Thursdays At Eight by Debbie Macomber Page A

much yarn she needed for her latest project. Mrs. Waldmann had noticed and complained at length. The woman’s gruff personality made her hard to please, anyway, and she wasn’t the type who would tolerate mistakes. Luckily, it’d been discovered early.
    A car pulled into the parking space in front of her shop window and Julia glanced up to see Peter. They’d barely spoken that morning. Her husband and children had tiptoed around her as if they weren’t sure what to expect.
    As soon as they were out the door, Julia’s stomach went queasy and the little coffee she’d managed to down was lost in a quick dash to the bathroom. This morning sickness was far worse than she’d experienced during the previous two pregnancies.
    Maybe it was the baby’s revenge for being unwanted.
    When he walked into the store, Peter presented her with a bouquet of yellow daisies, her favorite flowers.
    â€œTo what do I owe this?” she asked, hating the edge in her voice but unable to hide it.
    â€œI came to see how you’re feeling.”
    She jerked on the yarn, pulling it unnecessarily hard. “Just great.”
    Peter took the empty rocker next to hers. If he’d tried to talk, forced her into a conversation, she might have been able to maintain her ugly mood. Instead he sat with her, gently matching his rocking motion to hers, the flowers in his lap, and said nothing. Not a word.
    â€œThis is God’s big joke, you know,” Julia whispered after a moment. “My word, I mean.”
    â€œYour word,” he repeated. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œMy word for the year,” she snapped, thinking it was obvious. He knew everyone in the breakfast club had chosen a word.
    â€œOh, you’re talking about your friends from the journal-writing class. You told me what your word was, but I’ve forgotten.”
    Fearing she was about to break into tears, she just shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.
    â€œWas it surprise? ” he asked.
    This was his idiotic attempt at humor, she assumed. Another time, she might have found him amusing, but not in her current mood.
    â€œGratitude,” she managed.
    â€œGratitude,” he said slowly.
    â€œFunny, isn’t it?”
    He stopped rocking and placed his hand on her forearm. Julia continued knitting, afraid that if she stopped now she’d crumble completely.
    â€œI’m sorry, honey,” he said. “You’re right, this is my fault.”
    â€œAnd mine…I should have— I don’t know. Oh, Peter, I feel so awful, so guilty and ashamed.”
    â€œWhat did you do that’s so terrible?” he asked, and rubbed his hand down her arm.
    â€œI don’t want this baby! I can’t even think of it as a baby. Every child deserves to come into a loving home.”
    â€œI love the baby,” he said.
    He might have thought he was comforting her, but he wasn’t. “Fine, you go ahead and love the baby. I don’t. Maybe you should waltz on down to The Baby Emporium and stroll through the aisles and be happy. I’m not! And hearing you tell me how pleased you are isn’t helping a damn bit.” Her voice rose until she was close to yelling.
    â€œSorry,” he said and raised both hands. “You’re right. I won’t say anything more.”
    â€œWhat are we going to do?” she wailed. “How will we cope?” She hoped he had some answers because she was completely out.
    â€œI don’t know,” he answered.
    â€œNeither do I.”
    They rocked a few more minutes while Julia knit, periodically tugging at the yarn, her fingers moving with confidence. She was working on a mohair sweater to display in the store. Maybe it should’ve been booties or a little blanket, she thought darkly, but even looking at the baby yarn was beyond her.
    â€œDo you think we should tell the kids?” he asked.
    Julia couldn’t believe