Thursdays At Eight (18 page)

CLARE CRAIG

C
lare turned off the vacuum and heard the phone in the background as the Hoover moaned to a stop. Lunging for the cordless she had no idea if this was the first ring or the fifth.

“Hello,” she said, slightly breathless. Although she could well afford a cleaning service, she preferred to do her own housework. She joked that it helped her work out her aggressions, which was true; she also felt that she could better maintain the kind of control she wanted over her environment.

Her greeting was met by a short hesitation. “Clare, it's Michael.”

She knew he'd been released from the hospital a few days earlier; after Alex's 911 call, he'd been admitted a second time—and now he was home, in the tender, well-manicured hands of Miranda.

“Alex is at school,” she reminded him in case he'd forgotten.

“Actually, I wanted to talk to you.”

In the beginning she'd dreamed about the day Michael would
need her, reach out to her, want her back in his life. During the two years since he'd moved out, it hadn't happened. But Clare had learned valuable lessons about herself. Each day she grew stronger, more confident and self-assured. They'd always been a team, the two of them, but she'd learned to fly solo.

“I'd like to invite you to lunch,” Michael shocked her by asking.

“Lunch?” She nearly choked on the word.

“It's my way of thanking you for your kindness while I underwent chemo.”

Clare sank onto the edge of the coffee table. He was telling her this was simply to let her know that he appreciated her help; she shouldn't put any stock in the invitation. He didn't want her back any more than she wanted
him
back, she told herself fiercely.

“No thanks are necessary.” And they weren't. Her reasons were too complex to analyze. Suffice it to say she'd done it for him
and
for her. Because of their shared past and because of their children.

“I insist. I'd like to take you to Mama Lena's.”

Her favorite Italian restaurant, no less. When they were first married and lived paycheck to paycheck, it was a special indulgence to dine at Mama Lena's. Every birthday and anniversary found them enjoying ravioli and eggplant Parmesan. The breadsticks and cheese, the antipasto, a glass of red wine—followed by espresso and tiramisu for dessert. The memories scrolled through her mind like silent movies.

“I…don't think that's a good idea,” she said, fighting the urge to agree.

Michael paused. “Another restaurant then. You name it, any place you want.”

“I know you appreciated my help, Michael, but I don't
believe our having lunch is the right thing to do. Not at this point in our lives.”

“I need to talk to you,” he said after another long pause.

“Talk to me now.”

“I can't,” he told her with what sounded like regret. “All I'm asking is that you meet me. Any place you want, any time.”

“All right,” she said, curiosity getting the better of her. “Meet me at Mocha Moments at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon.”

She felt comfortable there, safe. Michael wouldn't tell her what this was about over the phone, but she wasn't meeting him at Mama Lena's, where he could evoke memories of happier times, when life was sweet and all her illusions had yet to be shattered.

Clare didn't mention the phone call, not to Alex and not to Karen who called that evening to tell her excitedly about Alex's chemistry teacher asking her out to dinner. If Clare was tempted to discuss Michael's call with anyone, it would have been Liz. Instead, she kept the information to herself, wondering what it meant, and what the hell was so important that Michael had sought her out.

Perhaps she was reading more into this than she should. Since their relationship was fairly amicable now, Michael might simply want to discuss their sons. Maybe he wanted her advice about reconciling with Mick….

Then again, this might have to do with Alex's upcoming high-school graduation. Should they both attend and pretend to be a happy family for the sake of their sons? No. She couldn't see that happening, and there was Mick to consider. Naturally Michael was free to attend, but Mick wouldn't want his father sitting anywhere near him.

Another thought occurred to her as she sat with a cup of strong coffee the following day, waiting for her ex-husband
to show up. Perhaps this was connected to his cancer treatment.

Precisely at three, Michael walked into Mocha Moments. He was even thinner than the last time she'd seen him but not so horribly pale. Some of the color had returned to his cheeks. He paused just inside the door and smiled when he saw her.

“Hello, Clare,” he said, making his way to the table.

“Hello, Michael.” She inclined her head toward him, choosing not to study him too closely for fear he might misinterpret her interest. He glanced over his shoulder at the counter and the printed menu above the cash register. “I take it they don't have a waitress here.”

“Everyone sees to his or her own.”

“You want a refill?” he asked, and shoved his hand in his pocket, removing his money clip.

When she shook her head, he stepped toward the counter, returning a few minutes later with a latte. Pulling out a chair, he sat down across from her.

“How are you?” she asked. Now that he was close, she realized he didn't look as good as she'd first assumed. The whites of his eyes had a yellowish tinge and while there was color in his face, his cheeks were still gaunt.

“I'm better now, thanks,” he answered and sipped from his latte.

“The cancer?”

He didn't respond right away. “I didn't come here to exchange news.”

“Fine, then get to the point and be done with it,” she snapped, feeling a little hurt, a little insulted.

“Actually, I have a favor to ask of you.”

He had a funny way of leading up to it, she thought, con
sidering he'd just antagonized her.
She
wasn't the one who'd asked for this meeting; her being here was a favor to him.

“I don't have any right to ask this,” Michael went on, his voice lower now. He stared down at his latte as if he'd find the solution to his troubles in the frothy milk.

“Ask me what?” she demanded, trying to temper the defensiveness she heard in her own voice.

“I wouldn't, if it wasn't for our sons.”

“What is it?” she asked. Enough with this preamble!

“I want you to come back and work at the dealership,” he said, his eyes boring holes in her.

“No—no way.” She didn't need to think it over, didn't need to hear the reasons. Her answer was instantaneous.

Michael raised his hand. “Let me explain.”

“I've already got a job.” She'd set out to be an irritant to him by taking the part-time job at Murphy Motors. She regretted it; apparently Michael had lost business and now he was afraid.

“Give Murphy two weeks' notice.”

“Michael, I can't… Listen, I made a mistake. I should never have taken that job, and—”

“Hear me out,” Michael interrupted.

She laughed, and shook her head. It was as though they were still married. He hadn't bothered to listen to her then, either.

“This doesn't have anything to do with Murphy Motors,” he said impatiently. “The entire future of Craig Chevrolet hangs on your answer.”

“Michael, please…” He was overreacting. Naturally, he didn't want her working for his biggest competitor and now he was trying to lure her back. What he didn't understand, hadn't bothered to hear, was that she regretted the whole stupid idea.

“I swear to you, this isn't personal. I need you to assume my role.”

“And just where will you be?” If he told her he needed time to take Miranda on some exotic vacation, she'd tell him exactly what he could do with his job offer.

He wouldn't look at her.

“What exactly will you be doing while I'm taking over as general manager?” she repeated. Although her voice remained calm, she refused to answer his question until he answered hers.

“It's not what you think,” he hastened to add.

“How do you know what I'm thinking?”

“Oh, Clare, you've forgotten I was married to you for twenty-three years.” Although he was smiling, there was little humor in his words. “Fine, I'll tell you.” He dragged a shaky breath through his lungs. “I've been selected for an experimental drug treatment. It means I won't be able to continue my duties at the dealership.”

“This has to do with the cancer?”

Again he wouldn't meet her gaze.

“You know the car business better than anyone. Despite our differences over the past few years, I trust you.”

She didn't know what to say. Earlier, he'd avoided the question of his health, sidestepping it with the pretense of getting on with their discussion.

“The dealership is heavily mortgaged now, and unless this transition is smooth, I could lose everything.”

He was afraid of losses? Clare was stunned by his insensitivity. She'd had her life ripped apart, her security shredded, her heart broken. Now he was afraid that if he spent a few weeks away from the business, it might falter—so he'd come to her. Yes, any erosion of the dealership's finances would have an impact on her and the boys, but to ask her to step in like this! As though they were still a married couple, still a team… Well, they weren't and that was entirely his doing.

She wanted to tell him what she thought, but the words lodged in her throat, making it impossible to speak. Then Michael astonished her even more, by laughing.

“You find this
humorous?
”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not at all. I'm just amused by your predictability. You're so mad right now, you can barely think.”

“You've got it. Hire Miranda, Michael, because I'm not interested.” She stood to leave, but his hand on her arm stopped her.

“Miranda left me.” The pain behind those words was barely concealed.

Clare felt her knees buckle. For two years she'd wanted him to experience just a fraction of the emotional agony she'd endured when he walked out on her.

“Aren't you going to remind me that what goes around comes around?” he asked hoarsely.

“No,” she whispered. Not when he'd so plainly learned that lesson on his own. What surprised her was his willingness to admit it, especially to her.

“Clare,” he said, pleading with her now. “Sit down, please.”

She reclaimed her seat, not that she had any choice, since her legs were about to go out from under her. “When did she leave?” Clare asked, wondering how long Michael had been on his own.

“A while ago now.”

She nodded.

“Actually, she moved in with a friend soon after I learned about the cancer. She has…trouble dealing with sickness.”

Clare found it interesting and rather sad that he'd continue to make excuses for Miranda.

“I should have told you sooner.” His voice had grown soft, and he slouched forward, looking suddenly old.

“It isn't any of my business.” She glanced away, finding it difficult to look at the pain in his eyes. Michael was alone and
knew what it was like to come home to a cold, empty house. She studied him for any signs of regret and saw none. Even now, sick and abandoned by the woman he'd given up so much for, he revealed no contrition, despite what he'd done to Clare and their family. That hurt, and she silently chastised herself for seeking more than he could give.

“Aren't you going to gloat?” he asked, some of the old fire returning to his eyes.

“No,” she whispered.

“Will you do it?” he asked again. “Will you take over for me when I go into the hospital?”

Clare couldn't meet his eyes. “Let me think about it.”

“I'll make it worth your while,” he promised. “The dealership belongs to the boys. I don't want to lose it. And, of course, there are your support payments….”

She nodded. She wasn't likely to forget those.

“How long will it take you to have an answer?” he asked.

Rushing her into a decision wasn't going to help. “I don't know,” she said, hardly able to take it all in. “I—I need to think through my options.”

“A day.”

“Longer.”

“A week then?”

Why was he rushing her like this? “I don't know,” she said a second time, resenting the pressure. “If you're going to force me to answer right away, then the answer is no. I've made a new life without you, Michael, and I can't see the point of getting our personal and financial affairs all tangled up again.”

“Think it over, Clare. This is important.”

“To you, you mean.”

“It's important to our children,” he reminded her.

“I need time,” she repeated.

“Dammit, Clare, I don't have time. Can't you see? Do I have to spell it out for you? I'm dying.”

“Dying?” The word barely made it past the constriction in her throat.

“According to the specialists, I'll be lucky if this treatment buys me six more months. The cancer is spreading…. Look at me, Clare. Look at me,” he insisted. “I don't have much longer. Now, are you going to help me or not?”

April 25th
2:34 a.m.

I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see Michael sitting at the table at Mocha Moments, telling me he's dying.

Dying!

He seemed to accept it, as if it were a foregone conclusion. After the initial shock, I had a thousand questions. He answered the first few, but didn't want to go into detail. The cancer started out in his liver and has spread throughout his body. There's nothing to be done. No miracle drug, no clinic that can save him and no cure in sight. He doesn't want the boys to know and begged me to keep his secret.