The next morning Bob came into the kitchen in search of his morning coffee, which he would take with him to his computer.
Joy was busy frosting minicakes for a party she was catering the following night, and mentally fine-tuning her big announcement.
“I should be done in time for us to go see a matinee later if you want,” he offered.
“Mmm,” she said noncommittally.
Happily unaware of what was about to happen to him, he kissed her on the cheek and disappeared into the bonus room that served as his office.
She smiled as she piped frosting wreaths on the little cakes. You might not have as much time as you think.
She finished her decorating, then stored the cakes in the pantry. She checked the kitchen wall clock. Bob had been in his office almost an hour now and would be well into his story. He hated being interrupted when he wrote. Well, Scrooge hadn’t thought he had time for all those ghosts, either. Sometimes, the vital intruded on the important.
He turned as she entered his office, looking slightly perturbed, and draped an arm over his chair. Except for the frown, he could have been posing for a publicity shot, wearing a turtleneck and jeans, his computer sitting behind him. His face was taking on that aura of maturity men got when they hit middle age. He looked oh so wise, but Mr. Know-it-all still had a lot to learn.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No, not at all. I just thought I’d better let you know about my new plans for the holidays.”
His eyes shot heavenward. “Oh, no. What horrible torture have you planned for me now?”
“Absolutely nothing,” she answered sweetly.
“I know you just said something in another language. How about a translation?”
“I’ve decided I’m going to give you nothing to complain about this year because we’re going to have a very Bob kind of Christmas.”
Bob’s expression went from perturbed to relieved. And then it got suspicious. He pulled back like a man preparing for a slap in the face. “What do you mean?”
“I mean this is going to be a Bob Humbug holiday. I’m not doing anything.”
He stared at her like she’d gone completely insane. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Hearing and understanding are two different things. Joy, you’re not making any sense.”
“Okay, let me clarify. I’m not doing any of it this year. No baking, no shopping, no present wrapping or stocking stuffing, no decorating, no cooking, and certainly no entertaining. You are going to get your wish for a non-Christmas.”
Bob stared at her, at a loss for words. Bob caught without a clever comeback; now, there was a rare sight. Too bad she hadn’t thought to record this moment for posterity.
“You can’t do nothing, Joy,” he finally said in a voice that showed he was already weary of the conversation and anxious to get back to his world of dismembered bodies. “In case you’ve forgotten, our son will be coming home in three weeks and he’ll expect Christmas.”
Bob Junior, whom they still called Bobby, her darling and his father’s pride and joy, was a freshman this year, attending college two states away. He’d expect to see decorations up and old family friends and neighbors coming and going, and, of course, to find several batches of Joy’s Christmas cookies waiting for him when he arrived.
She had a sudden vision of her son marching out the door, suitcase in hand, calling over his shoulder, “If this is your idea of Christmas, I’m out of here.” Okay, maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
“Although if I had my way that’s how it would be,” Bob said.
There he went again, Mr. Sour Milk, spilling over everything. Well, you are going to get your way, Joy decided. She promised the angry son in her vision that she would make this up to him somehow. To Bob she said, “Guess we’ll just have to tell Bobby that the Grinch hit town.”
“Come on now, hon. You know you love this time of year,” Bob reasoned.
“But you don’t, so this is my present to you—a Christmas of nothing.” And boy, she hoped he quickly came to see what she was really giving him. She thought of Clarence the angel in It’s a Wonderful Life. You’ve been given a great gift. She turned and started back down the hall.
Bob followed her. “Okay, you can stop. I get your point. I’ll go to your brother’s on Christmas Eve without complaining.”
“Too late,” she said, waving away his plea bargain. “It’s gone beyond that. I’ve had an epiphany and you’re going to finally get your wish for a peaceful Christmas—no parties, no people, no hassles. This year you’re going to be living in a holiday desert.”
“That sounds more like an oasis to me,” Bob retorted. “Most of that stuff is stupid and silly and has nothing to do with the meaning of Christmas. Anyway, in case you’ve forgotten, I’ve got a January thirty-first deadline on this book. I don’t have time to play along with this little game.”
What a crock! She knew he had only a couple chapters left to write. “Trust me, Bob. It’s not a game. I’m not doing anything this year.”
He trailed her all the way into the kitchen. “You can’t just do nothing.”
She went to work unloading the dishwasher. “Listen to you. I’m about to give you the kind of un-Christmas you’ve been dreaming about for years. I should think you’d be doing cartwheels about now.”
“I’m only thinking about the kids. It makes no difference to me.” He started helping, putting glasses in the cupboard every which way. After all these years, he still paid no attention to the well-planned order in her cupboards. It was her own fault; she’d trained him poorly.
For a moment Joy had a picture of her house all Bobbed up for Christmas, a holiday mausoleum with no tree, no happy guests, and no laughter. Her pretty, apple green kitchen, with its double oven and abundance of counter space, would sit useless, empty of the aroma of spices and baking chocolate. How badly did she want to make a point, anyway? She could see that holiday desert stretching before her and a weatherworn hand-painted sign that read TURN BACK. YOU’LL BE SOOOORY.
She averted her gaze and forged on. “I’m willing to live with whatever you’re willing to do.” And he’d have to do something.
“Hey, I’m willing to do nothing. I can live without all of it. Peace and quiet will be nice for a change.”
And with that parting shot, he left, just as the cuckoo clock on the wall struck the hour. “Cuckoo,” said the little bird, “Cuckoo, cuckoo, cuckoo….”
“Oh, shut up,” Joy told it and started setting her cupboard to rights. What in the name of figgy pudding had she done? And, more to the point, how was she going to be able to stay strong and stick to the plan? Note to self: Stock up on extra chocolate. You’re going to need it.
“What were you thinking?” she asked herself as she drove across town Saturday night, her car packed full of goodies for someone else’s party. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish, really? Bob’s not going to change, not after all these years.” And it was probably unfair to expect him to. They were opposites and that was that.
And most of the time their differences complemented each other. Bob brought order and security to her world, kept their finances humming along smoothly, and kept calm in the face of trouble. She gave him love and emotional support and put spice in his life.
Except this Christmas. There would be no spice. It would be like cookies without the salt. Yuck.
Frowning, she pulled up in front of a two-story tract mansion and opened her car trunk. Nestled inside it were Tupperware containers filled with bite-size wraps, chocolate-dipped fruit, white chocolate shortbread, the minicakes, and Joy’s stuffing-filled phyllo appetizers, only needing a quick reheating. She never provided drinks, which was fine with the woman who had hired her. Julie’s husband, Dave, had that under control.
Joy barely had her first container out of the trunk when the front door opened and Dave came bounding down the walk. “Hi, Joy,” he called. “Let me help you.”
A man eager to celebrate the season—what a stark contrast to Bob!
“Thanks for doing this,” he said as they carried goodies up the front walk. “Julie told me you normally take December off.”
“I do,” Joy replied. Usually she was busy baking cookies for her own family and friends and neighbors, throwing and attending parties, and enjoying the season. With Bob in charge this year there might not be much to enjoy. She sighed inwardly.
“Well, I’m glad we got you,” Dave said, ushering her up the front walk. “This is our first Christmas in the new house and we wanted to do it up right.”
We. That was how celebrating the season should be done. Not as a me and a reluctant he.
They were in the house now. Dave set down his pile of containers on the kitchen’s granite countertop and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Boy, I can hardly wait to try some of this.”
His wife smiled indulgently. “How about first bringing in the rest of it for Joy?”
“I’m on it,” he said, and bolted out of the room.
“He’s so excited,” Julie confided.
Joy felt a stab of jealousy. Bob had never gotten excited about a party, not in all the years they’d been married. Of course, he always had fun once the guests arrived. But excited? No.
Well, she reminded herself, he got excited about the things that mattered. The birth of their children, her first catering job. She still had the chef’s apron he bought her for the occasion. And he always got excited when it was time to plan a vacation, throwing himself into the details of the planning. All she had to do was show up and have fun.
If only he would show up when she planned things for the holidays.
“Okay, that’s the last of it,” Dave announced, setting Joy’s box of serving trays on the counter. “What else can I do?”
“Make us both a drink,” his wife suggested. “How about a peppermint fizz?” she asked Joy.
“It’s my own invention,” Dave bragged.
“It’s sounds lovely,” Joy said, “but I never drink when I’m on duty.”
“I’ll have one,” said Julie, and he brightened and hurried off to where he’d set up a bar in the living room.
“This is going to be wonderful,” Julie predicted as Joy began pulling out trays of goodies.
Joy smiled. Even if her Christmas wasn’t going to be much, she could at least make someone else’s special.
Soon the house was full of guests, all talking and laughing, and raving over Joy’s food. As she set out a tray of chocolate-dipped fruit she couldn’t help noticing how Julie and her husband shot smiles back and forth across the room. Like Mr. Fezziwig and his wife, she thought.
There was a Mr. Fezziwig inside Bob somewhere, Joy just knew it. But he had no desire to get in touch with his inner Fezziwig. What would Charles Dickens do?
She had no idea. Bob was the writer.
Joy ran errands on Monday. Her first stop was the drugstore to take advantage of the in-store special and get some therapeutic chocolate. She was strongly tempted to buy one of the really cute rolls of wrapping paper she saw at the end of the Christmas aisle. But she resisted. She had some left from last year stored in the garage, and if Bob decided he wanted Christmas presents he could wrap them in that…if he could find it.
She went to the grocery store next, then stopped at Skeedaddles, her favorite gift shop, and bought a present for her knitting group’s December gift exchange.
When she returned home Bob met her at the door, all smiles. “Did you change your mind and do some Christmas shopping?” he asked, pointing to her bags.
“No, I just picked up something for my knitting group’s gift exchange. I’m not shopping this year. Remember? I’m not doing Christmas.”
Bob frowned. “That again.” He plopped on a chair and watched her hang up her coat. “So, what else did you do today?”
She shrugged. “Oh, just this and that. I must say it’s rather nice not to have to worry about making the holidays merry.”
“Joy, you can’t ignore the season,” Bob chided sweetly.
“Why not? If you can’t share the Christmas spirit with me, there’s no sense in doing any of it.”
“I share it,” he insisted.
You and Ebenezer Scrooge. “I really meant what I said, Bob. I’m not doing anything.”
“Well, I don’t have time,” he said, the sugar coating slipping from his voice.
“Then I guess Christmas will be canceled for lack of interest this year,” Joy said with a shrug.
Bob was looking very pouty now. “I have to get back to work,” he said, and retreated to his office.
Joy just smiled and put away her groceries. She found a station playing Christmas music on the radio and turned the volume low—no sense letting Bob think she was getting in the mood to do something. Then she started a chicken stir-fry, humming as she worked.
At six she tapped on his office door. “Dinner.”
“I need to keep writing,” he called. “Go ahead without me. I’ll eat later.”
He was still pouting. She could hear it in his voice. Very mature, Bob.
“Suit yourself.”
She dished up a plate for herself, then settled in front of the TV. Bob stayed away through the entire six o’clock news, and was still holding out when she left for her knitting group. She opened his office door and found him slumped at his desk, staring at the computer monitor. She noticed he had very few words on the screen. Poor Bob. Maybe his muse had left town for the holidays.
“You can come out and eat now. I’m leaving,” she told him.
“Very funny,” he replied, and started typing. Probably “the quick brown fox jumped over the fence.”
She shut the door on him. It wasn’t quite so easy to shut the door on the vision of herself all dressed up in an Elvis suit, singing, “Blue Christmas.”
The Stitch In Time was a small shop in downtown Holly that sold yarn and fancy teas. Debbie, the shop’s owner, taught several knitting classes, and she hung around after closing on Monday nights to help anyone who came in with a knitting crisis. Some of her students had gone on to form a knitting club, affectionately known as the Stitch ’N Bitch, and they’d been meeting at the shop every Monday night since August. It hadn’t taken long for them to become good friends.
Debbie was still closing out the cash register when Joy walked in, but four other women were already seated around an old, oak table, cups of tea or coffee steaming in front of them. Someone had brought in the first Christmas cookies of the season and the plate sat in the middle of the table—easy access temptation. Well, calories only counted half as much when you ate them with friends.
“Hi, Joy,” Debbie greeted her. “How was your Thanksgiving?”
“It was interesting,” Joy replied as she set her project bag on the table.
“Sugar, from what I’ve heard of your family, I’m not surprised,” drawled Sharon Benedict, a pretty, transplanted Texan in her late thirties.
Sharon never went anywhere without looking like she was interviewing for a job with Martha Stewart. Tonight she wore a beige turtleneck sweater over caramel-colored slacks. Her brown hair fell in one long, Texas-size wave and was tucked behind her ears to show off small, golden hoops. She was currently working on matching sweaters for her boys and using some of Debbie’s most expensive yarn. “Nothing but the best for my boys,” she always quipped. It hadn’t taken the other women long to figure out that Sharon liked nothing but the best. Period.
“This Thanksgiving was more interesting than usual,” Joy said. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot on a side table, then sat down and plucked a cookie off the plate.
Kay Carter, another knitter, had inherited children along with her husband and was a stepmother to a twelve-year-old and a fourteen-year-old. Her stepkids loved her and she still had a perfect figure, the best of both worlds, she claimed. Knitting was her second-favorite hobby. Spending money was her first, and she was famous for he
r after-work bargain hunting. Tonight she wore what looked like a new cashmere sweater—which she probably got for 50 percent off somewhere—dark green to show off her auburn hair and green eyes.
She cocked an eyebrow at Joy. “So, what made this year so different?”
“I made an important decision Thanksgiving night,” Joy informed her. “I’m not doing Christmas.”
Every needle stopped, and four faces stared at Joy.
“Would y’all mind repeating that? I have to have misheard you,” Sharon said.
“You heard right,” Joy said and reached for another cookie to fortify herself. “I love these cookies with the Andes Mint frosting. Who made them?”
“Martha Stewart the Second,” Kay said, pointing to Sharon, who smiled and tried to look modest.
“Joy, you can’t do nothing,” protested Jerri Rodriguez, putting the conversation back on track. She had reached the scarf stage in her battle against cancer, and tonight she was wearing a bright red one. With her round face and her big, brown eyes, she looked to Joy like Betty Boop dressed up as a Gypsy. “What would Dr. Phil say?” she chided.
“He’d say, ‘How’s that workin’ for ya?’” Sharon answered. “I wish I could make it work for me. But I can just imagine what a disaster we’d have if I let Pete and the boys take over.” She gave an elaborate shudder.
Carol White, the oldest in the group and a widow, looked shocked. “Joy, you love Christmas. You’ve been talking about your son coming home for the last two weeks and all the new recipes you want to try. How can you not do Christmas?”
“Um. I’ve delegated it.”
“Delegated!” echoed Sharon. “To who?”
“To Bob.”
“Bob!” Sharon made a face. “Honey, have you got elves in your attic? What can he do?”
“Probably nothing,” Joy said. She took out the scarf she was knitting for Melia and began a row, trying to act as if it was no big deal that she had just sabotaged her Christmas.
A Small Town Christmas Page 28
