On Strike for Christmas (8 page)

She paid for her treasures, then went to the booth where Corey Carlson and Flo the traffic girl stood exchanging chitchat. The other women had left and the two were alone now.

The gaze Corey ran over Carol proclaimed him a connoisseur of women. By his age he'd probably had a few, so it was no surprise that he'd look. What surprised Carol was that the look seemed to hold some measure of appreciation.

“Here comes another Santa's helper,” he said jovially as she stepped up to the booth. “That looks like a pretty generous donation.”

“It's for a good cause.”

“You're right there.”

“Can we give you a cookie in exchange?” Flo offered.

Corey Carlson wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Carol took a cookie and wished she could remember how to flirt. She took the wish back instantly. What a disloyal thought!

“How about a cup of coffee to go with that?” he offered.

Coffee would keep her up all night, and she hated being awake and alone in the long, dark hours.

She shook her head. “No, thanks.”

“It's Starbucks, only the best for our listeners. You are a listener, aren't you?” he added with a grin.

“Yes, and if you're fishing for compliments, I'll be happy to give you one. I love your show.”

His grin widened. “Glad to hear it.” He leaned his elbows on the counter. “Tell me more.”

“Well, I've actually learned a lot about politics. And I like the way you treat your listeners when they call in. You're not rude like some talk show hosts. I've never heard you cut someone off or call anyone a name.”

“I try not to. Have I ever talked to you? What's your name?”

“Carol.”

“Christmas Carol,” he quipped.

Was he flirting with her? Yes, that was definitely the smile of a man who was flirting.

Carol felt suddenly flattered, nervous, and guilty. She realized she was fingering the gold band she had finally transferred to her right hand. “Well, merry Christmas,” she said quickly, and started for the door.

“What's your hurry?” he called after her.

“I have to get home,” she called back.
My cat is waiting for dinner.

She kicked herself all the way to her car. She'd just had an opportunity to rejoin the human race and she'd tossed away the application. She unlocked her car and got in, heart pounding fast. She wasn't ready yet. Miserable as she was, she just wasn't ready. Maybe she never would be.

She flipped down her visor and looked at her reflection. What could that man have possibly seen in her? She looked old, and tired, like a woman who had run a race that turned out to be much too long and hard. She burst into tears. She hated her life, and right now she hated Christmas.

On Thursday, December 1, Whit Walters, the editor of the
Holly Herald,
called Rosemary Charles into his office. “This,” he said, tapping the screen on his computer monitor, “is good stuff.”

She couldn't help preening a little. She sashayed over to the old leather chair opposite his desk and slid into it. “I know. I'm brilliant.”

He ignored the opportunity to agree with her, instead turning back to his copy on the screen and saying, “I've got a nose for hot stories.” It was the only thing he had a nose for—he never seemed to notice that his office smelled like male sweat, farts, and old cigars. “And this is hot. It's so dumb, so battle of the sexes—we are going to sell a lot of papers.”

“So I guess I can safely assume you liked my idea about doing a whole series, following some of these couples clear through to Christmas?”

Whit was a large man with white hair, which was getting a little sparse on top. For just a minute, the way he smiled made Rosemary think of Santa contemplating a relaxing, postholiday evening with Mrs. Claus. He rubbed his stubbled chin, then nodded. “Oh, yeah. We're going to have letters to the editor on this one coming out our ears. Good work, kid,” he added, and picked up a well-chewed, smoking cigar from the ashtray on his desk.

“Thanks,” she said. She started to get up, anxious to leave before she began smelling like the inside of a cigar box. Did newspaper editors all belong to some secret society that demanded they smoke those stinky things?

“Oh, before you go,” Whit said, “we should talk about the office party. You and Martha got it covered?”

Rosemary regarded him playfully. “Actually, no.”

Whit's eyebrows took a dip, taking away the Santa resemblance. “No?”

“I think, in the spirit of these articles, we're going to go on strike, too.”

Now the eyebrows shot up toward Whit's vanishing hairline. “What?”

Rosemary shrugged. “It's not that hard to plan an office party. Call a restaurant, reserve a room.”

“A restaurant won't have that cake Martha always makes. And who's going to plan the gift exchange?”

“Whit, there's nothing to plan. Everybody just brings something stupid all wrapped up like always. You put numbers in a hat and draw. You guys can handle it.”

Whit was frowning. “You know, it's all well and good to write about this, but that doesn't mean you need to join it.”

“I'm not at home. Just here.”

“Well, that's the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Whit blustered.

“Don't you think it's a little sexist to make the women do all the holiday things around here?”

“You women like that kind of thing.”

“That's because we've had the pleasure of getting to do it.” She sauntered toward the door. “And this year I think you guys should have a chance to experience that same pleasure.”

“You're not forgetting who works for whom around here, are you?”

Rosemary smiled at him over her shoulder. “Of course not, boss. But party planning is not in my job description.”

“Should be.” He pointed his cigar at her. “I spoiled you. That's the problem.”

She just smiled and shut the door on him.

 

Glen's day at the office had been the pits, with one fire after another to put out. He almost wished he hadn't taken that new position. Sure, the money was good, and he liked his job. He especially liked the nice, big office that went with it. But he wasn't sure he liked the headaches that accompanied moving up the old ladder of success. It demanded a lot of mental toughness for a guy to keep his game sharp, and that drained a lot of energy.

He heaved a sigh of relief as he pulled up in front of his house. Home, sweet home, his two-story Craftsman-style castle with the front porch and the big columns, and the thirty-year mortgage, his sanctuary from the hassles of the office rat race. This was why he went to work every day, so he could return home to Laura and the kids and a good meal and a relaxing evening where the hassles of the office melted off him. The air had a nip to it, which made the thought of relaxing inside his nice, warm house all the more appealing. Unless a guy was doing something important, like playing football, who wanted to be out in the cold?

As he walked up the front walk he could see the Christmas tree sitting by the living room bay window, glowing in silent testimony to his first task successfully completed. And he'd celebrated his success by reaching for a bottle of Excedrin.

Thank God there was nothing on for tonight. He'd kick back and pull out a DVD, some good guy flick with lots of things blowing up.

He barely had the door open before Amy was bouncing up and down in front of him, eagerly asking, “Did you get it, Daddy?”

He swung her up in his arms and carried her into the living room. “Get what, baby girl?” Now Tyler was running toward him, Laura following behind. Glen rumpled Tyler's hair and leaned over to kiss his wife.

“The Advent calendar,” Amy said.

Advent calendar, Christmas to-do list.
A sinking uh-oh feeling slugged Glen in the gut.

Laura must have caught a flash of panic in his eyes because now she was smirking.

Never let 'em see you sweat.
He put on a jovial smile and stalled for time. “Hi, babe.”

“How was your day?” she asked.

Here was his excuse. “Insane. Crazy.”

“Guess we both had one of those days,” Laura said. “It was a zoo at the Chamber.”

Now Amy was tugging on his pant leg. “Where is it, Daddy? This is December first. We get to open the first window.”

December first. What a smart kid. How did she know that?

Take a wild guess
. He looked at his wife. Still smirking.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

This was like the domestic version of a football game—the Christmas Bowl—and while he may have just lost some yardage, he would not lose the ball. He thought fast, adjusting his game plan on the fly.

Inspiration came like a gift from the Magi. “You know what?” he said to his daughter.

Amy was jumping up and down again. “What?”

“We're going to go out and get it tonight, right after dinner.” Back out into the cold.

“Yay,” Amy whooped, and began to skip in a circle around him.

“Yay,” echoed Tyler, following her.

Where the hell was he going to find an Advent calendar? Time for a quarterback sneak. “Hey, hon. Want to come with us?”

“In your dreams,” she said as she turned back toward the kitchen. “I just started a great book. I'm going to curl up on the couch and read.”

Curl up on the couch.
Glen thought longingly about his movie plans for the night. Things blowing up. Yeah, right. The only thing that would be blowing up tonight was the relaxing evening at home. But how long could it take to run out and buy an Advent calendar? He should be able to get that done and still get home in time to kick back with a movie.

Not wanting to waste any time in getting his mission completed, they were barely done with dinner when he said, “Okay, team. Let's go get ourselves a calendar. Get your coats.” The kids dashed off with squeals of excitement and he turned to Laura. “So where do I get one of these things?”

“You should be able to find one at the book store, if they haven't run out. I always get mine before the first.”

“Oh, thanks. Way to set a guy up for failure. You know, it would have been nice if you told me when you gave me that stadium-size honey-do list.”

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek. “I guess I just thought a smart guy like you would have no trouble figuring that out.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Are you being a smart-ass?”

“Moi?” She put a hand to her heart in a Miss Piggy gesture.

Glen pointed a finger at her. “Hey, I can do this.”

“Piece of cake,” she mocked, turning him toward the door and giving him a little shove. “Now, get going. I had a rough day at work today, too, and I want to relax.”

“Okay, fine,” Glen grumbled. At least she only had to work part-time. He had to work full-time and come home to this nonsense.

The cold air hit him like a slap in the face as he walked the kids to the minivan. He told himself it was no big deal. He'd be done in no time. No, make that record time.

Laura popped a fresh stick of gum in her mouth and savored it as she watched the minivan pull away. Poor Glen. He'd put in a busy day at work and now he had to go back out into the cold and complete another one of the tasks that she did every year and he took for granted. Chances are this errand would eat up his whole evening. She smiled.
Welcome to my world.

 

Learning that the bookstore was out of Advent calendars didn't improve Glen's mood.
Fumble at the fifty-yard line
.

“Where are we going now, Daddy?” Amy asked as they left the store.

“We're going to go to another store.”

“And get an Advent calendar,” Amy added with the same firm belief she showed when talking about Santa.

“Yep,” Glen agreed. The game wasn't over yet.

He tried a gift card store next. And, lo and behold, it looked like they had an Advent calendar sitting in the window.
Ha! Fumble recovery. First down and ten
. He hustled the kids inside. The store was packed with chicks, and the smell of twenty different perfumes made him sneeze. Finding the spot empty where only moments before he'd seen the elusive calendar made him grind his molars. The sales clerk looked at him pityingly and informed him that they'd just sold their last calendar.
Second down and ten
.

He drove to Hollyworld, the nearest thing Holly had to a discount superstore. Housed in an old warehouse on the edge of town, it was now a popular shopping destination for the thrifty and, in Glen's case, the desperate. If any store would have an Advent calendar, this one would, Glen assured himself. They probably had tons.

At least he hoped they did. He was running out of ideas. If he didn't succeed here…Don't even go there, he told himself.
You will not disappoint your kids. And you can't come home an empty-handed loser.

As it turned out, Hollyworld had one. Just one. Keeping his eye on the goal, Glen dodged crying kids and stressed-out parents, wheeling his shopping cart toward it at breakneck speed. If he didn't get that calendar there would be two more crying kids and one more stressed parent on this aisle.

He was almost to the prize when suddenly a woman blocked him with a cart piled high with clothes, potato chips, and wrapping paper, and snagged it.

Glen had played football. He understood the importance of mental toughness.
Never give up. Never give in.

“Hey, how bad do you need that?” he asked her.

She looked at him like he'd just asked where she kept the key to her front door.

“I'll buy it from you,” he offered, digging for his wallet.

“I haven't even bought it yet,” she protested.

“I'll give you five bucks if you let me have it.”

She looked at him suspiciously.

“I mean it.” Glen nodded down at his two children. Both kids were looking up at him with big, blue, trusting eyes. He couldn't disappoint them. “I promised my kids.”

“Sorry. I promised mine, too,” she said, and started to wheel away.

“Ten bucks,” he said, following her. “I'll give you ten bucks.”

“Sorry,” she said, and picked up her pace.

“Twenty!” He was racing after her now, Amy running to keep up and Tyler in the cart crying, “Whee!”

“Go away,” she called over her shoulder.

A pot-bellied security guard appeared out of nowhere. “Is there a problem, sir?”

The woman hurried off, like a deer escaping the hunter's gun. “That woman took the last Advent calendar,” Glen tattled.

The guy shrugged. “It happens.”

“I promised my kids.” Glen knew he sounded desperate. But this guy was older. He probably had kids, maybe even grandkids. He'd understand.

“It looks like you'll have to go somewhere else,” the guy said.

“Hey, they don't have any more in the back somewhere, do they? Can somebody find out for me?”

“Fella. You think they ain't gonna put out all the calendars they got? They're out. Those things go fast. Usually people buy them before the first, you know.”

“So I hear,” Glen said grumpily.
Third down and ten
.

Now Amy was beginning to look worried. “Are we going to get an Advent calendar, Daddy?”

“You bet we are,” he said. “Just not at this store. In fact, we probably won't shop at this store ever again,” he added, for the benefit of the uncooperative security guard.

“Suit yourself,” the guy said as he turned and walked away. “It's not like they need the business.”