Thursdays at Eight. Debbie Macomber

drugs and not a one of them stays married. These women get pregnant and most don’t even bother to marry the child’s father. They have babies by a bunch of different men. They take their clothes off for the whole world to see. They have absolutely no morals, Karen—and everyone knows the successful ones sleep with their casting directors. The unsuccessful ones are just unemployed.”

      “That’s so unfair,” Karen cried, not caring that she’d attracted attention to herself. “You’re judging me by what’s in the tabloids. There’s more to being an actress than what those headlines scream and furthermore, you can’t believe everything you read!” The only true thing her mother had said was that remark about unemployment, which Karen chose to ignore. “Besides,” she added, “not all actors use drugs.”

      “I’ve read about those Hollywood parties with the drugs and sex and God knows what else. I don’t want my daughter mixing with that kind of crowd.”

      “Mom, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

      “I do. They’ll lure you in. Weird cults and casting couches…”

      “I’m not doing drugs,” Karen insisted. “I’ve never come across a cult, weird or otherwise. And I’ve never even seen a casting couch, let alone done anything on one.”

      “What about this director? He wants you to audition for another commercial?”

      Karen sighed. “It’s for a dog-food commercial. He told my agent he liked my style and—”

      “I’ll just bet he did,” her mother said, lips pinched tight. “Exactly what are you going to have to do for that role?”

      Enough was enough. As politely as possible, Karen placed the pink linen napkin on the table and picked up her purse. “I think it’d be best if I left.” She kept her voice expressionless.

      “Sit down right now!” her mother ordered. “I won’t have you making a scene by leaving before we’ve finished our lunch.”

      Karen reached down for her shopping bag and held onto it with both hands. “If you’re worried about creating a scene, then I suggest that the next time we meet, you refrain from insulting me.”

      “All I said was—”

      “Thank you for lunch.” Karen did her best to hide her anger—and disappointment. She should’ve known better. Whenever she saw her mother, they always played out some version of this encounter. The simple truth was that her family didn’t respect her and had no confidence in her talent or, apparently, her judgment. And that hurt.

      “Karen, wait,” Victoria pleaded, rising to her feet.

      Karen shook her head, fearing that if she stayed she’d end up saying something she’d regret.

      Chapter Nine

      JULIA MURCHISON

      “What a wonderful life I’ve had! I only wish I’d realized it sooner.”

      —Colette

       January 25th

       List of Blessings

      1 The security of order. Everything neatly in its place. Yarn arranged by color to form a rainbow effect in the store.

      2 The welcome feel of my mattress after a long day on my feet.

      3 Music and the way it nurtures me.

      4 Zoe’s snit fits when everything doesn’t go exactly as she wants it to. Could this daughter of mine be taking after me? Never!

      5 My customers, eager to create something lasting and beautiful.

      I haven’t been feeling well for weeks, and with my newfound determination to take care of myself physically, I’ve made an appointment to see Dr. Snyder, even though it means I’ll have to leave the Thursday breakfast group early. The last time I saw Dr. Snyder was November when I had that dreadful flu bug and was flat on my back for an entire week.

      I guess I haven’t fully recovered from that virus. I assumed I’d feel better after the holidays, but I don’t. In fact, I seem to be more tired now than ever. I can’t seem to get enough sleep. Twice last week, I went to bed before Adam and Zoe did.

      Peter, who almost never complains, mentioned it at breakfast this morning. But this is more than exhaustion. I’m constantly running to the bathroom. Could be I’ve developed a bladder infection. I certainly hope not.

      My whole system is out of whack. Even my period is late. I’ll be forty this year, but I didn’t expect menopause to hit me this early. If it did, though, I wouldn’t complain.

      Reading this, it almost sounds like I’m pregnant. It’s been so many years since I had the kids, I didn’t put it together until just this minute. But that’s impossible. I’ve been on the pill for years, and with the flu and the busyness of the season, Peter and I haven’t been that active sexually.

      After Zoe was born, Peter intended to have a vasectomy, but because we were both so young, the doctor advised us to hold off making that decision for a few years. We talked it over and agreed to wait. I went on the pill once I’d finished nursing, and all concern vanished from our minds. Five years later, Peter made an appointment for the vasectomy; I can’t remember why he didn’t go through with it. He’d gone in for his preliminary exam, but after discussing it with the specialist, he decided he wanted to think this through more carefully. So I continued taking the pill. Which is ninety-nine percent effective…

      I’m not pregnant. I couldn’t be. I’m methodical about my vitamins and my birth control pill. I don’t miss. Ever. I refuse to think like this. A pregnancy now would be a disaster. I’m finished with the baby stage and couldn’t imagine going back.

      No need to borrow trouble when a baby simply isn’t a possibility. Besides, I’d know if I was pregnant. I did with Adam and Zoe. Both times, within ten days of conception, I sensed the changes in my body. It felt as though everything inside me had welcomed this new life taking shape. There’s no celebration happening now.

      I’m ending this right here because I can’t deal with what I’m thinking. I am not pregnant. I don’t want to be pregnant and I refuse to torment myself with something that has only a onepercent chance of being true.

      “I don’t need a urine test,” Julia insisted, meeting Dr. Lucy Snyder’s unyielding gaze. “I already told you a pregnancy just isn’t possible.”

      Dr. Snyder rolled the stool closer to the examination table where Julia sat, clutching the paper gown to her stomach, her bare feet dangling.

      “The pelvic exam suggests otherwise,” Doc Snyder said quietly.

      “I can’t be pregnant.” Julia didn’t know why she felt the need to argue when a pregnancy was now almost a certainty. The queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with morning sickness and everything to do with her state of mind.

      “With the pill, there’s always that slight risk,” the doctor murmured.

      Julia adamantly shook her head.

      “You say you never missed a pill? Not even once?”

      “Not even once!” Julia cried, fighting back emotion so negative her voice actually shook.

      Dr. Snyder read the chart. “What about when you had that flu virus?”

      “I took my pills,” Julia said.

      “You kept them down?”

      “Down? What do you mean down?” Julia asked.

      “According to the chart, you suffered projectile vomiting for three days.”

      Julia’s forehead broke into a sweat. “Yes…And I didn’t eat solids for a full seven days.” Her stomach hadn’t tolerated anything other than weak tea