On Strike for Christmas (10 page)

Melia grinned at him. “Don't worry. It'll be fun.”

For whom?

Joy sat in the living room pretending to read her December issue of
Bon Appétit,
smiling as she listened to Bob and Melia out in the kitchen singing old Sting songs together. Good. Things were going well. Maybe it would whet his appetite for more holiday experiences.

Suddenly she heard her husband yelp and went to the kitchen to investigate. She found Bob shaking his hand like he'd scalded it while Melia fished a candy out of the double boiler.

“He dropped the filling into the hot chocolate and spattered himself,” Melia explained.

“This is dangerous work,” Bob said.

“Only if you dive-bomb the melted chocolate,” Melia told him. “You don't want to drop it from so high up. It splatters.”

Bob had his hand under the faucet now, and was running cold water on his wrist. “Somebody should have warned me.”

“Well, other than burning yourself, Emeril, are you having fun?” Joy asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said diplomatically.

“He's doing a really good job,” Melia said. She looked adoringly at her father, like it had been all his idea to make the candy with her.

Did Bob have any idea what a favor Joy had done him? Knowing Bob, probably not. “Well, you can be proud of yourself,” she said encouragingly. “And when you deliver those to the neighbors you can brag that you made them all by yourself. With a little help from your daughter.”

Bob didn't say anything, but from the mulish slant of his jaw, she could tell the neighbors probably wouldn't be getting any bonbons this year.

“Okay, Daddy,” Melia said. “Get right back on the horse. Let's see if you can do a better job of dunking the filling this time.”

Bob didn't look thrilled about getting back on the horse, but he took his position again in front of the tray of rounded balls on the counter next to the stove.

“Now just lower it in at the side of the pan,” Melia instructed.

Joy couldn't help smiling. He looked so cute standing there by the stove wearing her old apron, his head bent next to their daughter's. Joy dashed to the den and grabbed the digital camera, then sneaked back. “Say cheese.”

She caught Bob looking over his shoulder, half-shocked, half-fearful, and Melia grinning impishly.

“Must you do that?” he complained.

“For posterity,” she said. “To prove that once upon a time literary great Bob Robertson actually did something in the kitchen besides make coffee. Maybe you can use it to promote the next book.”

“The apron will be a nice touch,” he grumbled.

“You do look pretty in pink,” Joy teased. She took a pinch of candy filling and a pinch of Bob's cute, skinny behind, then left the kitchen, her daughter's mock scold of “Mother!” ushering her out.

An hour later Melia took off and Bob collapsed on the couch next to Joy. “That was exhausting.”

“But well worth the effort,” Joy said and popped a mint bonbon in her mouth.

She offered the container to Bob and he grimaced, saying, “I'm never eating another one of those as long as I live. All these years you've been feeding me wax.”

“It helps the chocolate set up.”

“So I hear. It probably helps my arteries set up, too.” He smiled and leaned his head back on the couch cushions. “You know, we've got a great daughter.”

Joy smiled. “I know.”

 

Glen had had a busy evening decorating the house. He'd scampered around hanging stockings, setting out candles, and putting ceramic angels on guard over small, lighted villages trimmed with lots of doodads and little cords running every which way that made him feel like he had ten thumbs. It had been yet another time-consuming pain in the butt that had kept him from the relaxing evening in front of the TV that he'd envisioned.

But Laura had just made it all up to him, and now he was spooned up against her in bed, happily drifting off for the night.

And then an awful thing happened. She sighed sleepily and said, “So I guess you're getting the kids' outfits tomorrow morning before they have their pictures taken with Santa.”

Glen's eyes popped open. “What?”

“Night,” she murmured.

“Oh, no. You can't just drop that bomb on me and go to sleep,” he protested. “I mean, what if I had plans for tomorrow?”

She rolled over in bed to face him. “Did you?”

Maybe this wasn't the best time to tell her. He could feel the wifely inquisitor stare boring into him.
Confess.

“Well, some of the guys were coming over to watch the game.” Even in the dark he could see her frown. “Don't worry,” he said quickly. “I wasn't gonna ask you to feed them. Everybody's bringing beer and chips.”

“And who's cleaning up the mess afterward?”

“Uh. I am?”

“Good guess. And you still have to take the kids to see Santa before you party.”

“It's barely December. Why do they have to go see Santa so early?”

“Because we get extra pictures and stick them in a lot of the Christmas cards, which, by the way, need to get done next weekend.”

Glen swore. “Are you trying to kill me? I work, you know.”

She rolled back over, turning her back to him. “So do I. Then I come home and work some more on top of that. You're only doing Christmas stuff, Glen. I have to do that on top of taking care of the kids and the house. I've been trying to finish the same book for three months and I'm still working on the same scarf I started in September. I can't remember the last time I made it to the gym. In fact, it's a good day when I can find time to go to the bathroom.”

Glen decided it was time to drop the subject. “Okay, okay, I get the idea,” he said, cutting her off.

She sighed. “I guess I made my point. If you can't handle it I'll end the strike.”

Right. Like he was going to throw in the towel after that little speech she just made. It would be Super Babe kayos Weinie Man in the first round. “Hey, I can handle it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” He should have kept his big mouth shut.

“Okay. Good night,” she said sweetly. “Pleasant dreams.”

Dreams? He was going to be awake for hours thinking about all he had to do. Kickoff was at two. Would he make it back in time? Don't even go there, he told himself.

As it turned out, he did get to sleep, but once there he found a nightmare waiting for him. It was Saturday, ten minutes until kickoff, and he still had to drive to the mall and get his kids their outfits, then take them to see Santa. But he was having trouble even getting to the minivan. It was like he was trapped in invisible quicksand and no matter how hard he forced his muscles, every part of his body moved in cartoon slow motion. He finally wound up crawling on his hands and knees. Then, suddenly, he was at the mall with his buddies and they were all yelling at him because they were missing the kickoff. And he'd lost the kids. Santa drove by in his sleigh, right down the center of the mall with the kids sitting on top of a huge sack of presents, waving at him. Santa pointed at Glen and laughed, and it wasn't his usual ho, ho, ho. It was a nasty, mocking cackle. “You're gonna miss the game, fool,” Santa called. “You're gonna miss everything.”

Glen's eyes popped open. He spread out his hands and felt firm mattress beneath him and let out a sigh of relief. Okay, it was just a bad dream, his id or something acting up.

He went downstairs and found Laura in the utility room, putting in a load of laundry. He gave her a kiss, then asked, “How soon does the mall open?”

“Ten.”

Glen nodded. “Good.” They'd be there when the doors opened. It shouldn't take more than fifteen minutes to grab some clothes for the kids. Santa was probably camped out right in the middle of the mall. Half an hour for that, tops. They'd be back home in plenty of time.

He found the kids at the tiled oak table in the kitchen nook, finishing up breakfast. “Okay, team,” he said, clapping his hands like a football coach about to make a locker room speech. “Everybody ready to go see Santa?”

“Santa!” cried Amy, scooting out of her chair.

“Santa!” echoed Tyler, mirroring the action.

“First Daddy's going to take you to get new clothes for your Christmas pictures,” Laura said from behind him. “So be good and help him pick out something pretty.”

Amy nodded enthusiastically. “We will.”

To Glen she added, “Get her a dress, something red. And Tyler just needs a little, red bow tie to go with his slacks and shirt.”

“Hey, I can handle it, okay?” Glen said, irritated. What kind of bozo did she think he was, anyway?

“Okay,” she said. She cocked her head and examined her daughter.

Glen looked, too. Amy's hair was sticking out in several directions. “You better go brush your hair,” he told her. “You want to look nice for your picture.”

“Mommy always fixes it special,” Amy said.

Uh-oh
. But he was already doing so much. She wouldn't throw him a curve like that.

She would. “Daddy's going to fix your hair this year.”

“Oh, come on, Laura. What do I know about fixing girls' hair?”

“About as much as you know about what I do around here at the holidays. All you have to do is brush it and put it in a ponytail. But if you think you can't handle it…”

He held up a hand, stopping her in midsentence. “I can handle it.”

Well, sort of. Just like with the Christmas decorations, his big hands proved ill equipped for the challenge. He finally got the hair band wrapped around most of her hair. It stuck straight up like Pebbles in the Flintstones and was slightly off center. But it looked cute, trendy even.

Amy studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror, brows knit. Not a good sign.

Glen spied some sort of fuzzy pink hair clip on the counter. He handed it to her. “Here. Put this in your hair.”

She obliged then smiled, content with the fix.

“Okay. Get your coat and let's go,” Glen said.

“What are you going to do all day?” he asked Laura as they headed for the door. She gave Amy's hair a quick tweak, then opened it for them, snapping her gum and smirking. All she needed was a red tail and a pitchfork. “Don't tell me, let me guess,” he said bitterly. “You're gonna read, knit, and sit on the pot.”

Amy cracked up over that. “Mommy's going to sit on the pot.”

Not to be left out, Tyler started laughing, too, bobbing from side to side chanting, “Pot, pot, pot.”

“For your information, smart guy, I'm going to start another load of laundry, clean the kitchen, and then get my hair done.” She bent over and kissed both kids. “Be good for Daddy.”

“We will,” Amy promised, then skipped out the door with Tyler bouncing after her.

“Have fun,” Laura cooed to Glen.

“Don't worry,” he snapped. “We will. Piece of cake.”

The mall was already crowded and Glen had to park at the farthest end. He'd forgotten to put the stroller in the minivan, so he had to carry Tyler. Oh, well. He could handle it. He didn't go to the gym for nothing.

By the time they reached the mall entrance he was convinced Laura had smuggled rocks into their kid's diaper. Why else would he be so damned heavy? Glen put Tyler down and he immediately took off toward the play area after his sister.

“We're not playing today,” Glen called and chased after them.

An hour later they left the play area and went on the hunt for clothes.

“Look, Daddy. Deer ears,” Amy said, pointing to a headband sporting a goofy pair of brown felt antlers. “Can I have some?”

“Me want ears,” said Tyler.

“Okay. Sure.” Glen paid for two sets of antlers and settled them on the kids' heads. “Now, we've got to find something to put you in for your pictures.” They were in the girls' department, surrounded by racks of pants, tops, pajamas, and dresses of all kinds and colors. Glen blinked, overwhelmed with the choices.
Dress, red dress
. He started for the rack with the dresses.

Amy hopped over to the pajamas. “Daddy, I want princess jammies,” she called, holding out a flannel pant leg stamped with Disney princesses.

Glen scratched his head. Could a kid wear pajamas to see Santa? Laura had said get a red dress. “We better look at dresses,” he said.

“But I want princess jammies,” Amy pleaded, her voice sounding teary. She started to do the sobby sniff thing.

Oh, no. No crying
. This department was full of women. They'd look at him like he was some kind of child abuser. “Okay, princess jammies it is,” he decided, and yanked a pair off the rack. Kids in pajamas were cute. He held them up to Amy. The pajamas seemed to keep going long after her feet stopped. Hmmm. “I think we better find another size.”

Naturally, there weren't any damn princess jammies in a smaller size. “It looks like we're gonna have to bag the jammies,” Glen said.

“No, Daddy. You promised.”

Oh, geez, she was gearing up for a tear storm again. “Okay, okay. We'll get these. You'll have room to grow.”

She rewarded him with an ecstatic smile. He had to be the world's biggest pushover.

“Let's find jammies for Tyler, too,” she suggested.

Why not? That way, they could match. Both the kids in matching jammies. That'd look cute. Anyway, Glen had no idea where to find a little kid bow tie. The search could take hours.

They got Sponge Bob Square Pants pajamas for Tyler; then Glen took the kids back to the minivan and changed them into their new duds. Of course, the tags were stuck on with those stupid plastic doohickeys that even Superman couldn't break. After putting a hole in the armpit of Tyler's pajamas yanking one off, Glen finally gave up and stuck the tags inside the necks. Then he put the kids in their coats again and trotted them back to see Santa.

The line stretched halfway to South America. Glen checked his watch. Nearly noon. Well, it would probably move fast.