A Small Town Christmas

by Sheila Roberts

  Carol’s sentiment exactly. Maybe they’d come to their senses once they got home.

  Sharon arrived home to find Pete raiding the cookies. “Peter Timothy Benedict! I told you to stay out of those.”

  He stuffed one in his mouth before she could grab the Tupperware container. “Well, I don’t see the point of you making them if we can’t eat them,” he said around a mouthful of cookie.

  She put the lid on the container and stashed it in the top cupboard. “You know they’re for special occasions.”

  “Since when is your knitting group a special occasion?”

  There he stood in those stained, ripped jeans she kept trying to throw away and that grubby old, gray sweatshirt, his chin covered in so much five o’clock shadow he looked like a Chia plant. Even after almost thirteen years of husband training he still could be such a barbarian.

  “Going someplace where people are dressed up and act civilized counts as a special occasion,” she informed him. “And besides, it takes a long time to make those cookies, so I don’t want you devouring them in one day like a big, old locust when I may need them for a church or school function.” And since she was on strike, she couldn’t be baking any more. What she had would have to last. Maybe she should hide them.

  Pete made a face. “Oh, no. Yulezilla is back to take over the world.”

  That made her blood bubble. She put her hands on her hips and scowled at him. “You know I hate it when you call me that. It’s rude and insulting.”

  “And true. And I can always tell when it’s starting.”

  Sharon narrowed her eyes. “You have no idea what’s about to start, mister.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” he said with a smirk.

  “It means I’m fixin’ to give you a lesson on Christmas that you won’t soon forget.”

  “You’ve been giving me lessons for years,” Pete retorted. “How about just giving me a break?”

  She shrugged and turned her back on him. “If that’s what you’d like to call it. You’re going to find out firsthand just how much I do for you every year because this year you’ll be doing it. I’m on strike.”

  “On strike, huh?” he said.

  She waited for him to come put his arms around her, plead with her to come to her senses and be his holiday slave. But instead he began to laugh.

  She looked over her shoulder and frowned at him, but it didn’t stop him from shouting, “Hallelujah,” and raising both hands. “We’ll finally get to enjoy the holidays,” he crowed, and started doing the happy dance.

  It made her want to pull a leftover turkey leg out of the refrigerator and smack him with it. But her mama raised her to be a lady, so instead she marched out of the kitchen, her heels tapping an angry staccato as she went.

  He thought this was all one big joke, did he? Well, he wouldn’t be laughing so hard when the cookie dough hit the fan. And first thing in the morning she was going to make a little ol’ call to make sure that was exactly what happened.

  The kids were in bed when Laura got home and Glen was camped in front of the TV, lounging on the sofa and laughing right along to the sitcom laugh track. He looked up at her and smiled. “Did they get your yarn unstuck?” She held up several neat rows of knitting and he nodded approvingly. “Lookin’ good. So, who’s getting that for Christmas?”

  “Me,” she said.

  “You go for it, babe. You deserve it.”

  “Brown noser. You’re just trying to butter me up for the next invasion.”

  He grinned and patted the sofa cushion, inviting her to join him.

  She did, saying, “And speaking of the holidays, there’s something you need to know.”

  Glen’s attention was already drifting back to his program. “Hmmm,” he said absently.

  “I’m going on strike.”

  “Okay.”

  Obviously someone was not listening. Laura picked up the remote from the coffee table and muted the TV. “I said I’m going on strike.”

  “Isn’t that a little extreme? I mean, things are always crazy at the Chamber this time of year.”

  “I’m not going on strike at the office. I’m going on strike here at home.”

  He shook his head, a quizzical smile on his face. “For what, more sex? No problem.”

  He reached for the remote and she held it away. “No, for some appreciation. All of us are. If you want to have a million people over for the holidays, you’ll have to cook for them.”

  Glen sighed. “You’re not making any sense, babe.”

  “Oh, I’m making perfect sense, believe me. I’m tired of doing everything and being taken for granted, so this year you get to do it, Glen. All of it.”

  He stared at her. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  A corner of Laura’s mouth lifted. “Yeah, babe, and it’s on you.”

  He frowned. “What the hell happened down at that yarn shop?”

  Laura gave a one-shouldered shrug. “We got to talking and realized that you guys don’t get it.”

  Glen made a face. “Sounds kind of dumb if you ask me. I mean, what’s to get?”

  “The fact that you just asked that shows that you have no idea how much I do this time of year, and all with no help from you.”

  “Oh, not this again,” Glen moaned, and slumped back against the sofa cushions, grabbing a sofa pillow and putting it over his face.

  Laura moved onto his lap and pulled away the pillow. “Yes, this again, you big goof. I’m just giving you fair warning. I’m not doing anything.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, running his hand up her back. “Take Christmas off. I can handle it. No big deal.”

  “No big deal?” Laura echoed in disgust. He really didn’t have any idea what all she did. He just walked through the holidays like an actor moving around a movie set. She shook her head at him. “You are so clueless.”

  He frowned, insulted. “So, clue me in. Make me a list of what you need done and I’ll do it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sure. I can handle it.”

  Like there was nothing to juggling Christmas on top of everything else. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, piece of cake. I mean, really, babe, I don’t know what you’re making such a big deal about.”

  Laura gave a snort of disgust. “Well, you’re going to find out, because this year you’re on your own. I’m going to be you. I’ll invite people over whenever I feel like it, sit around and yak, and do nothing. Oh, except help you put an extra leaf in the table.”

  He frowned at her, snatched back the remote, and turned the volume back on. “You’re a real crack-up. Just go make the list. I’ll take care of it.”

  She did, and presented it to him as they climbed into bed.

  He began to read. “Decorate house.” He gave a disdainful snort. “There’s ten minutes.”

  “Really?” She propped up her pillows and leaned against the headboard. “Well, read on.”

  “Get and decorate tree. How’s that different from ‘decorate house’?”

  She looked at him in disgust. “The nativity set, the Christmas wall hanging, the lighted village, the wreath for the front door, the—”

  “Okay, okay. I get it. And as for the tree, well, I already take you to get that, and I put up the thing for you. Another five minutes and it’s trimmed.”

  Laura began to feel the slightest bit uneasy now. Five minutes to trim the tree? What kind of job would that be, especially with the kids helping him? “You have to watch the kids while you’re doing this. I don’t want all my ornaments broken.” She’d better hide her most precious ones. No sense taking chances.

  “No problem.” He went back to the list. “Bake cookies, shop, get present for Amy’s teacher. Amy’s teacher?”

  “You have to give a present to the teacher,” said Laura.

  “Okay,” he said dubiously. “Take kids to get their picture taken with Santa, get Christmas outfits.”

  “Oh, you have to make sure you do
that before you take them to see Santa.”

  Laura reached for the list so she could note that detail, but he held it out of reach, saying, “I can handle this. What do you think I am, a moron?”

  She shrugged and let him continue.

  “Make costumes for school holiday concert and Christmas pageant.” He looked pained. “Make costumes. That’s chick stuff.”

  “No, that’s Christmas stuff,” she corrected him.

  “Two programs?”

  She nodded.

  He let out a long breath then continued. “Do Christmas cards, wrap presents, get stocking stuffers, buy food for Christmas party.” He scratched his head. “Can some of this be left off?”

  “It’s all the things you love every year, all those things that you say make the season.”

  “I say that, huh?”

  “Yes, you do. And it’s all the things I do every year without any help because someone around here drops the ball a lot.”

  He rolled his eyes and returned to the list. “Get Advent calendar and open with the kids every day.” He set down the paper. “You know, I’m still stuck on the two-program thing. And what are these costumes?”

  “Easy. Amy is an angel for the church Christmas pageant, and a tree for the school holiday concert.”

  “A tree, huh?”

  “Her class is singing ‘O, Christmas Tree.’”

  “Mail packages by December fifteenth. What packages are those?”

  “The presents for your sister and her family,” Laura reminded him.

  “Oh. Do we have those?”

  “Not yet. You haven’t bought them.”

  Glen suddenly looked slightly sick. “You haven’t bought anything yet?”

  “You said you’re doing it this year,” she hedged. She had bought some things, but nothing she couldn’t use next year. Glen needed to have the full holiday experience.

  He eyed the list again. “Buy food for Christmas dinner, clean house, set table.” He looked up at her. “Somewhere in between all this I have to work, you know. “

  “Welcome to my world,” Laura said with a smile.

  “Okay, fine,” he said, sounding like a football player in the locker room, getting pumped up for a game. “I can handle it. And you won’t hear me complaining, either.”

  “Oh, I won’t, huh?”

  “No, you won’t.”

  He made it sound like she was making a big deal out of nothing. Yeah, right. He’d see.

  It was eight-thirty in the morning when Joy’s bedside phone rang. “Tell ’em we’re not interested,” Bob mumbled, and rolled over.

  Joy fumbled the receiver to her ear and said a sleepy hello.

  “This is Rosemary Charles at the Holly Herald. Is this the Joy Robertson who’s starting the Christmas strike?”

  Joy was fully awake now. She looked over at Bob, who was back in dreamland. “Um, yes. How’d you get my name?” Sharon, of course.

  “Your fellow striker, Sharon Benedict, called us. This is a great story, and I think a lot of our readers would like to know how you’re doing this and where they can sign up. I’d like to come over and interview you.”

  Oh, boy. What to do? Joy looked to where Bob lay sleeping. Last night when she was mad it had sounded like a great idea to continue the strike. But now, with the prospect of her discontent becoming news…“Gosh, I don’t know,” she said.

  Bob pulled his pillow over his head. “Hon, can you take it downstairs?”

  Heaven forbid she should rob her husband of his sleep. When, exactly, had Bob become so self-centered? “I guess it would be fine,” she decided, staying right where she was. “Anytime after nine-thirty.”

  “Great! I’d like to bring a photographer, too, and get a picture.”

  “All right.”

  “Joy.” Bob moaned.

  “What’s your address?” asked Rosemary Charles.

  Joy rattled off their street address. She was still talking when Bob shoved aside his pillow, threw off the covers, and stomped off to the bathroom, muttering, “I may as well get up now that I’m awake.”

  An hour, she thought as she hung up. She had an hour to get ready. The house was a mess. She was a mess. She jumped out of bed, grabbed her robe, and hurried down the hall to pick up in the living room. She had her arms full with Bob’s loafers, her purse and knitting bag, and a dirty coffee mug when he came down the hall.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve got company coming,” she said, and rushed past him to the kitchen.

  “Company. When?”

  “In an hour.” She set the mug in the sink, then flew by him.

  He followed her as she picked up more debris and headed to the bedroom. “Who the heck’s coming to see you so early?”

  “A reporter from the Holly Herald.”

  “The Herald!”

  “They heard about the strike and they want to do an article on it.” Joy had never seen her name in the paper for anything before. She was going to be famous!

  “The strike? For a strike you need a lot of people. This is just you and me. Well, just you, really.”

  “Oh, yeah? Well, for your information, several other women are doing this, too.” Joy dumped the debris and started to put the bed to rights.

  Bob leaned against the doorjamb and crossed his arms. “Like who?”

  “Like Sharon and Laura and Kay from the knitting group.”

  He threw up his hands. “This is insane.”

  “If it’s so insane, how come it resonates with so many women?”

  “You’ve incited a couple of malcontents from your knitting group to screw up their families’ holidays and you call that resonating? Joy, I can’t believe you’re doing this. How many people’s Christmases do you want to ruin?”

  “How do you know I’m ruining anyone’s Christmas? Where’s your evidence, Mr. Mystery Writer?”

  “I have enough evidence right here in my own home. At least I can make my own work schedule. A lot of men can’t. They won’t have time to fit in all that extra nonsense. Instead of peace and joy and Christmas spirit, this is going to inspire fights and stress. You’re going to make every man in town look like a jerk.”

  “Not every man. Just the ones who are jerks already.”

  The significance of her reply was lost on Bob, who was still musing over the misery to come. “God knows how many marriages could break up over this.”

  “If a marriage can break up over this it’s not very strong,” Joy retorted.

  Bob shook his head in disgust. “Okay, fine. Go ahead, make us look like fools. But don’t expect me to come out and talk to that reporter. I am not available for comment. I have a book deadline.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you, anyway.” Joy went to the walk-in closet and started moving clothes around. What should a woman wear for a newspaper interview? Maybe her red blouse and black slacks.

  Bob walked right in with her. “She?” he echoed. “Oh, yeah, let a woman write the piece. That will make it nice and unbiased,” he said in disgust and stomped off. “You’re going to be sorry you started this,” he called over his shoulder.

  Not as sorry as you are, Bob Humbug. Joy grabbed her red blouse and eyed it critically. Did she have time to iron?

  Four

  Bob sat staring at his computer screen. Instead of helping his detective, Hawk Malone, unravel the clues to the mysterious poisoning of Arthur Blackwell, he kept turning his own situation over and over in his mind. How, exactly, had he gotten into this mess? Where had he gone wrong?

  Nowhere. He didn’t deserve this. What he deserved was a medal for accompanying Joy to her big, chaotic family gatherings every year. Year in, year out, he endured teasing about his writing…So, who are you murdering now, Bob? Hey, I’ve got this boss…and the helpful critiques…I think you should have made the car mechanic the murderer. It seemed to me like he had the best motive, but no one would have suspected him. I mean, I didn’t, and isn’t it the person you least susp
ect who does the murder? And then there was always someone who had a plan. Bob, I’ve got a great idea for a book. You could write it and we could split the money. That was easily shrugged off, and when you were a writer it pretty much went with the territory. And it was only a small part of a very long afternoon. It was the chaos that nearly short-circuited him every year. Kids running everywhere like so many accidents waiting to happen. No one watched their children at these things. He couldn’t believe nobody had broken their arm or at least some valuable knickknack yet. As out of control as it all was, someone sure should have. And the noise level; every year it rose higher.

  Joy’s family seemed to thrive on that sort of thing. The wilder a party got, the more they liked it. From what he could tell, her house had had a revolving front door when she and her brothers were growing up—people always coming and going, tons of company, big, loud parties. It was a way of life for the Johnsons.

  But it wasn’t for his family. His house had been quiet. He couldn’t remember his parents having much company, and his brother, the chess club king, didn’t exactly throw wild parties. Bob had spent a lot of time in his room with his nose in a book or in front of the TV as a kid, and that had been fine with him. As a teenager, he and his two best friends mostly went hiking or cruised around in their cars, listening to music and trying to pick up girls. No big, wild parties, no chaos.

  Christmas at his house had been pretty quiet, too—the ritual of present opening in the morning, a dinner with just the four of them, and maybe a pair of grandparents or a stray aunt and uncle, followed by a holiday movie like White Christmas on TV afterward. Then everyone scattered to do his own thing.

  So far in his writing career Bob had solved fourteen mysteries. But the workings of his wife’s mind and that of her family’s remained the greatest unsolved mystery of all. Why did they think everyone should be like them? And why, after all these years, did it still bother Joy that he wasn’t? She’d known what he was like when she married him.

  And he’d known what she was like too, came the thought. He’d loved her sense of fun and her enthusiasm for life. But somehow, he’d concluded that when she chose him she chose his lifestyle, too. But she hadn’t. Even though he’d gone along with all her ideas on just how Christmas should be done, it simply hadn’t been enough for her. He wasn’t enough for her.