“Oh, my gosh! You’re in the paper?”
“I’m going to be. A reporter from the Herald is following the whole thing.”
“Wow, Mom. You’re a mover and shaker.”
“It’s not just me. Some of my friends are doing this, too.”
“But why? You love doing all this stuff. And we always make the bonbons, together,” Melia added, coming full circle to her initial disappointment.
Joy’s skin was beginning to sizzle. Was it menopause or guilt? She opened the back door and stepped outside. That was better, like standing in front of the fridge on a hot, summer day.
The cool air got her brain cells working again, and she came up with an idea. “Well, why don’t you come over and teach your father how to make them and I’ll keep you company and feed you,” she suggested.
“Okay, that works,” Melia said, satisfied with the compromise.
“But you have to make sure he does everything I normally do.”
“That means he has to buy the ingredients,” Melia said doubtfully.
“He can handle it.”
“Okay.” She still sounded doubtful.
“This will be good for him,” Joy told her.
“Yeah, but will it be good for the bonbons? I give these to people. Remember?”
Joy chuckled. “Trust me. It will be fine.” I hope.
“I guess,” Melia said. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this strike thing, though.”
“I’m doing this because your father and I…” need to reconnect. She couldn’t say that to her daughter. That would sound like their marriage was in trouble, which wasn’t really the case. There was a difference between a marriage being in trouble and a husband being in trouble. Wasn’t there? Joy popped another chocolate. “We just need to learn how to celebrate the holidays as empty nesters and I want to establish some new ground rules. That’s all.”
“Well, okay,” Melia said dubiously. “So, when should I come over?”
“How about one day next week? Friday looks clear. You and Cam can both come for dinner if you want; then he can take Sarah home and put her to bed and you and Daddy can do your Candy Land thing.”
“Hmmm, a free meal and a free evening. Twist my arm.”
They chatted a few more minutes, then Melia hung up and Joy put Bob’s candy-making date on the calendar. Melia and Bob: bonbons. It should have been her doing this with her daughter. What was this proving, anyway?
Bob sauntered into the kitchen in search of coffee. “Who was that on the phone?”
“Melia.”
“Oh? What did she want?”
“To know when we’re going to make the Christmas bonbons.”
“You’re going to do that?” He asked the question casually, but she could hear the hope hiding in his voice.
“Not this year. That’s going to be your job.” She smiled sweetly at him.
He didn’t smile sweetly back. “What if I don’t want to?”
Joy shrugged. “Then you can tell your daughter that Christmas bonbons are just, let’s see, how did you put it? Oh, yes, a big ‘pain in the neck’ and that you don’t want to do it with her.” Like that would ever happen. She had him trapped.
He paled. “Those candies take hours.”
“You’re right. Who needs them anyway? I’m sure Melia will understand.”
He capitulated with a sigh. “When’s she coming over?”
“Friday evening,” Joy said, careful not to gloat over her victory.
“Can’t we do this a different time? You know I like to relax on Friday nights.”
True. Friday was always their night to sack out side by side on the couch and watch a DVD.
“I guess you can call her and reschedule,” Joy suggested.
“Never mind,” he said grumpily. Then, after a minute, “So, how’s that going to work? She’s going to buy the ingredients?”
“You’re going to get the ingredients and then you’ll both make them together.”
“I guess I can handle it,” he said. “I managed the tree just fine.”
It was a veiled threat and they both knew it. Score another point for Bob Humbug.
“Cute,” Joy said, and went to retrieve the last chocolate from the buffet.
Carol met Sharon at the Java Hut after Sharon got off work from her part-time job at Finest Floral. An instrumental jazz version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” greeted her as she walked in the door, and the smell of freshly ground coffee made her mouth water. The place was all done up with tinsel and multicolored lights, with potted poinsettias in the windows. It felt cozy and Christmasy, unlike her own place, which was hanging in holiday limbo.
Limbo was fine with Carol. The last thing she wanted was to haul out all the favorite, old decorations and infect the condo with bittersweet memories. Anyway, she got a big enough taste of the season every time she went out, she told herself, and ordered a Super Grande eggnog latte to prove it.
Sharon came in just as Carol was taking her drink off the counter.
“What are you having? It looks good.”
Carol told her and she nodded. “I’ll take one, too,” she told the barista. “Make it a double. I’ve got a powerful thirst.”
They were barely settled in a couple of overstuffed chairs in a quiet corner when Sharon launched into a report on how the interview with the reporter had gone. “When Santa reads that article the best Pete Benedict can hope for is a lump of coal in his stocking. Serves him right, too,” she concluded with a sneer. “This year Pete’s going to learn firsthand what it feels like to do things and have no one appreciate them.”
Carol looked at her with concern. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Sharon found a stray crumb on the table and brushed it away. “That sounds suspiciously like something my mama would say.”
“Sorry,” Carol said.
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“Yours, of course. I just hate to see you make yourself and your family miserable. Why are you doing this, really?”
“Now you sound like Jerri playing Dr. Phil,” Sharon said, and frowned. “Come to think of it, maybe I should write Dr. Phil about our strike. He’d have a thing or two to say to that man of mine. I’m busier than a one-armed paperhanger this time of year, but does Pete care?”
What to say to that? Carol studied the contents of her coffee mug. No answer there.
“Okay, spit it out,” Sharon commanded.
“What?”
“How sick and wrong we all are. I know you think it so you might as well get it out of your craw.”
Carol gave an apologetic half-shrug. “It just seems like such a waste of energy when you all have such nice husbands. At least they all sound nice.”
Sharon took a sip of her drink. “I never said Pete wasn’t nice, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t use some improving. He’s no help at all this time of year, and the boys take their cue from him. And it doesn’t exactly help that he calls me Yulezilla.”
“Are you?”
“No. I just try to make things nice.”
“Maybe things don’t have to be so nice,” Carol suggested.
“Well, they won’t be this year. And that’s exactly what it’s going to take for me to finally get some respect and cooperation.”
“R-e-s-p-e-c-t?” Carol’s tone of voice was judgmental. She knew it. But, somehow, she couldn’t help it.
“That’s right,” Sharon snapped. “Find out what it means to me.” An uncomfortable silence slipped in between them. “I know I sound a little hot under the collar,” Sharon said at last, “but I’ve had it up to here. I truly have. Maybe your relationship with your man was perfect, or maybe you’ve just forgotten all the things he did to irritate you. But I’m telling you how it is at my house, okay? Things need improving.”
Carol sighed and shoved aside her empty mug. “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure whether she was sorry for what she’d said or sorry for Sharon’
s situation. Maybe she was just sorry she’d agreed to meet Sharon at all. “Good luck in your mission.” That had sounded insincere. Sharon was frowning. “I’d better get going,” Carol decided.
Sharon didn’t beg her to stay, and she left the coffee shop feeling thoroughly depressed. Why were husbands and children wasted on women who didn’t appreciate them? It seemed so unfair.
Of course, not everyone had a husband as wonderful as hers had been. He hadn’t been perfect and they’d had their disagreements, but they’d respected each other. And she would never have dreamed of pulling this kind of silly stunt. How did that help anything, really?
Decorations were going up all over town, but it didn’t feel like Christmas to her. Maybe it never would again.
Her second Christmas alone—what was she going to do to make it meaningful? She knew she couldn’t sit around moping all month, but, honestly, Ray’s death had left such a big hole in her life she still didn’t have the foggiest idea how to fill it, at least not this time of year.
Maybe it was time to go back to work. She enjoyed real estate, loved matching up families with the perfect house. Families, houses—the thought made her eyes tear up. She wasn’t ready yet. Maybe after the holidays. Things were slow in the market right now, anyway.
She turned on the car radio to her favorite talk station. “Corey Carlson and Flo are still at Toy Town, taking donations for our Santa Surprise program,” said the afternoon drive guy. “How’s it going over there, Corey?”
“We’re doing great, Don. Lots of generous folks out today. And it’s still not too late if you want to come by. I’ll be here with Flo until seven.”
“Well,” Carol told herself, “it’s a start.” She turned at the traffic signal and headed for the toy store.
The parking lot wasn’t as full as she’d anticipated, and she decided it was probably because the main toy purchasers were all busy plunging into after-school activities with their kids. Inside, the store wore the deserted look a store gets in between shopping rushes.
Carol looked to her left and saw the radio station had set up a donation booth just past the checkout registers, complete with cookies and coffee. And there stood the morning traffic lady along with Corey Carlson, the morning drive personality.
A tall, slim man with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that should have gone into television, he was talking to a couple of middle-aged women. Actually, flirting would have been a better word. And they were certainly holding up their end of the deal. She couldn’t blame them. He was a hunk.
Carol felt suddenly conscious of the way she’d let herself go. She’d lost weight and turned herself into a stick. What she’d lost in weight she’d more than made up for in new wrinkles, and her blond hair was now shot with gray. After Ray’s death there had seemed no point in bleaching it anymore.
She started down the first aisle, which was dedicated to games. It took less than a minute for her to find the perfect gift. Clue, how she’d loved playing that classic mystery game herself as a kid. She picked one off the shelf. That should do it. Oh, but there was Chutes and Ladders. She’d played that with John when he was little. She shied away from the vision of a little boy with a sweet face and strawberry blond curls, instead forcing her mind to stay with the business at hand, and piled that game on top of the other. Look at all these aisles, she thought. So many toys. What else did they have that might tempt her?
They had plenty, and before she knew it Carol had a teetering pile of goodies in addition to her two board games: a puzzle, a doll, a baseball and mitt, and a kit for growing sea monkeys. Okay, enough already.
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.
Seven
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?
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