Thursdays at Eight. Debbie Macomber

to the heart of the matter.

      “I mean it—at least I think I do. Sometimes it’s hard to know. I’m just so angry with Alex.”

      “Alex, not Michael?”

      “Michael, too, because it seems to me that Alex is imitating his father’s tactics. He didn’t want to admit he was having dinner with Michael, so he did it without telling me.”

      “But he did tell you he’d been in contact with his dad.”

      That was true enough. “Alex said Michael had phoned him. Well, this is a lot more than a simple phone call. What I object to most is the secrecy. As if my not knowing was somehow supposed to protect me.”

      “What did Alex say when you confronted him?”

      By the time her son had walked into the house, Clare had been so angry she’d barely been able to speak to him. To his credit, Alex didn’t deny seeing Michael. He calmly told her where he’d gone, then he went to his room, leaving Clare to deal with impotent rage. She was convinced this was Michael’s revenge for her taking the job at Murphy Motors.

      “Alex lied to me, and I think Michael encouraged him.”

      “You don’t know that.”

      “I know my ex,” she snapped.

      “Clare,” Liz said softly. “I’m on your side, remember?”

      “I know…I know. Part of me is relieved that the ice between Alex and Michael is broken. I mean, I realize how difficult our divorce has been on Alex. He was always so close to his father.” She felt herself tense as she thought of the pain her ex-husband had inflicted on their family. Poor Alex had been put in an impossible position. He loved both his parents and yearned to please Michael as well as her. That she could understand, but not the lie. Surely he knew what his dishonesty would do to Clare when she found out.

      It wasn’t only his relationship with her that Michael had destroyed. Mick and Alex weren’t getting along, and Michael was the source of that trouble, too. He’d managed to drive a wedge between the two brothers, and Clare feared that was about to happen between Alex and her, too.

      “On his way out the door recently, Alex oh-so-casually said that Michael might be attending the soccer games. Now I find out he’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.”

      “And you won’t be there if your ex is?”

      “Can you blame me?” She scowled. “At least Miranda’s not coming. Alex told me that much, anyway.”

      “No, I don’t blame you.” Liz patted her arm. “It’s perfectly understandable,” she said. “I wouldn’t go under those circumstances, either.”

      Clare instantly felt better. “What am I supposed to do now?”

      “What do you mean?”

      Michael had already taken so much from her, and Clare couldn’t tolerate his stealing more. “I enjoy watching Alex play. I’m the one who drove him to and from soccer practice for the last twelve years. I’m the soccer mom who treated the team to ice cream and slumber parties. The other parents are my friends.”

      “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