Debbie Macomber - Thursdays at Eight

“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

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.

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.