Debbie Macomber - Thursdays at Eight

“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 for several months before confessing to the affair, and apparently her son had learned that kind of deception.

“You could mail him the schedule,” Liz agreed without much enthusiasm. “When’s the next game?”

“Tomorrow.” As she answered, Clare realized that even with overnight delivery service, Michael wouldn’t get the schedule in time for the upcoming game. Okay, so she’d skip this game and make arrangements for someone to replace her at the concession stand. No big deal—only it was. It was a very big deal.

“Clare?”

Clare looked up.

“You didn’t hear me, did you?”

“Hear what?” Her friend was right; she’d been so caught up in her own thoughts she hadn’t heard a word in the last few minutes.

“I said your heart will tell you the best thing to do.”

Now that was an interesting concept. If she’d listened to her heart, Michael would have died an agonizing death two years ago.

And she’d be making license plates in a federal pen.

LIZ KENYON

“You may be disappointed if you fail, but you are doomed if you don’t try.”

—Beverly Sills

January 19th

Here it is Friday night, and I’m nestled in front of the television watching Seinfeld reruns and munching on popcorn while writing in my journal. I’m almost tempted to feel sorry for myself. Even Tinkerbell is showing signs of sympathy by sitting in my lap. Steve never did understand my affection for cats, but he liked Tinkerbell.

Work this week was dreadful. I hardly had a chance to deal with one crisis before I was hit with another. I don’t even want to think about the nurses going out on strike. I didn’t get home before seven once this entire week, so it’s no wonder that all I want to do is hibernate in front of the TV tonight!

The weekend’s already arrived, which means an entire week has vanished. It makes my word for the year, time, all the more significant. I’m feeling a sense of panic—a sense that if I don’t do something now, the weeks and months will slip through my fingers. Spring will be here, and then autumn and I won’t have accomplished any of what I’ve planned so carefully—travel, catching up on the books stacked by my bed, doing some charitable work, learning a new skill.

At the Soroptimist meeting last week, before everything at the hospital went to hell in a handbasket, Ruth Howe, the head librarian, talked about a program at the juvenile detention center. The librarians are taking turns reading the Harry Potter books over the loudspeaker system each night. There are only three librarians, and Ruth came to the meeting hoping to find more volunteers.

It seems she read about such a program in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spoke of the difference this had made in the young people’s lives. When she first proposed the idea here, the detention center told her there was little they could do to control noise. She was welcome to come in, but the staff couldn’t guarantee that anyone would listen.

Ruth and the other librarians weren’t dissuaded. As expected, their reception was lukewarm in the beginning, but they faithfully showed up every night, despite the hoots and hollers of protest. Apparently the disruptions didn’t last long. According to Ruth, the reading period is the only hour of the day or night when the facility is absolutely quiet. For many of the teenagers, this is the first time in their lives anyone has ever read to them.

I knew right away that it was something I’d like to do. Ruth got a couple of volunteers at the meeting, and I was tempted to sign up right then, but I hesitated…

A while back, I read something smart. The exact wording escapes me now, but I remember the meaning: I need to stop and consider my options before volunteering for something. If I say yes, then I need to think about what I’m saying no to first. In other words, if I were a volunteer reader at the detention center tonight, what wouldn’t I be doing? The answer is obvious—sitting in front of the TV watching reruns, writing in my journal and fighting Tinkerbell for the last of the popcorn.

Where would I rather be?

But after a work week like this, would I feel like trekking all the way to Charleston Street to read a chapter or two aloud? I don’t know how good I’d be. Reading to my grandchildren is vastly different from trying to entertain adolescent felons. Still, it appeals to me and is something I’m going to consider.

I’m afraid this whole year will speed by, and I won’t have achieved anything. I’m determined to make some kind of contribution to society.

When I volunteer for an activity, I’m going to do so wholeheartedly and with absolute commitment. That means I have to pick the right one…

CLARE CRAIG

“If you think you can, you can. And if you think you can’t, you’re right.”

—Mary Kay Ash

At noon on Saturday, Clare checked her e-mail messages for the sixth time that day. It hadn’t occurred to her until after her lunch with Liz that she could contact Michael without speaking to him or sending a letter. E-mail. She hardly ever used it herself, since she considered it a time-waster. But she remembered that Michael, who was enthralled with anything high-tech, did much of his correspondence by e-mail.

Her message had been short.

Michael:

Unless you want an

embarrassing scene, I suggest

you stay away from Alex’s

soccer match this afternoon.

Next Tuesday’s game is all

yours.

You will receive a schedule

of which games I’m attending.

You’re free to attend the other half.

It’s up to you.

Hugs and kisses.

Not!

Clare

It’d taken her most of an hour to write those few words. She hoped the small touch of humor would help.

By one o’clock, her stomach was so queasy she couldn’t even manage a cup of tea. She hadn’t asked him to e-mail her back but had assumed he would, if for no other reason than to confirm that he’d read her message. Clare needed his assurance that he’d do nothing to embarrass her in front of her friends. That was all she wanted; she should have known better than to expect cooperation from Michael.

At two, just an hour before she had to leave for the game, Clare found herself so agitated, she actually broke into a cold sweat. Her queasiness had developed into full-blown nausea. When she couldn’t bear it another minute, she reached for the phone.

She hadn’t called the dealership in a very long time, but the telephone number was still on her speed-dial. She punched the button.