On Strike for Christmas (15 page)

Mac and his wife, Tiffany, were already there when Glen got back to the house. Mac was eating out of one of the chip bags, and Laura and Tif were leaning against the kitchen counter, giggling together about something. Him, Glen decided, since they stopped their yuck-it-up fest at the sight of him.

“I see you got the ice okay,” Laura observed.

“No problemo.”

“I guess you've got everything under control, then.” If that was supposed to be an observation on how well he was coping, it hadn't come out right. It sounded more like a taunt.

“Of course I do,” Glen said. “You women make such a big deal out of having a party. Some chips, some beer, and some party ice, and you're set. Nothing to it.”

“So, where's the booze?” Mac greeted him.

“It's coming,” Glen said. He ripped open the ice bag and dumped its contents into the bucket. “Go get the beer and wine out of the fridge and put 'em in there.”

“What do I look like, the maid?” Mac joked.

“You're too ugly,” Glen retorted. He let Mac fill the drinks bucket while he started pulling bowls out of the cupboard. It only took a couple of minutes to empty chips into them and set them on the dining room table. Everything was under control again. Ha! Score one for the guys.

In the kitchen he could hear Tiffany saying to Laura, “Maybe I should have brought something.”

“No,” Laura said. “Glen's got it covered. You heard him. Hey, baby,” she called, “don't forget to put out your Christmas cookies.”

Was she kidding? There were maybe three he hadn't burned.

Mac was in the doorway now. “You made cookies?” He stared at Glen like Glen had just admitted to having a sex change.

“Don't be an idiot. A lot of guys bake, you know,” Glen informed him. “Most of the famous chefs in the world are men.”

Mac just shook his head like Glen had somehow failed him.

The doorbell rang. “I'll get it,” Glen said, glad to get away from Mac and his sexist views on cooking.

Roger strolled in with his wife and handed over a bottle of wine. If only he'd brought cookies.

Laura came out and greeted them and took their coats. They were still talking when more guests arrived. Within minutes the house was packed, and everyone seemed hungry. They drifted out toward the dining room table like so many ants to a picnic. Glen saw that the chip bowls were already rapidly emptying. Great. The night was just starting and the food supply was already dwindling. How much food did Laura buy for a party, anyway? Obviously, more than he had. And, of course, the women all usually brought stuff: plates with candies and appetizers and homemade caramel corn. The eats department was really suffering without those extras he'd always taken for granted. Was every woman in Holly on strike, for crying out loud?

“I brought some food,” Glen's pal, Mort, said, holding out a crockpot full of cocktail sausages drowning in barbecue sauce.

Thank God, Glen thought. He was so grateful he almost hugged the guy.

Mort eyed the table. “You got plates?”

Laura usually had little plates and holiday napkins. Both of which they'd need to eat Mort's sausages. Oh, boy. Glen hurried to the kitchen and began searching the cupboards. Where the hell did she keep those plates? The pantry, of course.

But the pantry was empty. Wasn't there some old nursery rhyme about that?
Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get her poor husband some plates
.

Glen stopped himself. He was cracking up. “Laura!”

She leaned into the pantry, a smile on her face, one eyebrow cocked. “You bellowed?”

“Where are the paper plates?”

“You didn't get any?”

“I thought we had some.”

She lifted a shoulder and gave him a mock sympathetic look. “Sorry. We're out.”

“Yeah, I'll bet. You probably hid 'em someplace.”

She didn't deny or confirm. Instead, she said, “Guess you'll have to use real ones.” She shook her head. “That'll be a mess to clean up.”

“And I can tell you feel real bad about it.”

She just smiled and wandered off.

“You won't win,” he called after her.

No response.

He dragged a bunch of little plates and saucers from the cupboard to the dining room table. Two of the chip bowls were now almost empty. Mac had probably single-handedly emptied one. What was it about tall, skinny guys, anyway? They all ate like pigs.

“Laura said you made some cookies,” one of the women said to Glen. “Are we going to get to try them?”

She was looking at him innocently, like she really wanted to sample his baking. Yeah, right. She was probably one of the strikers, waiting for a chance to gloat.

“I don't have too many left.”

Laura had drifted within earshot now. “I'll get them,” she offered.

Suddenly she wanted to help? He believed that like he believed in Santa. This was a setup.

“Hey, I've got it covered. I'll get 'em.”

Laura's cookies were always perfect, the frosting smooth and decorations looking like something out of a bakery. Looking at his burned messes, wavy with lopsided frosting and haphazard sprinkles, he wished he'd taken a little more time on the dumb things. Better yet, he wished he'd picked up some boxed cookies at the store.

He suddenly had a brainstorm. He ditched the plate with his cookies in the cupboard, then went over to Mac and pulled him aside.

“What?” Mac looked irritated.

“You gotta help me,” Glen said in an under voice.

“I'm not bakin' any cookies, dude.”

Glen looked over his shoulder to make sure no one had heard, then dragged Mac farther away from the other partiers. “You don't need to. Just slip out and go down to your place and steal some of your wife's.”

Mac looked at him in shock.

“She did bake, didn't she? Oh, shit. She's on strike, too.”

“Yeah, but her mom felt sorry and sent a bunch over. Just for the kids. I'm supposed to stay out of them,” Mac added miserably.

“Well, what are you, whipped?”

“Look who's talking. Your wife started this thing.”

“And yours is in on it. Now, we can't let 'em win, can we?”

“Well, no.”

“Okay, then. I need you to sneak over to your place and get some cookies. You don't have to take all of them.”

Now Mac looked perturbed. “I don't want to miss the party. And besides, Tif'll get pissed.”

“She's not gonna know, pinhead. Only take a few. If she notices some are missing you can blame it on the kids. Or the babysitter. And it's gonna take you all of ten minutes to run one block. If I don't get some more good stuff on the table there won't be any party. Come on now, help me. I'm dying here.”

Mac frowned and came up with a reluctant “All right.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you.” Glen looked around to make sure no women had drifted over to eavesdrop. “Put a bunch in a paper bag so nobody sees what you've got. Then I'll put them on the plate with mine.”

Mac nodded and started for the door.

Glen grabbed him by the arm and hissed, “And don't break 'em.”

Mac made a face but went to do what he was told.

“Hey, we're a little sparse on food out here,” Rog called from the eats table.

“I'm working on it already,” Glen called back. “Have another beer.” Geez, what did Rog think this was, anyway, a restaurant?

People were busy talking. No one noticed when Mac returned and did a behind-the-back hand-off to Glen, who then ducked into the pantry and started the cookie transfer. Oh, this was good. There was some kind of brownie-looking thing with green frosting, a layered cookie with a thin coat of chocolate on top, and those little round ones with the powdered sugar that looked like snowballs. Perfect.

He brushed the powdered sugar off the brownies, then went and set the plate out on the dining room table. The guests fell on it, snatching cookies like they were trapped in the desert with nothing to eat but cactus and tumbleweeds.

“You made these?” asked Mort, holding up a frosted brownie.

“What can I say?” Glen answered and tried to look humble. And honest.

“I can't believe you made these,” said Kathleen, narrowing her eyes at him. Why had Laura invited her, anyway? Bad enough to have her torturing him every day at the office.

“Oh, I have a recipe like this!” cried Tiffany. “It was my mom's. And I make these snowballs, too. And the fudge meltaways.”

“What an interesting coincidence,” Laura said, eyeing Glen. “Glen must have baked these after I was asleep last night, because I sure didn't see him making them any other time. I only saw him burning cookies.”

All eyes turned on Glen. His face felt like a burning cookie, but he braved it out. “I'm a fast learner. Hey, who's for a game of Ping-Pong? I've got the table set up in the garage.”

Half the guys jumped on the offer and Glen ducked out after them. Laura could have all the suspicions she wanted, but she couldn't prove anything. And Mac wouldn't talk. He was an accomplice.

They were just getting started when the door to the garage opened and Rog stepped through it. “Those cookies are great. I hope you've got more.”

“Don't tell me you ate them all already,” Glen said, panic gripping him. How many cookies did they have over at Mac's? And how many more could they steal without Tif noticing?

Rog scowled and replied with an affronted, “No. But I didn't know there was a limit.”

“Look, those are all I've got and they have to last.”

Rog shook his head. “Man, I hope your wife never goes on strike again. The food supply tonight sucks.”

Oh, no. Nothing at his party was going to suck. “Well, we can fix that,” Glen said. “What do you want? You guys cover for me and I'll make a food run.”

“Works for me. What you've got now won't last another half an hour,” Mac said.

“But nobody tells Laura,” Glen cautioned. “I'll let her think I've had it stashed somewhere all along.”

“You're the man,” Mac approved, and they high-fived each other.

“Get some more cookies,” said Mort. “And some eggnog,” he added.

“I like those little quiche things,” Rog said. The other guys looked at him like he'd just donned a frilly apron. “What?” he said, his voice defensive.

“I don't even know where to find those,” Glen told him. “Be reasonable.”

“Okay, pickled herring.”

A general moan filled the garage. “That's totally gross,” said Jer.

“How about those little frozen pizzas?” Mort suggested.

“Now, that sounds like real food,” Mac approved.

“Okay. Minipizzas, eggnog, and cookies.” Glen felt in his pants pocket. The car keys were still there. Good. He could slip out the garage door and Laura wouldn't be any the wiser. With all the talking the women were doing in the house she'd never hear the door go up.

He punched the button for the automatic door opener and it began its noisy ascent. They all froze, like spies in enemy territory, fearing they'd been heard.

“Don't tell Laura? Your garage door is so loud we won't have to,” Rog said after it was up.

“If she comes out tell her we opened it 'cause we were getting hot,” Glen said.

“That'll work great until she notices you're not here,” Rog retorted.

Glen scratched his head and thought a moment. “Tell her…I'm out back smoking a cigar with Mac.” He grabbed Mac by the arm and hauled him toward the car.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Mac protested. He held up his Ping-Pong paddle. “I just started a game, in case you didn't notice.”

Glen snatched the paddle out of his hand and tossed it to Mort. “You can finish when we get back. Meanwhile, I need you to come with me. That way she'll believe Rog about the cigars.”

Mac let out a snort of disgust. “First you send me home for cookies, now you're dragging me to the store. I'm sure having fun at this party so far.”

“I'll buy more chips,” Glen promised, and pushed him into the minivan.

Glen drove like his grandmother to the 7-Eleven, but once they got there, he sped up and down the aisles like a contestant on
The Amazing Race
.

“You have to have set some kind of record in there,” Mac said approvingly as they tossed the bags in the minivan. ‘Now, if you can not drive like an old woman on the way home.”

Glen stuck a finger in Mac's face. “I don't drive like a woman.”

Mac raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Get in,” Glen growled. He stomped to the driver's side and got in, then stomped on the gas.

That might have been a mistake.

They'd only gone a block when it happened. “Uh-oh,” said Mac. “Looks like you're busted, dude.”