Thursdays At Eight Read online

  Unlike Mom, Liz has been nothing but encouraging about my acting career. I know what the chances are of actually making it, but I can’t allow unfavorable odds to dissuade me from trying. This is my dream. My life’s ambition. If I don’t go after it now, I never will. I honestly don’t understand why my mother can’t support my choices.

  Enough already. This entire journal is turning out to be about my mother instead of me. I’d prefer not to deal with her today, or any day. Besides, Liz gave us an assignment.

  I need a word before we meet next Thursday. We’re all selecting a personal word. It’s supposed to have special significance in our lives. Maybe I should use this as an acting exercise, do some free association.

  Actually, I rather like that idea. Let’s see. Acting. Goal. Audition. Wouldn’t it be great to audition for a TV show like Friends? Friends. New friends. Liz, Clare and Julia. What I love about them is that they’re so accepting of me. I love that they laugh at my jokes and make me feel a real part of the group. If only my mother were half as accepting…

  That’s it. I’ve got it! Acceptance. I want my parents to accept me for the person I am. I might not have turned out the way they envisioned, but I’m a good, decent, honest person. That should count for something. If my parents can welcome a twit like Roger into the family, they should be able to cope with a daughter who wants to act. And no, Mother, I don’t think performing in a toilet-brush commercial is beneath me. I was emotionally wiped out for a week when someone else got the role.

  ACCEPTANCE. I’ve got to be me. Ol’ Blue Eyes really knew what he was talking about. Acceptance. I like it. My hope is that one day my mother will accept me for who I am and be just as proud of me as she is of Victoria.

  Fresh from her first audition of the year, Karen excitedly wrote in her journal, sitting at her usual window table at Mocha Moments. The upscale coffee shop was bustling as customers moved in and out. She’d been the one to recommend the place to the breakfast group and felt good about the way they’d applauded her suggestion. Two summers ago she’d stood behind that counter, concocting lattes and serving up fiber-filled bran muffins. Despite being fired for repeated absences, she maintained a friendly relationship with the manager and often stopped by. She did almost all her journal-writing at this very table.

  She was about to leave when Jeff slid into the chair across from her. “Whatssup?” he asked.

  “Hey, Jeff.” It was great to see him. One advantage of teaching those fitness classes was that he looked positively buff. His shoulders were muscular and his chest had filled out. He wore a winter tan so rich, it must have come out of a booth.

  “Thought I’d find you in here,” he said, flashing a smile. Oh, yeah, he was the California poster boy, all right, with his gorgeous white teeth, whiter than ever against the tan, and his sun-streaked blond hair.

  “You were looking for me?” Her ego wasn’t immune to having this hunk seek her out, especially here, where everyone knew her. They’d been together some in high school, but nothing serious. Her mother’s generation called it dating, but all Karen and Jeff had really done was hang out together. They were part of the acting ensemble, and their commitment had been to that, which left little time for anything social.

  “I’ve been thinking about what you said.” Jeff leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’m impressed with your determination. You believe in yourself.”

  “Jeff, you’ve got as much talent as I do. You can make it, I know you can.”

  “Yeah, I know, but it takes more than talent.”

  Talent was cheap, Karen knew that; she ran into it everywhere. And as Jeff said, it wasn’t enough. What made the difference was drive, determination and plain old-fashioned stubbornness.

  A slim strawberry blonde with her hair tied back in a ponytail came into the coffee shop and walked up to the counter, where she placed her order. Jeff’s attention drifted from Karen to the blonde. She wore navy-blue spandex and a matching sports bra, her face glistening with sweat. It was obvious that she’d recently been at the gym.

  “You know her?” Karen asked.

  “She’s in one of my classes, along with her sugar daddy.”

  Karen stared. It couldn’t be, could it? She’d once been at the mall with Clare, meeting for lunch, when a pert blond woman, younger than Karen, had emerged from Victoria’s Secret. Clare had pointed her out. Could this be the woman Clare’s husband had dumped her for? Miranda Something? Nah. The world got smaller all the time, but it wasn’t that small. “What’s the name?” she asked.

  “Miranda.”

  “No kidding! What about the sugar daddy?”

  Jeff frowned as he mulled over the question. “I don’t remember.”

  “It isn’t Michael, is it?”

  His eyes widened. “I think it might be. Yeah, I think it is. You know him?”

  “Of him,” she muttered, checking out the other woman. So this was Miranda. Clare had told her a bit of the story; Liz had told her more, and over the last few months, Karen had picked up a few of the nastier details.

  “He dumped his family for her.”

  Jeff’s attention went back to Miranda. “She’s not bad-looking,” he said thoughtfully.

  “What’s Michael like?”

  Jeff frowned again. “You interested in him?”

  “No.” She wanted to clobber him for being so stupid. “He was married to a friend of mine. Tell me about him.”

  Jeff seemed to be at a loss. “I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Personality-wise he seems all right, but he’s not much of an athlete. He had trouble keeping up with the class. Must’ve dropped out because I haven’t seen him around lately.”

  “But you’ve seen Miranda?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s there.”

  “Really?” Karen’s gaze narrowed as she studied the other woman more closely. “What do you think she sees in him?” she asked Jeff.

  “The sugar daddy?” Jeff said. “What they all see. He’s got money to burn.”

  Karen shook her head. “There’s got to be more than that.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t. I told you, it’s just that I know his ex-wife and I’m curious.”

  Jeff raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Miranda’s okay, I guess. I don’t know why she hooked up with this older guy, but as far as I’m concerned, to each his—or her—own. It’s not exactly unusual, Karen. I see this sort of thing at the gym. The older men come in and hit on the younger women all the time. It’s part of life in the fast lane.”

  “That doesn’t bother you?”

  “Me?” Jeff laughed. “Hey, I get more attention than I can handle. I’m happy to share the wealth.”

  “I wonder where he is this afternoon.” Karen wondered aloud.

  “Michael? Either she completely exhausted him and he’s still too weak to get out of bed, or he’s hard at work, keeping Miranda in the style to which she’s become accustomed.”

  Karen doubted that. Clare’s attorneys had taken her ex to the car wash. If Michael Craig was hard at work, the pennies weren’t being spent on Miranda. Looking at the other woman, Karen felt a pang of something approaching pity. There had to be a real lack in this girl’s life, or she wouldn’t have hooked up with a man old enough to be her father.

  January 16th

  The first few times I filled in as a substitute were fun, but lately it’s gotten to be like real work. Maybe it’s because I’ve been with a group of junior-high kids all week. They wear me out fast. Makes me wonder if I was that energetic at their age.

  Today I got smart. Instead of standing at the front of the class all day yelling at kids who have no intention of listening, I brought in a huge bag of mini-chocolate bars. That got their interest. Why did it take me so long to figure out that a little thing like bribery would tame the savage beasts? (Yes, I know I’m misquoting!)

  Mom phoned. It’s the first I’ve heard from her since Christmas. She wants to take me to lunch on Saturday. I ag
reed before I learned that Victoria was coming, too. Mom did that on purpose. She knows how I feel about Victoria. We don’t get along. Why should we, seeing that we don’t have a thing in common? Mom dotes on her precious Victoria. My entire childhood, I was treated like an outcast because I wasn’t like my perfect-in-every-way older sister. Apparently, all that’s changed since I started teaching. Now that I’m respectably employed (even if it’s only part-time) Mom’s free to brag about me to her friends, too.

  As soon as I learned Victoria would be at lunch, I should’ve found an excuse to get out of it, especially when Mother told me we’d be going to the Yacht Club. But with my current cash-flow difficulties, I’m not above accepting a free lunch.

  Jeff’s been interesting lately. He seems to be fired up about acting again and asked if I’d recommend my agent. I was happy to pass on Gwen’s phone number and apparently they’re talking. I don’t know if she’ll take him on or not; that’s not my decision. Jeff took me to dinner to thank me. There’s a great Mexican place close to the gym. It was good to see him and talk shop, to recharge my own enthusiasm. Focus, that’s what it’s all about. No one else is going to do this for me.

  I’m still bummed about not getting the toilet-brush commercial, but Gwen said the feedback from the director was positive. She’s planning to send me for another audition with the same guy, although she warned me this next one involves a dog. She didn’t say what kind, and asked if I liked puppies. Who doesn’t? But let’s not forget what W. C. Fields said about working with kids and dogs…. Anyway, the director liked me, but didn’t think I was right for the role of fastidious housewife. I guess he must’ve taken a look at my apartment. Cleanliness and order aren’t exactly my forte. If God had meant women to do housework, He wouldn’t have created men first.

  “Parenthood: that state of being better chaperoned than you were before marriage.”

  —Madeline Cox

  Chapter 4

  JULIA MURCHISON

  January 1st

  This leather-bound journal is a Christmas gift from my husband and I’ve been waiting until today to make my first entry. My hope is that every morning I’ll be filling the crisp, clean pages, writing out my thoughts, my concerns, my doubts, discovering who I am, one day at a time. That’s something I learned in the journal class, along with a whole lot more. Taking that class was one of the best things I’ve done for myself in ages.

  It’s funny—here I am waxing poetic about this lovely journal that I’ve been waiting all week to start, and now that I have, I don’t know what to write.

  I’ll begin with the kids, I guess. Adam and Zoe are growing up before my very eyes. It seems like only yesterday that they were babies. Now they’re both in their teens, and before Peter and I know it, they’ll be in college. It doesn’t seem possible that Adam will be driving this year! He’s champing at the bit to get behind the wheel. He’s ready, but I’m not sure Peter and I are.

  Zoe at thirteen is turning into a real beauty. I look at her, so innocent and lovely, and can hardly believe my baby is already a young woman.

  The Wool Station is a year old now. I’ve always loved crafts, and opening my own small knit shop was a risky venture. I thought about it for quite a while before making the commitment. Peter’s encouragement was all I really needed and he gave it to me. The store’s been wonderful for us both, bringing us together. And business has been good. The recent articles about all the celebrities knitting these days certainly didn’t hurt! More and more women are looking for ways to express themselves creatively; as well, knitting can calm and relax you—as effectively as meditation, according to one magazine I read.

  Last year my shop brought in thirty-two percent more than my projected gross income. (Peter’s calculations, not mine. I’m hopeless with numbers.) At this point, we’re putting all the profit back into the business, boosting the inventory at every opportunity. I’m not making enough of a profit to draw a salary yet, but it won’t be long. A year, two at the most. I just wish I was feeling better physically. Lately—ever since the flu bug hit me before Thanksgiving—I’ve been under the weather. I didn’t bounce back nearly as fast as I thought I would. Being thrust into the holiday season right afterward wasn’t any help. I barely had a week to regroup when it was time for the big yarn sale. Then the shop was crazy all through December. Added to that were the usual Christmas obligations—buying gifts, wrapping them, sending cards, entertaining, etc. When I think about everything I’ve had to do, it’s no wonder I haven’t been feeling well.

  Peter’s mother flew in for Christmas Day. She had a meeting in the area and combined business with pleasure. I’m writing this with my teeth gritted. I don’t enjoy dealing with my mother-in-law, who in my opinion never should have been a mother. She’s cold and self-important and all she seems to care about is her career and her volunteer projects. Naturally, I’m grateful she had Peter, otherwise I wouldn’t have my husband, but I swear the woman doesn’t possess a single maternal instinct. Peter was left with a succession of nannies and baby-sitters most of his childhood while his mother climbed the corporate ladder and sat on one volunteer board after another. I don’t disparage her commitment, just where it’s been directed for the past forty years. It irks me no end that she can fly halfway across the United States for her causes, but practically ignores her only son and her grandchildren. Okay, enough. I’ve already written copious pages about my relationship with my mother-in-law.

  Onto a far more pleasant subject, and that’s the Thursday Morning Breakfast Club. We’re each supposed to choose a word for the year. I’ve been giving it some thought, but my mind was made up almost from the minute Liz mentioned the idea. I wanted to wait to be sure this is truly my word. Experience tells me my first instinct is often the best. Still, I’ve taken this week between Christmas and New Years to mull it over, and I think I’m going to go with GRATITUDE.

  I want to practice gratitude. I know that sounds hokey, but instead of concentrating on the negative, I want to look at the positive side of life. After that horrible flu, I’m grateful for my health, and yes, I can even find reasons to be grateful for my mother-in-law. (She must have done something right, considering how Peter turned out.)

  I’ve decided to start every journal entry with five things for which I’m thankful. I’m calling it my List of Blessings. That way I can begin my day on a positive note.

  I feel the breakfast club has become my own personal support group. Every Thursday at 8—what a treat! And to think that I never would have enrolled in the journal-writing class if not for Georgia. Leave it to my cousin to con me into something I didn’t want to do, because she refused to go alone. Sure enough, I sign up for the class and three weeks later Georgia drops out. But I didn’t feel abandoned since I’d met Liz and Clare and Karen by then and we’d bonded like super glue. I stayed in the class so I could be with them.

  It began with the four of us meeting after class. We’d go to the Denny’s restaurant near the college for coffee. Then when the session was over, Liz suggested we continue meeting. She’s the one with all the good ideas. It made sense that we get together at the same time as the original class, but with teenagers at home it’s difficult for me to take one night a week out of my already heavy schedule; doing that was hard enough while the course was in session. Trying to find a mutually agreeable time proved to be the biggest challenge. I suggested we meet for breakfast, and everyone leaped on that. Sometimes the obvious solution isn’t immediately noticeable.

  Georgia’s sorry she dropped out of the class. I haven’t invited her to join our breakfast group. Perhaps it’s selfish of me to keep my newfound friends to myself, but I need this. I need them. The things we talk about, the things we share, are not always for Georgia’s ears. She might be my best friend and my cousin, but I wouldn’t want any part of the group’s conversation to be repeated. Georgia, God love her, couldn’t keep a secret if her life depended on it.

  Peter and I didn’t do anything all that exciting
to bring in the New Year. The kids were with friends at church for an all-night youth program. We went out to dinner with the Bergmans. It’s tradition now that we spend New Year’s Eve together, but I wasn’t really up to it this year. I would have preferred a night with just the two of us, but I didn’t want to disappoint either Peter or our friends. We played cards and at the stroke of midnight, Peter opened a bottle of the best champagne we could afford and we toasted the New Year.

  I didn’t mean to get sidetracked. My word is GRATITUDE, and the first thing I’m going to do is write my List of Blessings just so I’ll remember to keep counting them. Then, seeing that the house is quiet for once, I’m going to take a long nap.

  COUNTING MY BLESSINGS

  New beginnings.

  My husband and his mother. God bless her!

  Good friends like the Bergmans.

  The sound of Adam’s laughter and the sweet beauty of my daughter.

  Sleeping for ten uninterrupted hours.

  “Hi, Mom.” Zoe walked into the kitchen not more than ten minutes after Julia woke up from her afternoon snooze. New Year’s was always a lazy day around their house. Her thirteen-year-old daughter fell into the seat across from her, landing clumsily in the chair. Zoe laid her head on the patchwork place mat and yawned. Her arms dangled loosely at her sides.

  “Did you have a good time last night?” Julia asked.

  “Yeah,” Zoe murmured with no real enthusiasm.

  Julia knew that the church youth leaders had kept the kids active with swimming and roller-skating, plus a number of games that included basketball and volleyball. The night ended with a huge breakfast at 5:00 a.m., and from there everyone went home. Peter had picked up Adam and Zoe at the church, and Julia had assumed they’d sleep for much of the day. She was wrong.