A Small Town Christmas Part 47

"Well, I thought it was worth a try," Bob said.

"Nothing works when they've made up their minds about something," Fredericks said.

"Sick," Hank muttered, and let fly with another stream of tobacco juice.

"The best we can do is stay strong," Bob said. "Don't let them think they're getting to us."

"Hey, I'm not letting this get to me," Fredericks insisted. "I can take anything she can dish out."

"Which is why you're down here," said Hank.

Another man came up to the counter now. Around the pipe in his mouth, he asked, "You talking about the strike?" They nodded and he frowned. "If I get my hands on the wimp who let his wife start this..." The other two closed ranks to protect Bob, and the newcomer's eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute."

"It's not his fault," Glen said. "The women all got together. None of us had any control over this."

The man looked at them all in disgust. "Well, your wives convinced mine that I have to go Christmas shopping."

"Don't tell me, let me guess," said Glen. "Jack Carter the Scrooge."

"I'm not a Scrooge," Jack snarled.

Now another man had joined them. "Hey, you think shopping is bad-my wife is making me cook a turkey. What do I look like, anyway, Chef Boyardee? I don't have a clue how to do that."

"You don't," Bob told him. "You order one precooked from Town and Country."

The guy nodded thoughtfully. "Good idea."

"We don't have to do everything the women do," Bob added.

Fredericks puffed out his ma.s.sive chest. "Yeah, we're men."

"Yeah," the others chorused.

"So, does anybody know how to make cookies?" Pete asked.

Silence fell on Hank's Hardware.

"I've gotta get home," Glen finally said.

"Me, too," said Pete.

"Henpecked," said Hank in disgust.

Not me, Bob told himself as he drove away. These poor slobs needed help. They needed the Christmas Terminator.

He came home to find his wife waiting for him on the living room sofa, cupping a steaming mug of tea and wearing a melancholy expression. He felt his cloud of euphoria begin to dissolve around the edges. "What's wrong?"

"I've already had two people ask me if we're going to have our annual Christmas party."

Uh-oh. The Christmas Terminator started to fall apart and the ground under Bob's feet suddenly felt unstable. "What did you tell them?"

"That I'm not in charge this year." She said it like it was his fault she'd abdicated her position as ruler of the holidays. She took a sip from her mug and watched him over the rim.

The Christmas Terminator was crumbling into a useless pile of nuts and bolts and melting steel. This was how she always got him, with guilt.

But not this time, Bob told himself firmly. Joy was on strike and Bob was the new ruler. The queen was picketing; long live the king.

He willed the Terminator back together and said, "Good girl." No parties this year, thank G.o.d. He handed over the DVDs. "What do you want to watch?"

Arnold, of course, did not get first pick. Neither did the foreign film. She picked the comedy. Bob realized he should have paid closer attention to what he was grabbing. The movie with Will Smith had been a tactical error. It was all about a date doctor who advised men to do anything for the woman they wanted-a bad message for a man who was trying to gain some measure of control over his own existence.

Just pretend you don't get the message, he told himself as they headed for the TV room.

"So I guess we're not having a party this Christmas," Joy said from behind him.

She was trying to sound casual, but he could hear the hope hiding in her voice. He smiled grimly. It had been easy enough to announce she was going on strike, talk a big talk to the newspaper reporter, but she wasn't finding her strike so much fun when faced with the reality of losing control. Well, now she knew how he felt.

"Are you ending your strike?" he countered.

It took her a minute to answer. "No."

"Then I guess we're not."

"Fine," she said, miserable resignation tainting every particle of breath. She was Joan of Arc, waiting for the bonfire. He could see their quiet evening together vanis.h.i.+ng quicker than a plate of Christmas cookies. Who was he kidding? Her unhappiness would spread out far beyond this evening.

"You're the one who wanted me to see how miserable I'd be if we did things my way," he reminded her. "Don't you want to give me a chance to be miserable?"

That coaxed a reluctant smile from her. "Hurry up and get miserable, will you?"

He put in the DVD and settled on the love seat, patting the cus.h.i.+on next to him. "Come on. Let's enjoy the movie."

She snuggled in next to him and he put an arm around her, deep contentment settling over him. He loved times like this when it was just the two of them enjoying something together. Who needed a party?

Joy had trouble paying attention to the movie. Her thoughts kept drifting to the bleak Bob Humbug Christmas that lay ahead of her. She felt like Mrs. Claus stuck in a tug-of-war with the Grinch. At the rate they were going there was only one thing that was going to save her. Note to self: Buy more chocolate.

After the ribbing he'd taken at church, Glen entered the office on Monday like a soldier preparing to cross territory riddled with land mines. Mitzi, the receptionist, greeted him with a glare. He wasn't sure, but he thought she growled.

"Don't believe everything you read in the paper," he told her, and pressed on.

One of the guys called from his desk, "Hey, man, saw the article. Hang in there," and that made Glen feel better.

His secretary, Kathleen, shook her head at him as he tried to slip past her desk. She hung up her phone and said, "I told you it would all catch up with you someday. You'd better pray your wife doesn't decide to have a party."

Like it was his fault Christmas came every year? Like it was his fault they had family and friends who wanted to come over? Like he couldn't handle this? He was doing fine.

He spread out his arms, briefcase dangling from one hand. "So, let her. Game on."

Kathleen was ten years older than he was. She seemed to think it gave her the right to act like his mother and dish out advice and make ominous predictions. Oh, and dish out superior looks like the one she was giving him now.

He decided to ignore it. "Hold my calls," he said. "I've got some work to do."

He locked his office door, then went to his desk, opened his briefcase, and took out a fat pile of Christmas cards to address.

Laura was restocking the brochure rack with the reprinted Hollydays brochures when the call came in to the Chamber of Commerce. It was Kathleen, Glen's secretary.

"I thought you might like to know your husband informed me this morning that he's perfectly capable of throwing a Christmas party."

Laura gave a snort of disgust. "Yeah, right. And who does he think is going to get all the food for it and serve it and clean up the mess afterward?" Just the thought of the work that came along with any pairing of the words "Glen" and "party" made her start snapping her gum.

"He claims he's up to the challenge."

"That'll be a first," Laura said. "I can just see Glen in charge of a party."

"Sounds like fun. Can I come?"

Glen having to deal with the kind of instant invasion he dumped on her. That should be interesting. Give the boy some circles to run in. "Yeah, the more the merrier. In fact, why don't you invite the whole office? I'll call some of our friends."

"Okay. When?"

"This Friday," Laura decided. "He can get ready for it in between addressing Christmas cards and baking cookies."

"Are we going to have to eat them?" Kathleen asked, obviously horrified.

"Afraid so."

"Great. Then I'm bringing a giant bottle of Tums for a hostess gift."

Ten.

Carol had been in a relatively good mood before coming to volunteer at the food bank on Monday, but seeing Sunday's paper with the article on the strike sitting on the little house's kitchen counter had made her grumpy. Now the Christmas music playing on the small, portable radio in the reception area sawed on her nerves with every tinny note. Who had brought that article in, anyway?

She managed to ignore it while she bagged food requests and started to fill a pot with chopped vegetables for soup. But every time she had a temporary lull in customers the darned thing drew her attention.

She leaned on the formica counter and studied the shot of Bob and Joy and their terrifying tree. Why had Joy pulled this stunt? It didn't seem like her. And surely, after all the years she'd been married, she and Bob had established the rules of give and take for their marriage. Was everything okay with them?

Carol turned her attention to the picture of Laura, stretched out in a chair, sipping something from a big mug, while behind her chaos bloomed. She was obviously enjoying this.

So were the others. They wore their various states of discontent like new fas.h.i.+on finds.

They should all be ashamed of themselves. They had so much and they appreciated it so little. They should each have to spend a few days here at Helping Hands, talking with people who were homeless, unemployed, or suddenly divorced and struggling desperately to make ends meet, or try rattling around a house with only memories for company. Maybe then they'd appreciate what they had.

"Ho, ho, ho!"

The deep voice behind Carol made her jump. She turned to see Darren Matthews entering the small, utilitarian kitchen, grinning at her.

Darren was divorced, in his early sixties, and recently retired. He was also a recent recruit, eager to make meaningful use of his newfound spare time. Every Monday he went to Holly's two grocery stores and picked up food contributions.

He was a big, husky man, and the clothes he was wearing made him look even huskier. It wasn't the usual slacks and s.h.i.+rt outfit that he wore to make his collection rounds. Today he was in old jeans and work boots, with a plaid flannel s.h.i.+rt under an Eddie Bauer vest. This Paul Bunyan look was accessorized by the leather work gloves he carried in one hand.

Darren wasn't the most handsome man Carol had ever seen, but he certainly made the top ten list for most appealing. With his burly frame and round, Germanic face, he always made her think of Santa. Right now she looked at him and thought not of Santa, but of hard muscle hiding beneath soft flannel. He smelled good, too, a winning combination of fresh air and aftershave. All in all he was an appealing package...for some woman.

"Think you'd have any customers for a Christmas tree?" he asked.

"A Christmas tree?"

"I've got some out in my truck."

"The grocery stores donated Christmas trees?" Here was a first.

"No. I've got a friend who lives on a tree farm. He let me cut a dozen down yesterday. I know we give away other things besides food here, and I thought we could use some trees."

"They'll be gone by tomorrow," Carol predicted.

She stuck her head out the kitchen door and called over to Gert, the food bank's oldest volunteer, who was busily writing at her tinsel-swagged desk, "Guess what we got."

Gert pulled off her bifocals and looked up expectantly.

"Darren brought us some Christmas trees."

Gert craned her head. "Some what?"

"Trees," Carol repeated.

"Trees!" That got Gert up and hobbling over to the kitchen as fast as her bad hip would let her.

"I've got a dozen out in my truck," Darren said. "Where should I set them up?"

"Oh, my stars!" declared Gert. "Well, let's just prop them along the front porch where people can see them when they come up the walk."

Darren nodded and started for the back door.

"I'll help you," Carol offered.

"It's okay, I've got it," he called over his shoulder. "Anyway, you'll get your hands all cut up."

"This is so exciting," Carol said to Gert. "I can think of several people who will be thrilled."

"A wonderful idea," Gert agreed. She gave Carol a nudge. "That Darren is quite a find."

"We're lucky to have him," Carol said, playing dumb.