinner.”

“And you’re going?”

Clare felt her son’s scrutiny. “I don’t know yet. Mick doesn’t think I should.”

“But you want to, right?”

Alex stood and paced the area in front of the table. “That’s the crazy part, Mom. I do and I don’t. I haven’t talked to Dad in over a year—well, other than to say I wasn’t going to talk to him.”

“He is your father,” Clare said, to remind herself as much as her son.

“That’s what Kellie said.”

Sure Kellie said that, Clare mused darkly. She hadn’t seen her mother betrayed and then dumped like last week’s garbage. Kellie had two loving parents. She couldn’t even imagine what divorce did to a person’s soul or how it tore a family apart.

“I told Mick and I’m telling you. If my seeing Dad hurts you, then I won’t do it.”

Clare forced a smile but wasn’t sure what to say.

“Kellie thinks I should be talking to Dad,” he said, studying her closely, as though the neighbor girl’s opinion would influence her. Clare wasn’t particularly interested in what Kellie thought, but she knew how difficult the last two years had been for Alex, knew how badly he missed Michael.

“Kellie’s right,” she said briskly. “You and your father should be communicating.”

“You don’t mind?”

His obvious relief was painful to hear. She swallowed and said, “Alex, you’re my son, but you’re also your father’s.”

“I can’t forgive him for what he did.”

“I know,” Clare whispered. She sipped her Coke in order to hide the trembling in her voice, although she was fairly certain Alex had noticed.

Her son glanced at his watch, did a startled double-take and bolted out of the chair. “I’m late for soccer practice.”

“Go on,” she said, waving toward the door.

“Dad said he might start coming to my games,” Alex said, the words rushed as he hurried to the back door.

“Alex—”

“Sorry, Mom, gotta go.”

Oh, great! Now she had to worry about running into her ex at their son’s soccer games. And what about his girlfriend—was she going, too? If Alex chose to have a relationship with his father, that was one thing, but Clare couldn’t, wouldn’t, be anywhere in Michael’s vicinity when he was with Miranda.

The anger inside her remained deep and real, and Clare didn’t trust herself to control it. But under no circumstances would she embarrass her teenage son, and if that meant not attending the games, then so be it. Almost immediately, the resentment sprang up, as strong as the day Michael had left her. He’d already taken so much! How dared he steal the pleasure she derived from watching Alex play soccer? How dared he!

For a long time she sat mulling over her conversation with Alex. She knew how relieved he was to have this out in the open. Alex had been on edge for a while now, and she’d attributed his tension to the upcoming SATs. But it wasn’t the tests that were bothering him, or his relationship with his girlfriend or even his part-time job. It was Michael. Clare was positive of that.

Once again her ex-husband had gone behind her back.

January 15th

I got the job! There was never any doubt I’d be hired. Dan Murphy nearly leaped across the desk when he realized what he had. He gave me everything I wanted, including the part-time hours I requested. He’ll go ahead and hire a full-time manager and I’ll be more of a consultant.

Damn, it feels good. I’ve never experienced this kind of spiteful satisfaction before—and I do recognize it for what it is. Until these last two years, I had no idea I could be so vindictive. I don’t like this part of me, but I can’t seem to help myself.

Chapter Two

LIZ KENYON

“The teeth are smiling, but is the heart?”

—Congolese proverb

January 1st

For the first time in my fifty-seven years I spent New Year’s Eve alone. I ordered in Chinese, ate my chicken hot-sauce noodles in front of the television and watched a 1940s movie starring Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. They sure don’t make films like that anymore. Then at midnight, I brought in the New Year sipping champagne all by myself. I was in bed a few minutes after twelve, my thoughts full of Steve.

After six years the memories aren’t as painful as they were in the beginning. What continues to haunt me are the last minutes of my husband’s life. I wonder what went through his mind when he realized the huge semi had crossed the yellow line and was headed straight toward him. I wonder obsessively if his last thoughts were of the children or me, or if in those split seconds there’d been time to feel anything but panic and fear. I keep imagining his absolute terror when he knew he was about to be hit. Witnesses said he’d done everything possible to avoid the collision. At the last second, he must have faced the gut-wrenching horror of knowing there was nothing he could do. I’ve lived through my husband’s final minutes a thousand times. The sound of the impact—crunching metal and shattering glass—the screeching tires, his scream.

I thank God he died instantly.

As I lay in bed, I remembered our last morning together, as clearly as if it had happened yesterday instead of six years ago. April twentieth was an ordinary day, like so many others. We both got up and dressed for work. He helped me fasten my necklace and took the opportunity to slip his hand beneath my sweater. While I made breakfast, Steve shaved. We sat across from one another and chatted about the morning news, then he kissed me goodbye as I left for the hospital. I remember he said he had a staff meeting that afternoon and might be late for dinner.

An hour later my high-school sweetheart and husband of thirty-one years was dead. My life hasn’t been the same since; it’ll never be the same again. I’m still trying to accept the fact that Steve won’t come bursting through the front door wearing his sexy grin. Even now, I sleep on the far right side of the bed. Steve’s half remains undisturbed.

The last three months have been hard. I knew when Amy phoned to tell me Jack had been transferred to Tulsa that being separated from my daughter and grandchildren was going to be difficult. What I didn’t realize was how difficult. Spending time with Andrew and Annie was what kept me sane after losing Steve. I miss them so much! And then, as if my daughter and her family moving to another state wasn’t bad enough, Brian had to go and move out on his own. My son always did display impeccable timing.

He got a great job offer and I don’t begrudge his taking it for a minute. And yet I have to admit I wish it hadn’t happened quite so soon. It was hard to let him go and keep a smile on my face. I’m glad he’s happy, though, and adjusting to life in Orange County. At the same time, I’m sorry he’s living so far from Willow Grove. A couple of hours doesn’t sound like much, but I know my son and he’s far more interested in his social life than in visiting his widowed mother. That’s the way it should be, I suppose, only I can’t help feeling abandoned. First Amy, Jack and the grandkids, then Brian—and all at once I’m alone. Really alone.

I understand why I went to bed with thoughts of Steve. All my distractions have moved away. Even with the champagne, I couldn’t sleep. After an hour I gave up trying. I sat in the dark with an afghan wrapped around my legs and contemplated my future. During the holidays I put on a brave front, acting as though I’m okay about being alone. I didn’t want the kids to know how wretched I was feeling. Brian was here for Christmas, but he has friends he wanted to see and there’s a new girl in his life. I wonder if that son of mine is ever going to settle down. I guess he’s one step closer now, living on his own; at least that’s what I tell myself. Amy and I talked, but she phoned me and I know that with a single income and a large mortgage, they’re on a tight budget, so the conversation was short. Normally I would’ve called back but it sounded so hectic there with the kids opening their gifts and all the craziness of Christmas morning. I put phoning off until later and then just didn’t.

As for New Year’s Eve, spending it alone was my choice. Sean Jamison casually suggested we get together for dinner. The problem with this doctor is that outside of his work, everything’s casual with him. I’m not going to make the mistake of getting involved with a man who has a reputation as a womanizer (although I readily admit his interest flatters my ego). Besides, I’m older than he is. Not by much, six years, maybe seven, just enough to make me a little uncomfortable…not that I’d seriously consider dating him, anyway. My major complaint, in addition to the age difference, is that he’s the exact opposite of Steve, who was genuine and unassuming. The good doctor is stuck on himself.

Still, he’s obviously an interesting man. I wouldn’t mind talking to him on a strictly-friends basis. Nothing romantic or sexual. Just conversation, maybe over coffee or a drink. After all, everyone can use another friend.

Speaking of friends, when Clare, Julia, Karen and I met after our last journal-writing class, we decided to continue the friendship by meeting for breakfast every Thursday. I came up with the suggestion that we should each take a word for the year. A word to live by, to help us focus our thoughts. A word to reflect what’s happening in our lives and what we want to do and be. I’m not sure where that idea came from, probably some article I read, but it struck a chord with me.

Karen loved the idea, but then Karen’s young and enthusiastic about everything. That’s what makes her so much fun and why she fits in so nicely with the rest of us. We each bring something individual to the group, and yet we connect…

Last night, I started thinking about my word, considering various possibilities. I still hadn’t found the right word. It’s like trying on dresses at Nordstrom’s for a special occasion. I only need one and I want it to be perfect. It has to fit properly, look wonderful and feel great. My thoughts went around and around—Steve, my job, Amy and Brian. My word for the year—love? Change? Something else? Strangely, unexpectedly, I found myself remembering Lauren. Lauren. My baby daughter, whom I never had a chance to know. The baby I held in my arms so briefly. Born too soon, she died during the first week of her life, nearly thirty-six years ago. Every year on the date of her birth, Steve would bring me a bouquet of daisies, to let me know he hadn’t forgotten her or the pain we endured as young parents, losing our first child. I’m really not sure why I started thinking about Lauren just then.

Determined to dwell on the present and not the past, I turned my attention to searching out a suitable word for the year. It took a while but I found one that feels right for me. As I sat in the shadows, unable to sleep, listening to the grandfather clock tick away the minutes, my word came to me.

TIME.

I’m fifty-seven. In three years I’ll be sixty. Sixty. I don’t feel close to sixty and I don’t think I act it. Still, it’s the truth, whether I choose to face it or not. There always seemed to be so much time to do all the things I’d planned. For instance, I always thought that someday I’d climb a mountain. I don’t know exactly why, just because it sounded like such a huge accomplishment, I guess. Now I know I won’t be doing any mountain-climbing, especially at this stage of my life. It all comes down to choices, I guess. Besides, I’ve got other mountains to climb these days.

At one point, when we were in our twenties, Steve and I wrote a list of all the exciting things we were going to do and the exotic vacations we planned to take. The years slipped away and we were caught up with raising our family and living our lives. Those dreams and plans got pushed into an indefinite future. We assumed there’d always be time. Someday or next year, or the year after that. This is a mistake I don’t intend to repeat and why the word time is appropriate for me. I want to be aware of every moment of my life. And I want to choose the right plans and dreams to fulfill in the years that are left to me. As soon as I settled on my word, I was instantly tired and fell promptly asleep.

Because I didn’t go to sleep until after two, I slept late. I didn’t make breakfast until past noon. I had the television on for company, but football’s never interested me. That was Steve’s game, though, and I found it oddly comforting to keep the channel on the Rose Bowl. For a few hours I could pretend that my husband was with me. The house didn’t feel quite as big or as empty.

The house…that’s something else I have to consider. I should make a decision about continuing to live here. I don’t need three thousand square feet, but this was the home Steve and I bought together, where we raised our family. With the way real-estate prices have escalated, I’m sitting on a lot of money that could well be invested elsewhere.

It’s silly to hold on to this place. The house was perfect when Andrew and Annie came to spend the weekend. Two rambunctious grandchildren need all the space they can get. It didn’t bother me then or when Brian lived at home. We needed a big house in order to stay out of each other’s hair, but for just me…Actually it’s the thought of getting it ready to sell—sorting through all the stuff that’s tucked in every nook and cranny, then packing up fifty-seven years of accumulated junk—that’s giving me pause.

After Steve died, my friends advised me to delay any major decisions for twelve months. That’s good advice to remember now. What I’m experiencing is a second loss. The loss of my children. I’m the only Kenyon left in Willow Grove.

I’m not entirely alone, however. My friends are here—those I’ve known all my married life, although it seems we’ve drifted apart since Steve died. My new friends live here, too—the women I met in the journal-writing class. I’m grateful to Sandy O’Dell for recommending I enroll. It was exactly what I needed, and I’ve learned a lot about myself through the process of writing down my thoughts every day. I wish now that I’d kept a diary when I was younger. Perhaps then I’d have found it easier to understand and express my own feelings.

Our teacher, Suzanne Morrissey, was an English professor assigned to the class at the last minute. Unfortunately, she didn’t have any idea where to start, although she gave it a good try. Mostly, she had us read and critique literary journals, which was interesting but not all that useful. Still, I suppose keeping a journal isn’t really something that can be taught. It’s something you do.

What came out as I wrote in my journal was this deep sense of loss and abandonment I’ve felt since Steve’s death. I’d assumed that after six years I’d dealt with all that, but coupled with Amy and Jack’s move to the mid-West, followed by Brian’s moving out…well, it’s too much.

Amazing, isn’t it, that I can cope with one crisis after another in my job at the hospital yet feel so defeated by the events in my own life?

Clare and I have been spending quite a bit of time together. That’s probably natural, her being recently divorced and me a widow. Clare’s situation is similar to mine a few years back when I realized, to my dismay, that my friends came in couples. Most of them are matched sets. Like me, Clare has come to recognize that she lost not only her husband but the framework of her social world, which crumbled right along with the marriage. Although her circumstances are different from mine, the outcome has been the same. The dinners, card-playing, even something as uncomplicated as a night at the movies—it all seems to be done in pairs.

Within a few months of Steve’s death, I found myself drifting away from the very people I’d once considered our dearest friends. We have so little in common anymore that I couldn’t see the point.

It was awkward, too. People didn’t know what to say after the accident. In fact, I didn’t want anyone to say anything. What I needed was someone to listen. Few of my friends understood that.

Clare’s had a hard time adjusting to the divorce. Losing the people she once considered her friends is a bitter pill after everything she’s been through with Michael. Maybe she should have taken it up with the attorney: custody of the friends. Who gets to stay friends with whom?

Really, it’s odd that Clare and I should have bonded at all. We’re very different kinds of people; in our previous lives, we probably wouldn’t have felt the slightest interest in knowing each other. Right now, Clare’s angry and bitter and struggling not to be. I still have my share of anger, too, yet I’m more accepting of the events that led me to this point (but then, my husband didn’t leave me for another woman). I enjoy Julia and Karen, too, but it’s Clare I identify with most. Perhaps it’s the loneliness. That’s something we both understand. Something people can’t truly appreciate until they’ve experienced it themselves.

Time. This should be the best time of my life. I have a fabulous career. When I started out at Willow Grove Memorial, I never dreamed that one day I’d end up as the hospital administrator. My children have grown into responsible adults. I had a wonderful marriage and I’ve got lots of memories to sustain me. Yes, this should be a good time, and it will be—once I learn how to live contentedly by myself.

Liz stared at the phone on her desk, dreading its ring. Her Monday had begun badly, and already she could see that this first week of the new year was going to be a repeat of December, with many of the same problems she’d faced then. The hospital was no closer to a new contract with the nurses’ union, and the state health inspectors were scheduled for Wednesday afternoon. In addition, she’d had several hot flashes and been downing Chai tea with soy milk all morning. This was not a good start to the year, she thought gloomily.

She got up and removed her jacket, placing it on a hanger. Then she unfastened the top button of her white silk blouse and rolled the long sleeves past her elbows. Picking up a piece of paper from the desk, she fanned her flushed face and paused to look out the sixth-floor window to the parking lot below.

“I can see I’ve cornered you at a good moment.” It was a deep male voice, one Liz immediately identified.

“Dr. Jamison,” she said in a crisp, professional tone. He was rarely at Willow Grove Memorial. Most of his patients were admitted to Laurelhurst Children’s Hospital, where he worked primarily with premature infants. Sean Jamison was an excellent pediatrician but he had a well-deserved reputation for being demanding, impatient and arrogant—an arrogance that found expression in his womanizing behaviour. Liz couldn’t fault his medical skills, but when it came to dealing with staff, he could use a few lessons in emotional maturity.

“Come now,” he said, his voice seductive, “we know each other well enough for you to call me Sean.”

Liz stepped behind her desk and resumed her seat, motioning for him to sit down, too. “How can I help you?”

“This is more of a social visit.” He claimed the closest chair and struck a casual pose, crossing his legs and balancing one ankle on the opposite knee. He relaxed, leaning back as if he was settling in for a long visit. “I stopped by to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m busy,” she said quickly, thinking he might have time for chitchat but she didn’t.

He ignored her lack of welcome. “How was your New Year’s Eve?”

So that was it. He’d asked her out—well, sort of. What he’d done was propose that they get together, the invitation flavored with sexual innuendo, and she’d promptly refused. Although she’d been a widow for six years, Liz rarely dated. Opportunities were available, had she been interested. For the most part, she wasn’t.

“I had a lovely night. What about you?” From Sean’s reaction she’d realized it wasn’t often a woman turned him down. Liz had certainly heard all the rumors about Dr. Jamison. He was tall, sandy-haired and craggy-faced, with an undeniable presence; comparisons to Harrison Ford were regularly made—by women from twenty to sixty. Sean possessed the ageless appeal of a man who was smart, handsome, wealthy and single. The hospital was full of gossip about him, and more than one of the female nurses had fallen under his spell. Divorced for ten years, Sean Jamison seemed to consider himself a prize to be caught. He never dated anyone for long and Liz disliked his arrogant approach in romance as much as she deplored his indifference to staff relations.

Liz and Steve had met in high school, and other than the normal ups and downs that were part of any longstanding relationship, they’d had a good, solid marriage. She wasn’t interested in a fling, no matter how handsome or wealthy the man.

Sean’s attention confused her, although she’d never allow him to see that. From what she understood, he generally went out with women several years younger than he was. While Liz kept fit and watched her diet, she wasn’t a trim thirty-year-old. With loving humor, Steve had suggested that her hourglass figure had begun to show an hour and ten minutes. She still smiled whenever she thought of that.

“Stayed home New Year’s, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted, and crossed her arms, letting him know she wasn’t open to a discussion involving her private life, “but as I said, I had a perfectly lovely evening.”

“All alone?”

“I happen to enjoy my own company.” Standing, she braced both hands on the edge of her cherrywood desk. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“I’m willing to give you another chance to go out with me.”

“No, thanks.”

He grinned, dismissing her rejection as though it was her loss, not his. Then he stood and turned away, ambling toward the door.

“Sean,” she said, shocking herself just a little.

His smile firmly in place, he raised his eyebrows. “Change your mind?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” she said, knowing that for some reason she didn’t want this conversation to end the same way the others had.

“No?” He arched his eyebrows again, affecting a look of mild surprise.

“This is the second time you’ve stopped by my office to ask me out.”

He didn’t comment.

“I’ve turned you down both times,” she reminded him. “And I’m wondering if you’ve asked yourself why.”

“It’s self-explanatory,” he murmured. “You’re afraid.”

“It’s more than that.”

He shrugged carelessly, and she could practically read his response. No big deal. Plenty of women willing to take him up on his offer.

“It’s your attitude.”

For the first time in their lengthy association, Sean appeared to be at a loss for words.

“I’m not some bimbo you can schmooze into bed. This might come as news to you, but there’s more to a relationship than what happens between a man and a woman in the bedroom.”

He stared at her, as if daring her to continue. “I happen to think you’re one of the finest pediatricians in this state,” she went on. “I respect your diagnostic and medical skills, and I’ve seen the way you are with the children. My regard for your professional abilities is immense. But your manner with most people in this hospital leaves a lot to be desired, and frankly I’m not impressed.”

“Is this the long version of why you’re not interested in dating me?” he asked with barely disguised disdain.

“Actually…I’d like to get to know you.”

His look implied that he wasn’t sure he should believe her. “You have an odd way of saying so.”

Despite his apparent indifference, she knew this couldn’t be easy on his ego. “I suspect there’s more to you than meets the eye.”

“Great. Your place or mine?”

Liz wanted to groan out loud. He hadn’t heard a word she’d said! “Neither.” She held the door for him and added soberly, “When you’re ready to see me as an intelligent, mature woman whose professional interests are compatible with yours, let me know.” She leaned against the open door. “Otherwise you’re wasting your time.”

“I doubt that,” he said as he stepped past and paused to touch his lips to her cheek. “Give me a call when you’re ready for some excitement in your life.”

Liz rolled her eyes. Forget it, Doctor. I have enough excitement just dealing with all the staff complaints against you.

Some people never learned.