A Small Town Christmas Part 55

The microwave dinged and he pulled out dinner. "So, what did you get? Is that a Barnes and n.o.ble bag I see?"

"No snooping," Joy warned. "Not all of us did our Christmas shopping on the Internet."

"Unlike some people in this household, I don't snoop," Bob countered.

"I think I'll wrap it after we eat and put it under the tree. I hate having a tree up with no presents under it."

"There'll be more soon enough," Bob predicted. "I ordered mine in plenty of time. No muss, no fuss."

And no people, Joy thought, but she kept the thought to herself. There would be plenty of people in the house tonight. That, in and of itself, was a big step for Bob.

She stowed her purchases and washed up, then joined him at the dinner table. In addition to chimichangas, he'd filled two gla.s.ses with water-a real feast. Hopefully, they'd be eating better at the party.

"So, are you all ready for tonight?" she asked.

He nodded. "As soon as I finish eating I'll run over to the store and pick up the party trays."

Grocery store deli platters. Ugh. Oh, well. What did she care? "So, you never told me who all is coming." Their best friends, Ben and Marcy, were out of town, but there were still the book club members and the neighbors.

"Let's see," Bob said, rubbing his chin, "we've got Don and Darla."

"Pendergast?"

Bob nodded.

"Your bookkeeper and his wife."

"What's wrong with them?"

"Nothing, I'm sure. It's just that we hardly know them."

"Don's a nice guy. And he saved us twelve thousand in income tax last year."

"You sent him a case of wine. He's been thanked."

"I thought it might be nice to have them over."

Joy nodded thoughtfully. Okay, there was nothing wrong with expanding their circle of friends. "Why not? Who else do we have coming?"

"Harold and Linda."

Bob's critique partner and his wife. Harold wrote fantasy novels, and in the summer he and Linda got dressed up in costumes and attended medieval fairs so Harold could throw axes at chunks of log and run around with a crossbow.

They had never done anything with Harold and Linda as couples. Joy tried to look on the bright side. Maybe Linda would have some cool medieval food recipes, hopefully some that didn't involve baking blackbirds in a pie or roasting a whole pig.

"So, who else?" Surely Bob had invited someone she knew.

"Lyle."

"Your publicist?"

"He's in town. I thought it would be nice to include him."

"Sure," Joy agreed, smiling. "The more the merrier. Anyone else?"

"That's it."

Joy's smile died. "That's it? None of the neighbors?"

"Karen Doolittle's got the neighborhood party this year."

"I didn't hear anything about it. How do you know?"

"Because I delegated that job to her when I ran into her at Hollywood Heaven."

"Nice of you."

"I thought so. Anyway, it's time for someone else to take a turn having his home invaded."

That was the definition you'd find in Bob's dictionary under the word "hospitality," Joy mused. It was a miracle they were having anyone over. Baby steps, she told herself, baby steps. Be glad he got inspired to do something.

While he was out picking up his party supplies Joy wrapped her present for him, a thick tome full of philosophical observations on the writing life, and put it under the tree. Then she put on her new dress. It was Christmas red with a scooped neck, trimmed with red sequins. Just seeing herself in it put her in a party mood. Okay, this wouldn't be a typical Joy party, with lots of friends and a holiday table filled with goodies, but it would probably be fun.

Bob returned with party platters and eggnog. He smiled at the sight of Joy in her new dress. "Wow, you look great. Did you buy that today?"

She nodded.

"Let's call everyone and tell them not to come and we can have a two-person party instead."

She pointed to the headlights outside the window. "Too late. I think our first guests are here."

"Wow, they're early."

"I guess they can't wait to see what a Bob Robertson party looks like," Joy quipped. "I'll get it."

"Thanks." He set the platters on the dining table, then went in search of the punch bowl while Joy answered the door.

There, in all their glory, stood Harold and Linda Bradbury. Harold was sporting a blue velvet cap with a feather in it. A matching velvet cloak hung over his beefy torso, and his legs were encased in some sort of leggings. He looked like Henry the Eighth without the turkey leg. Next to him stood Linda, equally large in a black velvet cape over a royal blue gown. She wore a headdress that made her look like the Queen of Hearts, freshly escaped from Wonderland.

"We're here," Harold announced. "'Let the games begin.'"

Well, at least he'd said the word "games." Joy hoped he hadn't brought his axe with him.

"Come on in," she said. "May I take your, uh, coats?"

They stepped inside and Harold removed his cape with a flourish. "Thank you, my lady."

"You're welcome...Lord Harold," she said, and took Linda's cloak. "Bob is just getting the food set out."

"Ah, food. I'm famished," Harold declared.

Wasting away to a shadow, Joy thought, as she hung the capes in the coat closet.

Harold and Linda went to hover by the table and watch Bob work. "You've done a great job, old man," Harold congratulated him.

"Of course, I'd have been glad to bring something," Linda put in. "I'm not on strike. I like to eat too much to do that," she added, patting her rounded middle. "I make a wonderful moose mincemeat pie. It's the hit of the medieval fair every year. Isn't it, Har?"

"Oh, yes," he agreed, nodding his head.

"Har tells me you're doing everything," she said to Bob. "I could give you some recipes."

And what did Linda think Bob, the most kitchen-challenged man in town, would do with them? "I'm still doing the cooking. Bob's just in charge of Christmas this year," Joy said as she went to answer the door.

This time it was the Pendergasts. Don Pendergast was a tall, thin man with a thin mouth, and his wife, Darla, was short and plump. She looked around as she stepped inside the house as if wondering what she was doing at the Robertsons'. Well, that made two of them, Joy thought.

Unlike the Bradburys, the Pendergasts had dressed in slacks and sweaters in muted colors knitted in a pattern of trees. Darla regarded Linda, who was sailing out to the living room in full medieval regalia with a plate of rolled meat and cheese like she was an alien invader.

"Well," Joy said after she'd settled the Pendergasts in the living room with some eggnog, "it's nice to get to meet the wife of my husband's genius bookkeeper. Are you good with numbers, too, Darla?"

Darla shook her head. "Oh, not really," she said in a quiet voice.

"So, what is your specialty?"

"Specialty?" Darla repeated.

"I mean, what are you good at?"

Darla thought a moment. "Well, I..." She stuttered to a stop and looked like she was going to cry.

Joy tried another tack. "What do you enjoy doing?"

"I like tropical fish."

Come to think of it, Darla's voice reminded Joy of a tropical fish tank: soft and burbling-the kind of voice that could put you to sleep. Just like the subject of tropical fish. Joy nodded, trying to look interested.

"And I like to read," Darla added.

Oh, good. Common ground. "Me, too," Joy said. "What do you like to read?"

"Nonfiction."

Would it be too much to hope that Darla enjoyed cookbooks? Joy nodded encouragingly.

"I'm especially fond of true crime," she said quietly. "Serial killers."

Joy kept her smile pasted on and nodded. Serial killers, how cozy. "I'm sure you and my husband will have a lot to talk about then, since he writes murder mysteries."

"I'm not fond of mysteries," Darla said, frowning and shaking her head.

Okay.

"I'm with you. When you've read one mystery, you've read them all," Linda said with a flick of her pudgy hand. "You should try fantasy. Now, there's a genre worth reading. My husband's work is brilliant."

Well, that took care of Bob in one sentence, Joy thought, and tried to make her smile look genuine. It was getting harder by the second.

Harold joined them, his plate piled high, and sprawled on the couch. "Now, this is my idea of a good time. Good food, good conversation, good friends."

Good friends? Oh, please, dear G.o.d, no.

Bob came up to him with a plate of the Christmas bonbons. "You might like these. I made them with my daughter."

"Oh, how sweet!" Linda exclaimed, digging in.

Bob beamed. "It's a Christmas tradition."

Really? Since when did being forced once to do something with his daughter qualify as a tradition? Bob was becoming a legend in his own mind.

"Joy usually does it," he added, picking up on her not so good vibrations.

"Of course, you didn't this year because of the strike." Linda leveled a how-could-you? look at Joy.

"The strike is exposing Bob to all kinds of new experiences that he's missed out on all these years," Joy said in her own defense, "including this party."

"And you're doing a bang-up job, old man," Harold boomed. "I'll have another of those candies. Great stuff."

Harold was expanding on the delights of good food when their last guest made his appearance. Lyle Forsythe was younger than the rest of them, a nice-looking man in his late thirties, wearing jeans and a sweater under a leather jacket. He offered Joy a box of G.o.diva chocolates, giving her false hope that the evening wouldn't be a total wash.

But, sadly, he didn't stay more than an hour, claiming yet another party to attend. Joy was tempted to ask if she could go with him.

Bob's soiree hadn't exactly been swinging so far. The food was abysmal: dried-out veggies and dip from a plastic container, cold cuts and cheese-big deal-and store-bought cookies. The only highlight was the big jar of truffles Bob had purchased at Costco. Conversation had been no better than the food, just a dull road of tax deductions and family holiday plans, with a quick, interesting detour instigated by Lyle into brainstorming how Joy could turn her catering experiences into a book. But Linda had cut that short when she got inspired with an idea for a book of her own and hijacked the conversation.

And that was when Lyle had remembered his other social obligation. He was backing toward the door like a hunted man even as Linda was still talking. She flung her final words at him as he bolted for freedom. "I'll keep you posted on my progress with Life in the Kingdom."

With Lyle gone it was back to the six of them, and the party lost what little shine it had. Harold waxed eloquent over the joys of crossbow compet.i.tion while the Pendergasts sat in a stupor.

Joy was going to lose her mind. They needed a diversion, something to do to breathe life into the evening. She looked at Bob. "So, what have you got planned for us?"

"Planned?" He gave her a quizzical look.

"Entertainment, fun and games?" she said lightly.

"Oh, not games," protested Darla in a weak voice. She looked to her husband as if she might need him to protect her from some kind of attack.

"We don't have to do anything but talk," Bob a.s.sured her, and Joy sank back against her seat. Not more conversation with these people, please.

The polite expression still on his face, he looked expectantly at Joy, like she should somehow turn this into a successful evening.

Was he crazy? Superman himself couldn't rescue this flat affair. Anyway, it was Bob's party. It was up to him to save the evening. She looked expectantly back at him.