Read Online Thursdays At Eight by Debbie Macomber - Free Book Online

retrieved it, glaring at her friend. “You must be joking.”
    â€œNot at all.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œThere’s no reason on this earth important enough for me to contact Michael Craig.”
    â€œWhat about your sons? Aren’t Mick and Alex important enough?”
    â€œWell, yes…but it’s been over a year—”
    â€œDoes it matter how long it’s been?”
    â€œNo, 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.”
    â€œCorrect.” Liz beamed her an encouraging smile.
    â€œWhy do I have to be the one who calls him? Can’t Michael understand this is awkward for me—for all the parents?”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œYou can and you will.”
    â€œI don’t think so….”
    It’d been almost thirteen months since she’d heard Michael’svoice. 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.
    â€œI’m not saying you should ask him to a picnic lunch.”
    Despite herself, Clare smiled.
    â€œAll 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.”
    â€œCouldn’t I write him instead?”
    â€œSure. Just as long as you communicate with him.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWhatever’s most comfortable for you,” Liz said.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œYou could mail him the schedule,” Liz agreed without much enthusiasm. “When’s the next game?”
    â€œTomorrow.” 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 gameand make arrangements for someone to replace her at the concession stand. No big deal—only it was. It was a very big deal.
    â€œClare?”
    Clare looked up.
    â€œYou didn’t hear me, did you?”
    â€œHear 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