On Strike for Christmas (23 page)

“Oh, yes.”

“Did you break down and make cookies for him?”

Joy nodded. “I ran over to Laura's and did it while Bob was out running errands. Now there's a tin of gumdrop cookies under Bobby's bed.”

Carol just shook her head. “Aren't you ready to give this up yet?”

“Not yet.” Although what good it was doing Joy couldn't say. Bob wasn't even fazed and she was on chocolate overload.

They passed a booth selling homemade cookies that had a long line of men waiting at it. “I wonder if all those men have wives on strike,” Carol mused.

“If they do, it's turning out to be a good thing for the cookie business,” Joy said. “And good for a story,” she added, watching Rosemary Charles approach one of the men in line. As usual, the reporter had her personal Jimmy Olsen in tow. Of course she'd be here covering the fair, looking for strike stories. Interested to hear what the man would have to say, Joy stole a little closer to eavesdrop.

“Sir, I see you found a creative way around the strike,” said Rosemary.

He smiled. “Home-baked cookies and I didn't have to bake them. I like it. Between the Hollydays booths and Bob Robertson's advice, we're sailing through the strike.”

“May I quote you on that?” Rosemary asked the man.

“Sure,” he said.

Goody, thought Joy, more male propaganda. Why had she bothered? Why had any of them bothered?

 

“Less people this year,” Rick observed to Rosemary.

“The women are on strike and a lot of guys shopped the Internet.”

“UShopTillIDrop.com? Interesting site.”

“It seems a little impersonal,” Rosemary said. “Having somebody pick out the presents for the people you care about. I mean, where's the thought in that?”

“Hey, do you really care as long as you get a cool present?” Rick countered.

“What makes a present cool is the fact that someone picked it out specially for you.”

Rick shrugged. “Well, I did eBay, so everybody on my list is getting something special.”

“Used,” Rosemary said in disgust.

“But special.”

“Did you get your white elephant gift for the party tonight on eBay?”

“Oh, yeah,” Rick said with a grin.

Rosemary looked suspiciously at him. “Geez, what tacky thing are you bringing this year?”

“You'll just have to wait and see,” he said. “But I'll give you a hint. It makes gross noises and all the guys are going to fight over it.”

“Lovely.” Like the setting for the party. Well, what could a girl expect with the men in charge? Rosemary shook her head. “I don't know where we're going to put the presents, since that sports bar probably won't even have a Christmas tree up.”

“We can put 'em on a pool table,” Rick said.

“Men,” she said in disgust. “You put so much thought into things. I hope somebody learns a lesson from this strike.”

“Don't hold your breath,” Rick said. “And anyway, talk about tacky, that rotten errand you sent me on at the school program probably rates pretty high on the tack-o-meter.”

She made a face at him. “That was not tacky, that was news. And didn't I tell you it would be all right? I wouldn't have made a story out of that screwup if I knew their little girl was going to be embarrassed.”

“Okay, all-knowing one. How did you know that Teach was going to come through?”

“Easy. Miss Weis.”

“Who the heck is that?”

“My kindergarten teacher. She kept spare clothes on hand in case someone wet their pants or fell in a mud puddle. And then there was Mrs. Sonstroem. She kept string cheese and crackers in case someone forgot their lunch. And Miss Hoyle—”

Rick cut her off. “Okay, okay. I get your point.”

“You can always count on teachers. They're always prepared.” Rosemary gave his arm a playful poke. “And all good reporters know that.”

“I think I'm gonna hurl.”

They passed a booth peddling hand-beaded jewelry, and Rosemary stopped. One particular necklace using a fat, pink quartz bead as a centerpiece caught her eye and she picked it up. The tag was a little pricey, so she put it back down.

“Everything here is overpriced,” Rick said at her elbow.

“You're paying for the artist's time and talent,” she told him.

“I guess,” he said. “Hey, if we're done I think I'll put my camera away and get some elephant ears. Want one?”

She'd rather have had the pink quartz necklace. She stole a look at Rick. He was standing with his hands shoved in his jacket pocket, his camera dangling from his neck, looking around like he was bored. Mr. Christmas. Whoever ended up with him would wind up just like these other women, frustrated and on strike.

Rosemary suddenly didn't feel all that companionable. “Not right now. I see Kay Carter. I'm going to go talk to her.”

“Suit yourself,” Rick said and let her go.

As she passed a strolling quartet of carolers dressed in Dickens costumes, she found herself wishing she hadn't committed to going out with Rick on New Year's Eve. He really wasn't her type.

 

Joy and Bob met their baby at the airport. Bobby was six feet of gorgeous; well muscled, with even features, a strong chin, and heartbreaker blue eyes. His face lit up at the sight of them and he gave them a huge wave. As if they hadn't already spotted him, as if they hadn't both been looking for him since the first passenger from his flight had disembarked.

“Hey, guys,” he said cheerfully, stepping out of line. He hugged Joy, then left an arm draped over her while he gave his father's hand a hearty pumping.

Joy smiled up at her son and thought she'd explode with happiness. This was all any mother needed for Christmas. “You look great,” she said. He looked so grown up now. Just one year at college and he'd completed the transformation to manhood. Where was that tiny baby she'd rocked during 2:00
A.M.
feedings, the little boy who had climbed trees, skinned knees, and sat in her lap whenever he had the chance? It wasn't a new question and she still didn't have an answer. Life went too fast.

“You've shrunk,” he told her.

“No, you've grown.” And he looked just like his father had when she first met him, right down to the smile.

“Yeah, another inch. Weird, huh?”

“You're just a chip off your old man, a towering presence,” Bob joked.

Bobby looked down at him and grinned. “Whatever.”

They started toward the baggage claim. “I have to go to Melia's after dinner,” he said to Bob. “Can I borrow the car?”

“It's snowing,” Joy protested.

“Don't worry, Mom. I haven't forgotten how to drive in the snow,” Bobby assured her. “Anyway, Melia will kill me if I don't get over and see Sarah.”

They weren't even to the house yet and he was already talking about taking off. This was how it was with grown kids. They came home to visit, but the parents were never at the top of the list. Right after dinner it would be just her and Bob and the TV. Ho, ho, ho, humbug Christmas. Yet again she saw a long line of unsatisfying holidays stretching far into her future and sighed inwardly.

The road was crusted with a thick layer of snow as they wove in and out of airport traffic on their way to the freeway. Bob was skating along, following the car in front of him too closely as always.

“We're toast if that car stops suddenly,” she warned.

Bob reached over and gave her a condescending pat on the leg. “It'll be okay.”

She shook her head. “We'll be roadkill before Christmas.”

“Speaking of Christmas, what's going on, Mom?” Bobby asked. “Melia said you're on some kind of strike. You even made the paper over where I am. What's the deal? I don't get it.”

Silence fell like a bomb in the car. At last Bob spoke. “Your mom doesn't think I enjoy the holidays enough. She's on strike so I'll see how much I appreciate what I hate.”

Not fair, Joy thought. Bob was twisting this into pro-Bob propaganda and as good as asking their son to take sides.

“What does that mean?” Bobby asked.

“It just means your father's taking care of Christmas this year,” Joy said, trying to put a smooth facade over the whole holiday mess.

“Dad in charge of Christmas, huh?”

“It should make things interesting,” Joy said, trying to keep her voice light.

“Sounds like a reality show or a sitcom to me,” Bobby said, sounding disgusted.

“No TV, just a never-ending newspaper story,” Bob said.

“That's kind of sick,” Bobby said.

Joy wasn't sure if he was referring to her strike or the fact that the paper was following it. “I'm not the only one,” she said in her own defense.

“Mass hysteria,” Bob cracked.

If their son wasn't with them in this car right now…She clamped her lips together and glared out the window. They really were going too fast. Why didn't her husband listen to her?

“Bob, slow down,” she commanded.

“Hon, we're fine. Cool it.”

He was trying to kill them but he was telling her to cool it. She shut her mouth and did a slow simmer.

Bobby was silent for a moment, then asked, “Um, does this mean we're just going to sit around and do nothing for Christmas?”

“It means we can have a nice, quiet holiday,” Bob corrected him.

“We're not going over to Uncle Al's?”

Bobby actually sounded concerned. Joy took hope. Maybe Bob hadn't poisoned their children's minds after all.

Bob's brows knit. “You want to go to Uncle Al's?”

“Well, yeah. I haven't seen anybody since I went away to school.”

Bob nodded thoughtfully.

“And what about cookies?” Bobby wanted to know.

“Don't worry. I'll buy some,” Bob promised.

“Mom, is he kidding?” Bobby asked, going from sounding concerned to panicked.

Joy smiled over her shoulder at him. “Don't worry, sweetie. It'll be okay,” she added, and patted Bob's leg. Bob frowned.

“Who's shopping for presents?”

“I am,” Bob said, “and it's already done.”

“Cool,” Bobby said, sounding impressed.

He was equally impressed when they got home and he saw the Bob Christmas tree. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed, eyes bugging.

“It's up,” Bob said. “That's what matters.”

Joy just shook her head and went out to the kitchen to heat up the clam chowder she'd made earlier.

She was slicing French bread to go with it when her son came out to the kitchen. “You all squared away?” she asked as he opened the fridge.

He stood there, surveying its contents. “Oh, yeah.” He shut the door and rooted around in the pantry, coming out with a lunch-size bag of chips, then leaned against the doorjamb and began to pop chips in his mouth. “So, are you and Dad…” He petered to a stop.

“What?” Joy prompted, still slicing.

“Are you guys okay? I mean, you're not having problems, are you?”

“You mean as in about-to-get-divorced-type problems?”

Bobby shrugged. “Well, this strike stuff is a little weird. I thought maybe…I don't know.”

“We're fine,” Joy assured him. “We're just renegotiating our contract, that's all.”

“So what happens if you can't renegotiate?”

Joy shrugged. “I'll kill him.” Bobby made a face and she smiled. “I was just kidding. Don't worry. It will be all right. Just a little different this year.”

“A little different,” he said in disgust. “What was Dad smoking when he did the tree? And is he really making the cookies?”

Joy stopped on her way to the table with the French bread and lowered her voice. “Check under your bed.”

Bobby looked relieved and grinned. “Thanks. At least that's something I know is going to be right this Christmas.”

So far it was the only thing.

The
Holly Herald
's staff party was in full swing, and Rosemary Charles had to admit the guys hadn't done a half-bad job planning it. As it turned out, Bruno's Sports Bar did have a tree they could put their white elephant game presents under—a gigantic fiber optics number that sat parked in a corner of the bar. Under it lay a pile of gag gifts. A few were wrapped in Christmas paper or nestled in gift bags, but most (the men's) had come wrapped man-style in brown paper or plastic bags. The newspaper's Web guy, Dustin, had actually used red ribbon to tie his bag shut. But Dustin was new. Next year would probably be another story. The party food consisted of Bruno's buffalo wings and miniburgers, and some bowls of nuts, but there was plenty of beer so nobody seemed to care. Country music kept a steady beat going under the clack of balls on the pool tables and bursts of laughter, and right now some country singer was belting out a number that had Santa driving a 747.

Jonathan Hawkins, their publisher, strolled among the tables, chatting with the reporters and secretaries who weren't bellied up to the bar. Their editor, Walt, was ordering fresh drinks and joking with a cute bartender in a Santa hat. Rick, who was playing pool with Rosemary, Martha, the food editor, and another reporter, stood waiting his turn and stuffing his face with nachos.

“They don't even miss my red velvet cake,” Martha lamented to Rosemary as she chalked her cue stick.

Rosemary leaned on hers and watched as Rick set down his nachos and prepared to take his shot. “Oh, well. Your baking skills are wasted on these guys, anyway. Pearls before swine, girl.”

Rick sank his ball and positioned himself for another shot.

Martha sighed. “Why do we bother? No one would miss it if we all stopped doing what we do. We just proved it.”

Rosemary thought of how her dad rubbed his hands together in anticipation before sitting down to eat Christmas dinner, how he always managed to find where her mom hid the snowball cookies and snarf down every one before anyone else could get a chance. “Oh, I don't know,” she said. “I think a lot of guys appreciate it.” Then she thought of how pooped her mom always looked by Christmas Day. “But I don't think women need to do as much as they do. And maybe they shouldn't be such martyrs. They should recruit more help.”

And speaking of help, those snowball cookies weren't that hard to make. Maybe she'd bake a batch tomorrow and drop some off for her dad. Give Mom a break.

Rick made another shot, smacking a ball into a side pocket.

“You could save some for the rest of us,” Rosemary complained.

He walked past her and waggled his eyebrows. “I'm good. What can I say?”

“Something modest?” she suggested.

He ignored her, bending over and setting up for his next shot. He had a nice butt. And great aim. He made that shot, too.

“Beginner's luck,” she goaded.

“In pool, there's no such thing as luck,” he informed her. “You need a precision eye and a steady hand. And I've got great hands,” he added as he sauntered by her.

“And a fat head.”

Walt came over and handed Rosemary a bottle of Red Hook. He looked around like a king surveying his kingdom. “Well, we pulled it off.” “We” meaning Rick, who had gotten volunteered army-style to find a place for the party. “You women make too big a deal out of everything. Those women didn't need to go on strike. They just needed to delegate.”

“You'd have sold a lot less papers if they had,” Rosemary teased.

Walt made a face. “Got an answer for everything, don'tcha?”

“Pretty much.”

He took a swig of beer. “Well, kid, it's been a fun ride. Nice bit on the smaller turnout at the Hollydays arts and crafts fair, and announcing the winners of this year's tree-decorating contest will make a good twist. After that I think we'll have about milked this thing for all we can. We'll get a picture of the contest winners in the paper Christmas Day and call it quits with that.”

“There's still Christmas Day itself,” Rosemary reminded him.

He shrugged. “That'll be pretty much of a snooze. Stories about people opening presents don't sell papers. No, I think just about everything interesting that's going to happen during this strike has happened.”

She supposed he was right. What else could happen that would be newsworthy between now and Christmas?

 

“It's sick, that's what it is,” Sharon snapped. From the look on her face, Joy decided it was a good thing she'd suggested a Sunday afternoon walk and gotten Sharon out of her house and into the crisp winter air. Otherwise the steam coming out of Sharon's ears might have scalded her husband.

They were on their second lap around Sharon's neighborhood, which had been dubbed Candy Cane Lane because of the extravagant holiday decorating the people all did on their houses.

“I think your tree looks adorable with all those little toy cars and tinsel,” Joy said.

“Who'd have thought it would win the tree-decorating contest! He's going to frame the picture,” Sharon grumbled. “I'll never live this down.”

They walked past a lawn with a huge crèche. “At least Pete's involved now,” Joy pointed out.

Sharon sniffed. “Yes, and from now on everything will be messy and sloppy and—”

“And you'll all share the celebration,” Joy said, cutting her off. “Isn't that the most important thing? Isn't that what you really wanted? Isn't that why you went on strike in the first place, so you wouldn't have to do it all alone?”

Sharon frowned and kicked at a little mound of snow on the edge of the yard. “I suppose. But now I'm doomed to snoring Santas and singing reindeer all over the house. Honey, that's no improvement.”

“Well, you could always confine them to the family room and put out your fancy decorations in the living room,” Joy suggested. “Maybe you could put up your own tree in your bedroom. That would be romantic.”

A smile grew on Sharon's face. “Now, that idea has possibilities.”

“And at least your husband has changed,” Joy added, feeling a little jealous. “You've accomplished something with your strike.”

Sadly, it was more than she could say. And Christmas was almost here.

 

Sharon walked back into her house, determined to look on the bright side like Joy had suggested and see how everyone had benefited from her loosening the holiday reins. And then she caught the whiff of burned cookies and followed her nose to the kitchen, where she saw the disaster. Flour dusted the whole work island. Every available counter space was scattered with dirty bowls, measuring cups, and bags of sugar and flour and other baking ingredients. Someone had dropped an egg on the floor and failed to wipe it all up. And that was just the kitchen. All her boys looked like they'd been in a food fight.

“Oh, my stars and little catfishes!” she cried and pressed a hand to her chest. “What is going on here?”

“Hey, Mom,” called James. “We're making gingerbread boys.”

“Is that what you're making?” she said. “It looks more like a mess to me.”

“We'll clean it up,” Pete assured her. “Why don't you join us? Oh, yeah, you can't. You're on strike.”

His words sounded more like a taunt than a regret, and that irked her.

“Mom, we could use some help. This dough tastes kind of funny,” said Pete Junior.

It was all the excuse she needed. “Well, let me see.” She shed her coat and gloves and went to take a pinch of the dough. “Did y'all remember to add the sugar?”

“Who was supposed to put in the sugar?” Pete asked, and their middle son, Tommy Joe, blushed and raised a timid hand.

“Well, let's just dump this out and start again,” Sharon said.

“You're gonna help us?” asked Pete Junior. “I thought you couldn't do anything.”

“Yeah,” put in James, “or you'd get a scab.”

“I'd be a scab,” Sharon corrected him. She looked at Pete.

He was watching her, his eyes asking, “What are you going to say to your kids now?”

That was a hard question. “I guess I can be a scab sometimes, even when there's not a strike,” she admitted. Maybe Pete was right. Perhaps she was just a teensy bit of a Yulezilla.

He shook his head and slapped an ear. “Whoa, my hearing must be going. I thought you said—”

“Never mind what you thought I said, Pete Benedict. And this doesn't mean I'm ending the strike. I'm just…taking a day off from it to supervise you boys.” She started washing her hands. “Okay, now. Let's get all the ingredients lined up here on the counter and we'll put each one away after we've added it. That way you'll know everything is in the bowl that should be.”

For the next hour they played together in the kitchen, making not only gingerbread boys but gingerbread trees, pumpkins, and bunnies, and any other shape that James pulled out of Sharon's basket of cookie cutters and fancied. Her oldest son decided to make an anatomically correct gingerbread boy, which got his brothers and his father laughing hysterically. Sharon decided to let it go. Maybe that particular boy would have a sad accident coming off the cookie sheet.

At last they were done and the kitchen was restored to order.

“I'm pooped,” Pete declared. “Let's go out for pizza.”

“Good idea,” Sharon agreed. “I don't want this kitchen all messed up again now that it's clean. Boys, you all go change. We're not taking you out looking like a bunch of ragamuffins.”

The boys stampeded out of the kitchen with noisy whoops, leaving Sharon and Pete alone.

He leaned against the counter and pulled her up to him. “I should have taken a picture of you crossing the picket line. I'll bet someone at the
Holly Herald
would have paid big money for that.”

“I wasn't really crossing the picket line. I was just keeping you and the boys from demolishing my kitchen.”

“Uh-huh.” His mouth turned up in a crooked grin. “You miss doing all this, don't you? It's killing you not to be doing it.”

She gave his chest a poke. “Let's not talk about me. Let's talk about you. How does it feel to have to finally do something? All these years you've been like a big ol' blister, not showing up until the work's done.”

He gave her a slow smile. “Well, Tex, if everything didn't always have to be done exactly your way, maybe you'd get more help.”

Pete's statement hit her right between the eyes, making her drop her gaze. It was true. Deep down she knew it. “Don't you dare call me Yulezilla,” she said, trying to keep some fire in her voice.

“Things haven't gotten done exactly your way this year and we all survived just fine. Didn't we?”

“I suppose we have,” she muttered.

“In fact, I think I've done pretty good so far this season and I should get some kind of reward.” He began to rub his hands up and down her back.

“Is that so?” she teased, and slipped her arms around his neck.

He was looking at her mouth now. “Yeah, that's so.” He gave her a big, juicy kiss and slipped a hand up her sweater.

“Dad! We're ready,” said James, bounding into the room.

Sharon pulled away, quickly straightening her sweater. “I guess you'll just have to wait for your reward,” she told Pete.

“Don't make me wait too long. All this Christmas stuff is killing me.” Before she could say anything he held up a silencing hand. “I know, I know. That's what it's like for you every year. But don't worry. It's going to be different from now on.”

She wasn't quite sure she liked the way he said that. “Now, don't you go thinking that just because you got away with tacky decorations all over the house this year that you've set some kind of precedent.”

He grinned and sauntered out of the kitchen, humming the redneck version of “The Twelve Days of Christmas.”

The man was still a barbarian. And Lord, how she loved him.

 

It was now December 23, 6:00
P.M.
, and snowing heavily. Glen had skidded his way through downtown and was halfway home before a lady in an out-of-control SUV finally skated into him and pushed his commuter car into a ditch. He plodded the rest of the way home through six inches of snow, ruining his shoes and freezing his butt off. His only consolation was that Laura had called him on his cell earlier to report that she'd made it home okay. That was one less thing to worry about.

And Glen had plenty to worry about these days, like where all the stuff he'd ordered through that on-line shopper was. Bad enough he still had to figure out everything to buy for the big Christmas Eve turkey dinner and how to cook all that crap (naturally, he'd missed the deadline for ordering the precooked turkey with all the trimmings from Town and Country by one day), but to have to worry about the presents arriving on top of it, it was too much to ask a guy.

The stuff should have been here by now. He'd used the Contact Us option on the Web site earlier in the day and had only gotten a form reply telling him that his merchandise was on the way and would be delivered in five to ten working days—the same thing it had said six days before.

Glen turned the corner to his street, dread chilling him more than the icy snowflakes slipping past his coat collar. He'd ordered everything from that site, from Laura's gift to the kids' presents from Santa. All he needed was some nasty hiccup with the delivery. He picked up his pace, anxious to get home and see if there was a pile of Fed Ex packages in the front hall.

Some of the neighbor kids were racing back and forth across the lawns, having a snowball fight. One of them came darting past him and whoever was after the kid landed a zinger on the back of Glen's head, zapping him with cold and rattling his overworked brain.

“Sorry, Mr. Fredericks,” called the kid with the bad aim. “I was trying to get John.”