A Small Town Christmas Part 38

He shook his head, a quizzical smile on his face. "For what, more s.e.x? 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 h.e.l.l 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, s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 cla.s.s 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 h.e.l.lo.

"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. "G.o.d 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.