On Strike for Christmas (25 page)

“Go ahead,” Glen said, letting go of the prize. It was a consolation prize, anyway. He'd been everywhere looking for the Smoothiccino maker Laura had wanted and he'd come up empty.

“Sorry, man,” Pete said. “But I had to come through with something good.”

“I don't know,” Glen said, scratching his head. “I don't think a movie's gonna do it.”

“The movie's part of the package. I'm getting chocolates and bath shit, too.”

Another husband of one of the strikers walked by just then, his jaw clenched around an unlit pipe. Jack Carter, Glen remembered. “Sorry,” he said. “The bath department's cleaned out. I got the last bottle.”

“Try getting a gift certificate to that nail place,” Glen advised. “That's what I did.”

“You'd better get over there fast,” Carter said. “I was there half an hour ago, and it's a zoo.” He shook his head. “You wouldn't think it would be so hard to get a few presents would you? And so expensive. My God, I had no idea.”

Pete nodded. “Things go a lot better with my wife in charge.”

There was an understatement, thought Glen.

“I better get going,” Pete said. Then, clutching the DVD, he hurried off down the aisle.

From two aisles over, Glen could hear raised voices. “Hey, where do you get off reaching over my shoulder?”

“You didn't want it.”

“I was looking at it.”

“Well, too bad. Piss or get off the pot.”

A new shopper had joined Glen on the movie aisle. He saw the empty shelf and burst into tears. Glen decided it was time to go. Anyway, he still had to hit the hardware store and the grocery store.

The hardware store! Maybe, just maybe, Hank would have a Smoothiccino maker.

Don't get your hopes up, Glen told himself. About the only food-related merchandise he'd seen in Hank's were George Foreman grilling machines and barbecues. But it was Christmas, and maybe he'd brought in some extra stuff for his hassled customers whose wives were on strike.

Hank's was a zoo, too, with guys lined up for gift certificates. Glen decided a gift certificate would be great for his father-in-law. But first, the small-appliance aisle.

Hank did have a few more items than usual: a mixer, a blender. And, whoa, what was that? It sure looked like the Smoothiccino machine Laura had been drooling over in that catalog. Glen picked up his pace. Yes, it was. One left.

And then he saw the guy coming from the opposite end of the aisle. Oh, no. He couldn't be. No sense taking any chances. Glen broke into a trot. The guy saw him and bolted for the machine.

“Not that one!” Glen made a flying leap, but he was too late. The other guy was hunched over it, hugging it like a quarterback would a football.

“I saw that first,” Glen snarled.

“Get away or I'll call the cops,” the guy threatened.

Glen resorted to pleading. “Come on, man. I really need that.”

“What? You think I don't? I've looked all over town. I've even been to the mall. This is the last one left anywhere. I'm going to be sleeping on the couch if I don't come home with this.” He hauled it off the shelf and hurried away like a troll with treasure.

“Yeah, well I hope it breaks,” Glen called after him.

The guy gave him the one-fingered salute and scurried around the end of the aisle.

Glen leaned his head on the shelf and tried to collect himself. Nobody liked to see a grown man cry.

“Okay, shake it off, pull yourself together,” he muttered. It wasn't like he'd gotten Laura nothing. He'd get a rain check for the Smoothiccino maker and slip it into the envelope along with the certificate for the nail place and hope that would be good enough. Yeah, right. Who was he kidding?

At least he could get his father-in-law's present here. He joined the long line at the checkout counter. The Smoothiccino maker thief was standing three guys up, clinging to his prize. I hope you choke on the first frappé you drink, Glen thought sourly as Hank rang up the purchase. He gave the guy a dirty look as he passed. The creep pretended not to see.

Finally, Glen reached the counter. “I need a twenty-five dollar gift certificate.”

“I'm out,” Hank said.

“How can you be out of gift certificates?” Glen demanded.

“You saw the line. All you last-minute idiots cleaned me out.”

“Whoever heard of being out of gift certificates,” Glen said.

Hank scowled. He grabbed a steno tablet, flipped to a fresh page and started writing. Then he ripped off the paper and pushed it across the counter. “Okay. That'll be twenty-five bucks.”

Glen looked at the green, lined paper with its barely legible pencil scrawl. “Oh, yeah. That's impressive.”

“It'll work. Do you want it or not?”

“No, and maybe you should stock up for the holidays better. You're out of Smoothiccino makers, too.”

Hank glared at him. “Yeah, well I get a lot of demand for those in a hardware store. What do I look like, anyway, Linens and Things? You clowns are lucky I even had one. Go get a hammer. I got plenty of those left.”

“My father-in-law has three hammers already. What else have you got?”

Hank threw an arm in the direction of the shelves, stocked with a thinning selection of merchandise. “Go look for yourself.”

Like he had time. Glen walked up and down the aisles, trying to make a decision. He couldn't. He hadn't been gifted with the shopping gene, and by now his brain simply refused to work. He finally grabbed some drill bits and marched back to the counter. He spotted a can of nuts and grabbed that, too.

“Big spender,” Hank observed.

“Yeah, well, I'd have been a bigger spender if you had any gift certificates left,” Glen growled.

He got to the grocery store in time to get the second-to-last turkey in the meat section. The thing was still frozen. How long did it take to cook a frozen turkey, anyway? Hopefully, not more than four hours. That was all he had left until the family arrived. Not for the first time he found himself wishing he hadn't missed the deadline for getting the precooked turkey. He snagged a couple of boxes of instant spuds, some boxed stuffing, and the last two cans of gravy. Then he ended his shopping spree with dinner rolls and frozen peas. His mom had promised to bring cookies, so he was okay for dessert.

The checkout lines were long, mostly guys looking frazzled or ready to punch someone. Glen got behind one with a cart piled high with frozen turkey dinners. Why hadn't he thought of that?

“Good idea,” he said to the guy. “Any of those left?”

“I got the last ones,” the guy said, and put a protective hand over the pile.

You'd think it was the end of the world, Glen thought, looking around. That was when he saw the guy with six cartons of eggnog in his cart.

Shit. Drinks!
Glen pulled out of line and raced to the milk cooler, just as another shopper with a cart full of eggnog was taking the last one. What a hog!

“Hey, do you mind if I have that one?” Glen demanded.

“Sorry, pal,” said his fellow shopper. “I'm buying for the neighbors.”

Yeah, right, Glen thought bitterly. He settled for a gallon of chocolate milk, then went to the pop aisle. It had been picked nearly clean. He barely beat another frantic shopper to the last bottle of diet grapefruit, then wheeled back to the checkout.

The lines stretched halfway to the North Pole, and they were all moving at the speed of a glacier. He still had to get home, put this turkey in the oven, wrap presents, set the table, then make all the rest of the dinner stuff.
Oh, God, just let me live through tonight. Please. I'll do anything. Anything.

Finally back home, he hauled the presents up to the bedroom, brought in the groceries, and stuck the turkey in a pan in the oven. Then he went in search of wrapping paper, turning his face from the clock as he passed. The last thing he needed was to be reminded that everyone would arrive in less than three hours.

 

Bob was at the computer, trying to finish his surprise when Joy stuck her head around the door. “It's time to go.”

He was so close. Another hour and he'd have it. “I'm not quite ready. Can we be a little late?”

“I guess,” she said, disappointment plain in her voice.

“I just need a little longer.”

“Bob, you can write all you want in just a couple of days.”

“Not this. It's something I need to finish.” He smiled at her over his shoulder.

She sighed and shut the door.

Half an hour later she was back again. “We really need to go.”

“Okay,” he said, typing frantically. “You and Bobby go ahead. Take your car. I'll meet you there.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely. I'm a changed man. Remember?”

“Okay.” Her tone of voice said she was determined to believe him even though the evidence was shaky.

“You won't be sorry,” he promised, and returned to his fever pitch writing pace.

“So, where's Dad?” Bobby asked as Joy came down the hall.

“Working.”

“Working? On what?”

“On some kind of surprise.” She went to the kitchen and fetched the fruit salad, then rejoined her son. “Let's go. Dad will show up later.”

Bobby picked up the shopping bag of presents that had been set out to go to Al's and followed her out the door. “Maybe he's going to stay home and hide out so nobody gives him a bad time about the Internet scam.”

“If he said he's coming, he'll come,” Joy said.

They got to her big brother's front porch just as he threw open the front door. “Ho, ho, ho,” he greeted them. He peered around Joy. “Where's Bob?”

“He's coming a little late,” she said, and hurried past him.

She had the same response for everyone who asked, and everyone drew his or her own conclusions and dropped the subject.

Except for Joy's sister-in-law, Lonnie. “But what's he doing?”

Joy got busy fussing with a platter of cheese. “I'm not sure. He's working on some kind of surprise.”

“A surprise, huh?” Lonnie looked skeptical.

“He'll be here,” Joy insisted. But what was taking him so long? She heard a shriek down in the party room that sounded like Melia—probably getting teased by one of her cousins. The party was in full swing and no Bob yet. Joy resisted a sudden urge to grab her cell phone and call him and ask when he was going to get there.

They ate appetizers. Bob didn't show. They ate dinner. Bob still didn't show.

“Maybe he's had a heart attack or something,” Melia worried.

“He'd better have at least broken his leg,” Lonnie muttered, and put an arm around Joy.

“He'll be here,” Joy said.
Come on, Bob. Please.

The women cleared the tables, and the holiday cookies and candy made their appearance and still no Bob.

Joy sat at a table, drinking coffee with her sisters-in-law. Lonnie pushed a cookie platter toward her. “Come on, Joy. You can't drink coffee without a cookie to go with it.”

Joy was having trouble even drinking the coffee. It landed like acid in her stomach. Maybe something had happened. Maybe he'd gotten in a car accident. Maybe she would just get the cell and give him a quick buzz.

“Well, look who's here,” cried Susan, smiling.

Joy turned and saw Bob walking through the doorway, a pile of typed pages in his arms. What on earth?

Al came up to Bob and gave him a friendly slap on the back. “We've got plenty of food left.”

“What's that?” called one of the nephews. “Your latest book?”

Bob shook his head. “Nope, it's your entertainment for the night.”

Susan left the table and went over for a closer look. “What have you got for us?”

“The first annual Johnson murder mystery,” Bob told her, and handed her a few papers. “This is your part.”

She took the pages and read, “The Cooking of Joy.” She grinned over at Joy. “Ha! I like it.”

Others had gathered around him now, and Bob began passing out papers.

“Hey,” crowed Melia, “I'm Bonita Bon-Bon, the most beautiful woman in Holly.”

Al was looking at his. “Big Al Capone?”

Bob shrugged.

“So how does this work?” Al asked.

Joy watched in amazement as Bob explained to everyone what to do. They all had five minutes to find some kind of makeshift costume, then they'd meet again and read through their parts. Everyone had a clue on his or her pages that no one else had. They'd have to pool their clues and use their powers of deduction to find which one of them was the murderer.

With yelps and shrieks everyone scattered, lifting table runners and tree decorations to make their costumes. And Bob stood there in the middle of the chaos, smiling at Joy. Then he said, “Surprise.”

And she burst into tears.

The house was full of hungry people, and Glen was in the kitchen sweating. He had wrapped the presents that would go home with various guests, using all ten thumbs, but the stuff for Laura and the kids was still on the bed along with a pile of wrapping paper and ribbon, waiting to torture him. Ten minutes ago he'd realized he'd forgotten to get batteries for Tyler's remote control car, and now Scrooge's Ghost of Christmas Future was pointing a bony finger at a vision of Christmas morning and a car that wouldn't run and a crying kid.

Dinner was late, late, late. His mother had offered to help, but Laura had hauled her away, assuring her that Glen had everything under control. Of course, he had nothing under control. He'd managed to burn both the peas and the instant spuds and now the kitchen stank. He had dirty pots and bowls piled in the sink like the leaning tower of Pisa. Meanwhile, everyone was out in the living room yucking it up while he was in here having a nervous breakdown.

His father strolled through the doorway. “Your mother sent me to see how you're doing,” Dad said, hooking his hands into his suspenders. Why had his mom sent Dad in here when Dad knew even less than Glen about cooking? That was probably Laura's idea.

“How does it look like I'm doing?” Glen grabbed a potholder and opened the oven to take out the turkey. The pan burned its way through the potholder and he barely got the bird to the stovetop before dropping it with a howl.

His dad shook his head. “You're henpecked.”

“Yeah? Well, how come you're in here seeing if I need help instead of Mom?” Glen retorted.

“Because your mother told me to. Looks like you're doing fine, son,” his dad added, and left.

“Oh, yeah. I'm doing great,” Glen muttered. “I'm in hell.”

He slopped the burned potatoes into a bowl, then dished up the burned peas. He had no idea where Laura kept that thing she served gravy in, so he left the canned beef gravy in the pan. He knew enough not to put the hot pan on the table, though. He grabbed the useless potholder and stuck it under the thing. Then he wrestled the turkey onto the serving platter and put that out.

“Okay, guys. Dinner,” he called.

The hungry horde charged the table. As soon as Glen's dad had said grace, they fell on the food like Vikings home from a busy day of pillaging.

“Good job, son,” his dad approved. He looked around the table. “Where's the rolls? Don't we have any?”

“Of course we've got rolls.” Glen rushed back into the kitchen and emptied the bag of rolls into another bowl. He returned and set the bowl in front of his dad.

His mom eyed them critically. “Those don't look like my recipe.”

“They're the house special,” Glen replied, and couldn't help wondering if Laura had put her up to saying that. Was he really supposed to have made dinner rolls on top of everything else?

He remembered Laura complaining at Thanksgiving about having to make his mom's rolls. At the time he hadn't understood why she'd been complaining. He sure got it now. Laura was right. If Mom wanted her homemade rolls at a family dinner she could make the damn things herself.

His father was attempting to saw into the turkey but not having much luck. “Something's wrong with this bird.”

There was nothing wrong with the turkey. Couldn't be. “It's fine, Dad. Just cut it.”

“I can't.”

Exasperated, Glen got up from his seat and took the carving knife and fork from his father. He almost bent the fork trying to put it in. “What the hell?”

“Oh, my God,” said his brother Chuck. “The thing's still frozen on the inside.”

“It's been cooking for two and a half hours,” Glen said. “How can that be?”

“A turkey takes longer than that. Did you thaw it first?” asked his mother.

“Did you take out the neck and giblets?” asked Laura.

“Um,” said Glen.

His cousin Frank burst out laughing, and some of the women giggled.

“I hope you got the rest of Christmas under better control than this,” Frank said.

“It's covered,” Glen said between clenched teeth.

“He did all the shopping today,” Laura added.

“Did you remember to get batteries?” asked Frank's wife.

Tyler chose that moment to spit out his potatoes.

“I don't want my peas,” Amy said. “They taste icky.”

“That's okay, kid, so does everything else,” joked Frank.

Now everyone at the table was staring at Glen, like they expected him to wave a magic wand and fix it all. But he didn't have a clue how to do that and he was too tired to look for one. He'd been going nonstop all month, and he'd used up his last ounce of mental strength getting ready for tonight. Game over.

He threw up his hands. “I can't do this. This is woman stuff.”

“It's hard for one person to do alone without any help, isn't it?” Laura said.

Glen fell down on his knees next to her chair. “Make it stop, baby. Please, I give. You win.”

She looked down at him, a funny expression on her face. “It was never about winning, you big doof. I just wanted you to understand.”

“I understand now,” Glen said. He almost added, “Please, God. I want to live again.”

“So, from now on, when you get inspired to invite half the world over, will you help me?”

“Yes, yes,” Glen said.

“Really help? No just putting a leaf in the table then going to watch the game.”

“No, never.”

“Because I'm not doing this all on my own anymore and letting you wiggle out of helping.”

Glen crossed his heart. “No more wiggling.”

She smiled down at him. “You promise? We have witnesses, you know.”

“Teamwork,” Glen promised.

“Oh, that's so sweet,” murmured Laura's mother as Laura rewarded Glen with a kiss.

“Henpecked,” muttered his dad.

“Leonard, be quiet,” said his mom.

“That was all real touching,” Chuck said, “but what about the turkey? And the peas and spuds are burned. I hate to say it, bro, but this dinner sucks. This is like prison food or something.”

“I don't think cooking is your thing, Glen,” one of the women said diplomatically.

Laura got up and picked up the platter with the bad-news turkey. “Don't worry, guys. Mom, Edna, you want to help me?”

Glen's mother and mother-in-law each scooped up bowls of disaster food, and followed Laura out of the dining room. A couple of minutes later they returned, bearing a platter of cold, sliced ham, a big bowl of potato salad, a molded Jell-O fruit salad, and Mom's dinner rolls.

“Plan B,” Laura told Glen and kissed the top of his head. “We had it hidden in the extra fridge in the garage for just in case. And we've got Mom's Christmas cookies for dessert. I just couldn't let you keep working without a net, not when you've been trying so hard. It wasn't fair.”

Glen sighed in relief. “Thanks, babe.”

“Well, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” his dad cracked.

“Yeah, but you still need batteries,” teased Frank. Maybe Frank wouldn't get invited back next year.

“Don't worry. I bought some,” Laura said.

“She saved your bacon,” Frank told Glen. Frank was definitely not getting invited back next year.

 

The turkey and all its trimmings had been consumed, and Carol's old-fashioned figgy pudding had been a hit. Even little Chloe had liked it, licking the sauce from her bowl. Now they all sat in the living room, which was scented by bayberry candles and decorated with a small ceramic tree on the coffee table, watching the gas flames dance over the fake logs in the fireplace and listening to a CD of Christmas music.

Carol looked at Chloe, cuddled in her mother's lap and fighting the heaviness settling on her eyelids. They'd probably be moving in another year. Would she ever see or hear from them again? Maybe not, but that was okay. Maybe it was all right to risk letting people into your life, even if they drifted on out, because the time they were there was so special.

“This sure beats that turkey potpie I had in the freezer,” Darren said from his spot on the couch. The way he smiled at Carol told her he wasn't planning on drifting off any time soon.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that. One thing she was sure of, it was nice to have someone here with her right now. She smiled at him and said, “I'm glad you enjoyed it.”

She looked back at the fire. Funny, the images you could see in a blazing fire. For a minute there the flames moved in a way that looked like two people dancing.

 

Rosemary Charles stood at the door of Rick's apartment, stamping snow off her feet and waiting for him to answer the doorbell. She pressed it again. What was taking him so long answer, anyway? It wasn't like he wasn't expecting her. He'd asked her to stop by on her way to her parents', insisting that he had something important she needed to see. What she needed to see at Rick's Scrooge-in-residence place she couldn't imagine, but she was curious enough to let him lure her over for some hot buttered rum.

She suddenly heard strains of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” coming from inside the house. And then Rick opened the door. He was wearing a Santa hat.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Just thought you'd like to see how I celebrate Christmas,” he said, and stepped aside for her to enter.

“I got the impression you didn't.”

“Well, you got the wrong impression. Want to see my tree?”

“You have a tree?”

“Yeah, I've got a tree.”

“Oh, I can hardly wait to see this,” she said, following him into the living room. He'd probably decorated it with old Budweiser cans.

But he hadn't. It had old-fashioned tinsel on it and all kinds of those collectible ornaments she saw every year at Hallmark. “This is impressive,” she said, moving closer for a better look.

In fact, the whole apartment was impressive. The neutral-colored walls were jazzed up with framed photographs of mountain and sea scenes—Rick's work, obviously. He didn't have a ton of furniture, but what he had was nice: brown leather sofa and love seat, a sturdy coffee table made of cherrywood. It had two steaming mugs sitting on it.

Rick handed one to her.

“How did you manage this?” she said, holding up the mug.

“I'm organized.”

“So, tell me about the tree.”

“Not much to tell. My mom has gotten me ornaments for Christmas every year since I was born. Of course, she got me other stuff, too,” he added, then frowned. “Socks, underwear, pajamas.”

“You poor, deprived child,” Rosemary teased.

“Well, we could always count on Santa for the cool stuff,” Rick said.

“The stuff you got from Santa probably wouldn't be as valuable as these ornaments.” She smiled at him. “It's a great tree.”

“I don't put one up every year. It's a pain in the ass.” He smiled at her. “I just put it up when I'm planning on having really important company.”

She felt suddenly fluttery inside and took a sip of her drink. “Well, I've got to say, you have great taste. All except for the music,” she added.

“Hey, that's a great song.”

She nodded at the tree. “So, was this what you wanted me to see?”

“That and what's under it,” he said, moving closer to her.

She looked down and saw a small package wrapped in gold foil. “What's this?”

“Something for you.”

“Oh, my gosh. Really?”

He picked it up and gave it to her. “Open it.”

She did and her jaw dropped. There was the necklace with the pink quartz she'd admired at the Hollydays Fair. She looked from it to Rick, stunned. He was grinning like an oversized elf.

“You can shut your mouth now,” he teased, and lifted a finger to her chin. “Or, come to think of it, you can leave it open.”

It was a kiss to remember. He smelled like aftershave and tasted like hot buttered rum.

“So,” he murmured after that enticing sample of possible Christmases future. “You got your outfit all picked out for New Year's Eve?”

She grinned up at him. “Who's paying? Who lost the bet?”

He looked over his shoulder at his tree. “Let's call it a draw, but I'll pay.”

 

Joy and Bob and their kids were almost the last to leave the party this year. It was a first.

Al pumped Bob's hand as they walked out the door. “Thanks for doing that, Bob. It was really great. I loved it that you made Lonnie the murderer.”

“We'll do it again next year,” Bob promised.

Joy could hardly believe her ears. She threaded an arm through Bob's as they made their way down the front walk. “Will we? Really?”

He nodded. “Why not?”

She sighed happily. “That was fun.”

He smiled down at her and said, “Yes, it was.”

Those were the sweetest words she'd heard in a long time, and, after all they'd been through this season, they felt almost too good to be true.
Note to self: Reward husband properly later
. She tugged on Bob's arm, slowing them down to let the kids go on ahead of them. “Did you mean what you just said? Really?”

He considered a moment. “Yes, I did. And even if I didn't I'd still be there. I love you, hon, crazy family and all.”

Al's front door opened to let out a couple other stragglers, and music from his Christmas CD danced out into the cold night air, a choir singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.”

No need to wish it, Joy thought happily. She had it.

 

Glen had done all the dishes after dinner, but he made sure he wasn't alone. He'd bullied his brother and Frank into helping him. Now the kitchen was clean and the family was busy exchanging presents, and Glen found himself wishing he was back in the kitchen, especially when his father-in-law opened his gift.