Thursdays at Eight

I’ve toyed with the idea of beginnings, as in new beginnings, but I don’t want to carry that theme around with me for the next twelve months. At some point, beginnings have to become middles and potential has to be realized. I guess I’m afraid I won’t be as successful as I want to be.

What I really need to do is discover who I am, now that I’m single again. For twenty-three years my identity was linked to Michael. We were a team, complementing each other’s strengths and weaknesses. I was always better with finances and Michael was the people person. He took a part-time job selling cars the first year we were married in order to supplement our budget, and quickly became the top salesman. His degree was in ecology and he had a day job at the town planning office but made three times the money selling cars. Soon he was working full-time at the dealership and I was stretching every dollar he made, creating a small nest-egg.

Then we had the chance to buy the Chevrolet dealership—the opportunity of a lifetime. We scraped together every penny we could. By the time the paperwork was finished, we didn’t have a cent between us, but we were happy. That was when we—

I can’t write about that, don’t want to dwell on how happy we were in those early years. Whenever I think about it, I feel overwhelmed by the pain of loss and regret. So much regret…

Word. I need a word. Not memories. I can’t tie my new identity to the past and to who I was; I’ve got to look toward the future. So I need a word that fits who I am today, the woman I’m becoming. The woman I want to be.

Just a minute here. Just a damn minute! Who I was, who I want to be. Why do I have to change? There’s nothing wrong with me! I wasn’t the one who ripped the heart out of this family. I was a good wife, a good mother. I was faithful…

FAITHFUL.

That’s it. My word. Not beginnings, not discovery, but faithful. From the moment I spoke my vows I was faithful to my husband, my marriage, my family. All these years I’ve been faithful to myself; I’ve never acted dishonestly and I’ve always put my family responsibilities above my own desires. I don’t need to find myself. I found out who I am a long time ago and frankly I happen to like that person. I wasn’t the one who changed; Michael did.

This feels good. The burden isn’t on my shoulders to prove one damn thing. I’ll remain faithful to me.

Happy New Year, Clare Craig. You’re going to have a wonderful year. No financial worries, thanks to Lillian Case and a judge who’s seen far too many men mess up their family’s lives. Michael will be spending twenty very long years paying off my share of the dealership. Plus interest. I have the house, a new car every year, health insurance, the boys’ college expenses and enough money to live comfortably.

I don’t have anything to worry about. I can do whatever I want. I certainly don’t have to work if I don’t feel like it.

Hey! Maybe getting a job wouldn’t be a bad idea. Maybe I should put my two decades of experience back into play. Didn’t I recently hear that Murphy Motors was advertising for a general manager? With my experience, I could work any hours I chose. News of my taking that job would really get Michael. It’s what he deserves. Turnabout is fair play (another of those handy sayings). Oh, God, it’s awful of me, but I love it.

This is what I’ve been waiting for. It’s taken a long time to feel anything but horrendous, crushing pain. I’m smiling now, just thinking about the look on Michael’s face when he learns I’ve been hired by his largest competitor.

Marilyn Cody was wrong, but then so was I. Living well isn’t going to teach Michael a thing, is it? Knowing that he’s lying awake at night, worrying about me sharing all his insider secrets with the Ford dealership—now, that will go a long way toward helping me find some satisfaction. And once I’m satisfied, I’ll start to concentrate on living well.

“Mom, can we talk?”

Clare Craig glanced up from her desk to find her seventeen-year-old son standing in the doorway of the family room. They’d spent the morning taking down the Christmas decorations, as they always did on January sixth—Epiphany, Twelfth Night—and getting Mick ready to return to college. How like Michael he looked, she thought with a twinge of sorrow. Michael twenty-five years ago, athletic, handsome, fit. Her heart cramped at the memory.

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” Alex stepped inside, dressed in his soccer uniform. The holiday break was already over; school had begun earlier in the week. Mick had left that morning for college in San Francisco.

Clare capped the end of her fountain pen and set aside the checkbook and bills in order to give her younger son her full attention. “What can I do for you?”

Alex avoided her gaze. “We haven’t been talking as much as we used to,” he mumbled, walking slowly toward her desk.

“I’ve been busy.” The Christmas tree had only come down that morning, but she realized he wasn’t referring to the last few days; he meant over the past year.

“I know,” he said with a shrug, his eyes darting around the room. “It’s just that…”

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

He raised his head and their eyes briefly met. Reading her younger son had never been a problem for Clare.

“How about if we talk in the kitchen?” she suggested. “You thirsty?”

The hopeful look on his face convinced her to abandon paying the bills. She’d get back to all that later.

“Sure.” He led the way through the large family room and into the kitchen.

Clare loved her expansive kitchen with its double ovens and large butcher-block island. Shining copper pots and kettles dangled from the rack above, the California sunlight reflected in their gleam. Clare had designed the kitchen herself and spent countless hours reviewing every detail, every drawer placement, every cupboard. She’d taken pride in her home, in her skill as a cook and homemaker.

These days it was unusual for her to prepare a meal. Alex had a part-time job at a computer store, and if he wasn’t at school or work, he was with his friends or on the soccer field. Cooking for one person hardly seemed worth the effort, and more and more often she ordered out. Or didn’t bother at all.

“I’ll get us a Coke,” Alex said, already reaching for the refrigerator handle. Clare automatically took two glasses from the cupboard.

Alex placed the cans on the round oak table. Many a night, unable to sleep, the two of them had sat here while Clare sobbed in pain and frustration. Alex had wept, too. It hadn’t been easy for a teenage boy to expose his emotions like that. If Clare didn’t already hate Michael for what he’d done to her self-esteem, then she’d hate him for the pain he’d brought into their children’s lives.

“Mick and I had a long talk last night.”

Clare had surmised as much. She’d heard them in Alex’s bedroom sometime after midnight, deep in conversation. Their raised voices were followed by heated whispers. Whatever they were discussing was between them and she was determined to keep out of it. They needed to settle their own differences.

“He’s upset with me.”

“Mick is? What for?”

Alex shrugged. He seemed to do that a lot these days.

“Brother stuff?” It was what he generally said when he didn’t want to give her a full explanation.

“Something like that.” He waited a moment before pulling back the tab on his soda can and taking a long swallow, ignoring the glass she’d set in front of him.

“Does this have to do with Kellie?” Alex and the girl across the street had been dating for a couple of months. Mick had dated her last summer and Clare wondered if the neighbor girl was causing a problem between her sons.

“Ah, Mom, we’re just friends.”

“If you and your brother had a falling-out, why don’t you just tell me instead of expecting me to guess?”

He lowered his eyes. “Because I’m afraid you’re going to react the same way Mick did.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

Alex took another drink of his Coke. Clare recognized a delaying tactic when she saw one. “Alex?”

“All right,” he said brusquely and sat up, his shoulders squared. “I’ve been talking to Dad.”

Clare swallowed hard, but a small shocked sound still managed to escape. She felt as though she’d taken a punch to the solar plexus.

“Are you mad?” Alex asked, watching her anxiously.

“It shouldn’t matter what I think.”

“But it does! I don’t want you to feel like I’ve betrayed you, too.”

“I…”

“That’s what Mick said I was doing. First Dad and now me. Mom, I swear to you, it isn’t like that.”