His secretary, Kathleen, had poked her head in his office door before abandoning him. “See you later,” she said. “I’d offer to bring something tonight, but Laura says you’ve got it all under control.”
“I do,” Glen assured her. “Piece of cake.” He was running late, but it wouldn’t take that long to swing by the store and get party fixings.
There was nothing to this party stuff. At the Town and Country he grabbed a supply of Hale’s Ale, some Bud, a couple bottles of white wine, a case of pop, and half a dozen bags of various kinds of chips. There. That should do it.
He came home, laden with grocery bags and announced, “Okay, we’re set.”
“Good job, babe,” Laura commended him as he stowed the beer and wine in the fridge. “Hurry up and eat. You’ve got to get the kids in bed and everything set out before the company comes.”
Glen stopped in the middle of emptying a bag and looked at her. “Wait a minute. Why can’t you put the kids to bed?”
“I want to come to the party,” Amy said.
“No, baby, this is a grown-up party,” Laura told her.
“Girls can come to grown-up parties,” Amy suggested.
“Not this one,” Laura said firmly, and hauled Tyler’s hand out of his mashed potatoes. To Glen she said, “I’m not putting the kids to bed because I’m you. You never clean up dinner or put the kids to bed before a party.”
“I sure as hell do.”
“You come and kiss them good night after I’ve given them their bath.”
“And I clear the table,” Glen reminded her. “That’s something.” He wasn’t a total bum.
“Okay,” Laura said. “I’ll clear the table. But I’m not loading the dishwasher.”
“Geez, you’re hard.”
“I’m not hard, I’m on strike. So be glad I’m even clearing the table.”
“And what are you going to be doing while I’m getting the kids in bed and doing the dishes?”
She smiled at him. “Getting ready. I wonder if there’s a game on TV I can watch while I’m waiting for the company.”
“Ha, ha. Hey, go ahead. I can handle this,” Glen said in his double-dog-dare voice.
“I know you can,” she said as she put a pile of plates in the sink. “Well, I think I’ll go take a bath.”
She patted his cheek as she went by. She might as well have said, “Neener, neener, neener.” He almost growled in response.
Look at that cute butt, he thought as she left the room. When it came to bodies, his wife’s was perfect—a nice small package, curved in all the right places, and she had a smile that a man would do anything to win. And what was hidden inside all that great packaging? A real sick puppy who loved to see a guy squirm.
Stay in the game, urged Glen’s inner coach, bringing him back to the moment at hand.
Right. Stay in the game. Keep your eye on the goal. He sprang into action and dished up his dinner from the stove, wolfing it down like he was in some kind of speed-eating contest. A guy shouldn’t have to hurry through his dinner like this. But, if he wanted to get everything done and prove to his wife that he could handle whatever she threw at him, he would. Heck, at this point to prove to Laura that he could handle this holiday stuff, he’d eat ground glass.
“I want to come to the party,” Amy said again, as he put his dish in the sink.
“Yeah, I know, but you’ve got to go to bed.” Glen heaved a heavy sigh. He was really draggin’ his wagon, and right about now, going to bed along with the kids sounded pretty good.
He hurried the kids upstairs and into their jammies. Laura usually gave them a bath before bed, but, hey, a kid didn’t need a bath every night, and especially not this night.
“Okay, guys. Into bed,” he said. “Mommy will come hear you say your prayers.” If she can spare the time in between her bubble bath and painting her nails.
He found Laura in the master bathroom, standing in front of the mirror looking totally hot. She’d put on perfume. Oh, man, it smelled good and it made him think of sex. Perfume and sex went together like milk and Christmas cookies. She was wearing his favorite slinky, black dress and putting on a kick-ass red lipstick. Her hair was all down and sexy. She looked like just what he wanted for Christmas. She set down the lipstick, then pulled a bottle of red nail polish out of one of the drawers and began shaking it. Red, his favorite color.
Glen developed instant amnesia and all his earlier irritation slipped away. He came up behind her and put his arms around her. “Let’s have a quick party of our own before everybody gets here.”
She looked at him in the mirror and gave him a flirty little smile that really raised his hopes, then said, “You have too much to do.” Then she slipped away, saying, “I’m going to go kiss the kids. You’d better hurry up and change.”
“You’re cruel. You know that?” he called after her.
“Yes, I am,” she called back. “Be a good boy and get dressed, and if you’re lucky I’ll chain you to the bed later and get out my whip.”
“You’re already whipping me pretty damned good,” Glen muttered. He climbed into his jeans, then grabbed a polo shirt and ran downstairs to party central.
The kitchen clock assured him he had twenty minutes before the guests came. He heaved a sigh of relief. Good. He was going to make it. He went out to the garage for the big bucket they always put the drinks in. Oh, yeah. Ice. He looked in the spare freezer in the garage for the party ice. Nothing.
He hauled the bucket in and set it on the work island in the kitchen, then went and called upstairs, “Hey, baby, where’s the party ice?”
“You didn’t pick any up?” she called back down.
“Don’t we have any?” Laura always got ice for the parties. Except he was Laura now. Oh, boy.
“Not unless you got some.”
Well, okay. He’d make a quick run to the 7-Eleven and still be back in time. He piled the bags of chips on the island next to the bucket with no ice. The dinner remains were still on the stove and the dirty dishes sat in the sink. Who cared? It made the place look lived in.
He grabbed his car keys, pulled a coat from the closet, and rushed out the door. The clock on the minivan dash told him he had fifteen minutes before the first guests arrived. Laura would come down and see the messy kitchen, see him not there, give him a bad time when he got back. And if so much as one single party guest sneaked in before him, she’d really give him a bad time. “Not gonna happen,” he vowed, and squealed away from the curb.
It had started to snow since he got home, and cars were cautiously tracking along a slippery sheet of white. It didn’t bother Glen, though. He could drive in anything. And right now he needed to drive fast.
The cop got him half a block from the 7-Eleven. Glen swore. Now he’d never make it back in time. He slumped in the front seat, a beaten man.
The officer came up to the window and Glen let it down. “Sir, could I see your license and registration?”
Glen obliged. He hated to think how much this ticket was going to cost. This was turning out to be an expensive party.
“Do you know how fast you were going, sir?” the cop asked.
Sadly, he did. “Too fast.”
“You were doing forty in a thirty-mile zone, and the streets are slippery. Is there some emergency?”
“Party ice.”
“Party ice?” The officer’s polite smile leveled into a straight, narrow line.
“My wife’s on strike for Christmas,” Glen blurted. “I’m doing everything. Last night I burned cookies. I’m in charge of the party tonight. I forgot the ice. Everyone will be there any minute. I’ve got mashed potatoes and green beans on the stove and dishes in the sink and I didn’t give the kids a bath and she’s painting her nails.” Glen took a deep breath. “Just give me the ticket. I deserve it.”
But the cop was now looking at him like he’d confessed to losing his job.
“I’m going to give you a warning this time, sir. But you need to get the
lead out of your foot, especially on a night like this.”
“Oh, man, thanks,” Glen breathed. “I really appreciate it.”
The officer nodded. “My wife’s on strike, too.”
Thirteen
Mac and his wife, Tiffany, were already there when Glen got back to the house. Mac was eating out of one of the chip bags, and Laura and Tif were leaning against the kitchen counter, giggling together about something. Him, Glen decided, since they stopped their yuck-it-up fest at the sight of him.
“I see you got the ice okay,” Laura observed.
“No problemo.”
“I guess you’ve got everything under control, then.” If that was supposed to be an observation on how well he was coping, it hadn’t come out right. It sounded more like a taunt.
“Of course I do,” Glen said. “You women make such a big deal out of having a party. Some chips, some beer, and some party ice, and you’re set. Nothing to it.”
“So, where’s the booze?” Mac greeted him.
“It’s coming,” Glen said. He ripped open the ice bag and dumped its contents into the bucket. “Go get the beer and wine out of the fridge and put ’em in there.”
“What do I look like, the maid?” Mac joked.
“You’re too ugly,” Glen retorted. He let Mac fill the drinks bucket while he started pulling bowls out of the cupboard. It only took a couple of minutes to empty chips into them and set them on the dining room table. Everything was under control again. Ha! Score one for the guys.
In the kitchen he could hear Tiffany saying to Laura, “Maybe I should have brought something.”
“No,” Laura said. “Glen’s got it covered. You heard him. Hey, baby,” she called, “don’t forget to put out your Christmas cookies.”
Was she kidding? There were maybe three he hadn’t burned.
Mac was in the doorway now. “You made cookies?” He stared at Glen like Glen had just admitted to having a sex change.
“Don’t be an idiot. A lot of guys bake, you know,” Glen informed him. “Most of the famous chefs in the world are men.”
Mac just shook his head like Glen had somehow failed him.
The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Glen said, glad to get away from Mac and his sexist views on cooking.
Roger strolled in with his wife and handed over a bottle of wine. If only he’d brought cookies.
Laura came out and greeted them and took their coats. They were still talking when more guests arrived. Within minutes the house was packed, and everyone seemed hungry. They drifted out toward the dining room table like so many ants to a picnic. Glen saw that the chip bowls were already rapidly emptying. Great. The night was just starting and the food supply was already dwindling. How much food did Laura buy for a party, anyway? Obviously, more than he had. And, of course, the women all usually brought stuff: plates with candies and appetizers and homemade caramel corn. The eats department was really suffering without those extras he’d always taken for granted. Was every woman in Holly on strike, for crying out loud?
“I brought some food,” Glen’s pal, Mort, said, holding out a crockpot full of cocktail sausages drowning in barbecue sauce.
Thank God, Glen thought. He was so grateful he almost hugged the guy.
Mort eyed the table. “You got plates?”
Laura usually had little plates and holiday napkins. Both of which they’d need to eat Mort’s sausages. Oh, boy. Glen hurried to the kitchen and began searching the cupboards. Where the hell did she keep those plates? The pantry, of course.
But the pantry was empty. Wasn’t there some old nursery rhyme about that? Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard to get her poor husband some plates.
Glen stopped himself. He was cracking up. “Laura!”
She leaned into the pantry, a smile on her face, one eyebrow cocked. “You bellowed?”
“Where are the paper plates?”
“You didn’t get any?”
“I thought we had some.”
She lifted a shoulder and gave him a mock sympathetic look. “Sorry. We’re out.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. You probably hid ’em someplace.”
She didn’t deny or confirm. Instead, she said, “Guess you’ll have to use real ones.” She shook her head. “That’ll be a mess to clean up.”
“And I can tell you feel real bad about it.”
She just smiled and wandered off.
“You won’t win,” he called after her.
No response.
He dragged a bunch of little plates and saucers from the cupboard to the dining room table. Two of the chip bowls were now almost empty. Mac had probably single-handedly emptied one. What was it about tall, skinny guys, anyway? They all ate like pigs.
“Laura said you made some cookies,” one of the women said to Glen. “Are we going to get to try them?”
She was looking at him innocently, like she really wanted to sample his baking. Yeah, right. She was probably one of the strikers, waiting for a chance to gloat.
“I don’t have too many left.”
Laura had drifted within earshot now. “I’ll get them,” she offered.
Suddenly she wanted to help? He believed that like he believed in Santa. This was a setup.
“Hey, I’ve got it covered. I’ll get ’em.”
Laura’s cookies were always perfect, the frosting smooth and decorations looking like something out of a bakery. Looking at his burned messes, wavy with lopsided frosting and haphazard sprinkles, he wished he’d taken a little more time on the dumb things. Better yet, he wished he’d picked up some boxed cookies at the store.
He suddenly had a brainstorm. He ditched the plate with his cookies in the cupboard, then went over to Mac and pulled him aside.
“What?” Mac looked irritated.
“You gotta help me,” Glen said in an under voice.
“I’m not bakin’ any cookies, dude.”
Glen looked over his shoulder to make sure no one had heard, then dragged Mac farther away from the other partiers. “You don’t need to. Just slip out and go down to your place and steal some of your wife’s.”
Mac looked at him in shock.
“She did bake, didn’t she? Oh, shit. She’s on strike, too.”
“Yeah, but her mom felt sorry and sent a bunch over. Just for the kids. I’m supposed to stay out of them,” Mac added miserably.
“Well, what are you, whipped?”
“Look who’s talking. Your wife started this thing.”
“And yours is in on it. Now, we can’t let ’em win, can we?”
“Well, no.”
“Okay, then. I need you to sneak over to your place and get some cookies. You don’t have to take all of them.”
Now Mac looked perturbed. “I don’t want to miss the party. And besides, Tif’ll get pissed.”
“She’s not gonna know, pinhead. Only take a few. If she notices some are missing you can blame it on the kids. Or the babysitter. And it’s gonna take you all of ten minutes to run one block. If I don’t get some more good stuff on the table there won’t be any party. Come on now, help me. I’m dying here.”
Mac frowned and came up with a reluctant “All right.”
“Thanks, man. I owe you.” Glen looked around to make sure no women had drifted over to eavesdrop. “Put a bunch in a paper bag so nobody sees what you’ve got. Then I’ll put them on the plate with mine.”
Mac nodded and started for the door.
Glen grabbed him by the arm and hissed, “And don’t break ’em.”
Mac made a face but went to do what he was told.
“Hey, we’re a little sparse on food out here,” Rog called from the eats table.
“I’m working on it already,” Glen called back. “Have another beer.” Geez, what did Rog think this was, anyway, a restaurant?
People were busy talking. No one noticed when Mac returned and did a behind-the-back hand-off to Glen, who then ducked into the pantry and started the cookie transfer. Oh, this w
as good. There was some kind of brownie-looking thing with green frosting, a layered cookie with a thin coat of chocolate on top, and those little round ones with the powdered sugar that looked like snowballs. Perfect.
He brushed the powdered sugar off the brownies, then went and set the plate out on the dining room table. The guests fell on it, snatching cookies like they were trapped in the desert with nothing to eat but cactus and tumbleweeds.
“You made these?” asked Mort, holding up a frosted brownie.
“What can I say?” Glen answered and tried to look humble. And honest.
“I can’t believe you made these,” said Kathleen, narrowing her eyes at him. Why had Laura invited her, anyway? Bad enough to have her torturing him every day at the office.
“Oh, I have a recipe like this!” cried Tiffany. “It was my mom’s. And I make these snowballs, too. And the fudge meltaways.”
“What an interesting coincidence,” Laura said, eyeing Glen. “Glen must have baked these after I was asleep last night, because I sure didn’t see him making them any other time. I only saw him burning cookies.”
All eyes turned on Glen. His face felt like a burning cookie, but he braved it out. “I’m a fast learner. Hey, who’s for a game of Ping-Pong? I’ve got the table set up in the garage.”
Half the guys jumped on the offer and Glen ducked out after them. Laura could have all the suspicions she wanted, but she couldn’t prove anything. And Mac wouldn’t talk. He was an accomplice.
They were just getting started when the door to the garage opened and Rog stepped through it. “Those cookies are great. I hope you’ve got more.”
“Don’t tell me you ate them all already,” Glen said, panic gripping him. How many cookies did they have over at Mac’s? And how many more could they steal without Tif noticing?
Rog scowled and replied with an affronted, “No. But I didn’t know there was a limit.”
“Look, those are all I’ve got and they have to last.”
Rog shook his head. “Man, I hope your wife never goes on strike again. The food supply tonight sucks.”
A Small Town Christmas Page 40