Free The Wednesday Group by Sylvia True

a move to get up. There’s the beautiful picnic lunch she made for them, almost untouched. A pair of Tiffany earrings on her lap, and a young woman wearing cowboy boots, who seems much more at home in this office than Gail ever has.
    â€œCamille,” Gail says. “I brought some éclairs. Would you like one?”
    She stops sorting for a moment and looks at Gail. “No, thank you, Judge Larson, but thanks so much for offering.”
    â€œWe really have work to get through,” Jonah says.
    â€œI suppose I should have phoned first.” Her tone is acerbic. She stands.
    Jonah cradles her elbow. “No, of course you shouldn’t have. You’re always welcome here. It was a magnificent surprise. I wish I didn’t have so much to do.” He kisses her on the lips, right in front of Camille. He knows just what to do when her insecurities get in the way.
    â€œSo, I’ll see you this evening?” she asks.
    â€œI’ll be home at the usual time. We can go out and celebrate.”
    â€œNice meeting you,” she tells Camille on her way out.
    Jonah carries the basket as he walks her to the elevator.
    He presses the button. “I wish I had more time.”
    â€œIt’s all right,” she tells him.
    â€œJust this morning I received an invitation to dine at the Harvard Club. It’s in a few weeks. I know it’s only some stuffy professors, but I would like it if you came.”
    The elevator door opens. He holds it for her.
    For a second she wonders if he’s asking her out of guilt. If he’s trying to make up for having Camille in his office. Then she tells herself to stop doubting. They are past that. They are a couple, partners, with a long, healthy relationship ahead of them.
    â€œI would love to join you.” She brushes her fingers along his cheek. He reaches for her hand, then skims it with his lips, kissing her as if she’s royalty.
    On the way out of the building, she passes a vending machine. She stops, puts the basket on the floor, and buys a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips.

 
    Hannah
    When Bridget called last week, it wasn’t a surprise, at least on a rational level, to hear that her husband had been keeping more secrets. But each time Hannah thinks about the late phone call last Wednesday night, she feels as if she’s just been punched. Bridget could barely talk. It took forty minutes for her to explain, in stops and starts and gasping breaths.
    Hannah will help Bridget get her feet on the ground before she extricates herself from the group.
    Seeing as she’ll be out in the evening, Hannah has decided to make sure the kids get her full attention this afternoon. They should not have to suffer because of the trouble she and Adam are going through.
    For two consecutive days the temperature has finally climbed up and hit sixty. The result—soggy lawns, wet sidewalks, and Sam soaked, proud to announce he has jumped in every puddle. Hannah finds him dry clothes as Alicia hurries to her room.
    â€œAlicia,” Hannah calls. “Come to the kitchen for a snack.”
    No reply. Hannah goes to her daughter’s room and opens the door. There is a lump under the purple polka-dot quilt. She walks to the bed, sits, and puts a hand on the cover.
    â€œAre you feeling sick?” she asks.
    Alicia kicks her legs. “Get out.”
    â€œDon’t speak to me that way.” Hannah is sharp.
    â€œIt’s not like you care.” Alicia stays under the quilt and turns so that she’s facing the lavender wall.
    â€œOf course I care. Tell me what’s wrong.”
    â€œYou’ll just yell at me. That’s all you do. You’re a big, fat yeller.”
    It’s true, she’s been short-tempered lately about their rooms not being tidied, about homework not being finished before the TV goes on, about hair and teeth not being brushed.
    â€œI’m sorry. I don’t mean to yell. Can you just poke