On Strike for Christmas (24 page)

“No problem,” Glen muttered. “Hit me again. I can take it. Hell, I'm just a human punching bag these days anyway.”

The streetlights cast glitter on the snow-covered shrubs and houses, making the neighborhood look like it belonged in a Robert Kincaid painting. Glen's yard sported a lopsided snowman with a carrot nose and a couple of branches for arms. The kids had obviously been out having fun. At least someone was having fun this season.

He opened the front door and looked for a pile of packages. Nothing. Hope began to leak out of him. Maybe Laura had put them under the tree for him. Ha! In his dreams. He looked in the living room anyway. No packages under the tree. The last bit of hope rushed out, leaving him feeling like a deflated balloon.

Laura came around the corner. “Oh, I didn't hear you come in.”

“No packages?” he asked.

She shook her head solemnly.

“I don't understand it. I ordered in plenty of time.”

“You might want to do some shopping tomorrow, babe,” Laura said. “It doesn't look like they're coming.”

At least she had the consideration not to gloat. Still, this sucked. Was he the only guy this was happening to? “I wonder if Bob Robertson got his,” he mused.

After dinner he decided to call and see. He got only the answering machine. “Uh, Bob. This is Glen Fredericks. My wife is striking with yours. I shopped that personal shopper site you recommended in your article, and none of my stuff has come yet. I'm just wondering if you got yours.”

He hung up, feeling unsatisfied. What had he been expecting Robertson to do, anyway? It looked like tomorrow he'd be at the mall, doing the last minute race for presents.

 

Bob stood listening to Fredericks's message and feeling once again that miserable ache in his gut like he'd been sucker-punched. This was the third call he'd gotten in two days. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to deduce that something was very wrong here in Holly. He went into his office and shut the door, then booted up his computer. He typed in the Web site address for U Shop Till I Drop again, determined to make something happen. He'd e-mail them one last time, threaten to call the authorities if they didn't come through. It was probably already too late to get his presents or anybody else's, but it made him feel better to try.

The computer screen blinked, then brought him up a big, empty, white page, telling him that the page couldn't be located.

What? He went back and tried again. He had to have typed the address incorrectly, had to have made a mistake. The same empty page greeted him, and he knew he'd made a mistake all right, and it had nothing to do with what he had or hadn't typed. He'd been conned, and so had half the men in Holly.

He dropped his head into his hands. “I'm a dead man.”

A knock on his office door made Bob jump.

Joy poked her head around the door. “That was Sharon Benedict. She said Pete's been trying to access the site where you guys did your shopping and it's not coming up.”

Sharon knew. Joy knew. That meant soon all the women would know, and all their men would lynch him. If only he hadn't gotten cocky and offered to write that piece for the paper. If only he'd done some shopping somewhere else. If only he had more time. If only the earth would open up and swallow him.

“Bob?” Joy prompted.

He nodded his head. “I know. I just tried it. I think it's a scam.”

“Oh, no,” she said, horrified.

“Oh, yes. Every man in Holly is going to be out tomorrow looking for presents, including me. I'll be lucky if I come home alive.”

He braced for her to rub it in, to say something like he deserved this. But, bless her, she didn't. Instead she came to him, draped her arms over his shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. “My poor guy. I'm sorry.”

He shrugged like it was no big deal that he'd played Pied Piper to every man in Holly and led them all into shopping ruin. “Can you get me Benedict's number?” he asked. “Also, give me the Frederickses' number. I'd better give Glen the bad news.”

She nodded and left the room. A couple of minutes later she was back. “This isn't your fault,” she told him. Who was she kidding? Not him.

It was no fun making the calls.

“What are you going to do about it?” Pete wanted to know.

Like he was the Lone Ranger or something and he was supposed to go track down these crooks? “I'll call the cops first thing in the morning to report it. But it's an Internet fraud and there's probably nothing they can do.”

“Well, somebody must handle that stuff,” Pete said. “The FBI, the CIA.”

“Whoever handles it, they won't be able to get our presents for us in time. Every man in town who used that site is going to have to hit the stores, so if you know anybody who did, spread the word. And tell them to keep an eye on their credit card statements.”

“You think these guys could be involved in identity theft or something?” Pete asked.

“I don't know. At the least they could try and have fun with our credit card numbers.”

“This sucks,” Pete said before he hung up.

There was an understatement. Who knew what horrible fallout they'd have to deal with from this Internet debacle? And then there was the shopping. Bob hated crowds. He always got his present for Joy well before Christmas. Now he'd be out there with all the other last-minute losers, scrambling for something to put under the tree for not only his immediate family, but the in-laws and friends they exchanged presents with. And he'd have to get something for his folks and his brother's family, get it all in the mail, then call and tell everyone the presents would be arriving late. All this because he'd had to be the world's biggest know-it-all. Well, he'd lost that title. Now he was the world's biggest sucker.

And that wasn't even the worst of it. The worst was that he was going to lose the whole day, valuable time that he needed to finish up the surprise he'd dreamed up for Joy a couple of days ago. It was the perfect present, something that would mean a lot to her, and it was costing him something to do it. Now, with this latest development, he wasn't sure he'd be able to finish on time. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd live to do it. A sudden vision of an angry mob of disappointed male shoppers pouncing on him made Bob shudder.

Never mind that, he told himself.
Do this all one step at a time and take first things first. Get to work on Joy's present
. Maybe if he stayed up all night he might get it done in time.

The all-nighter lasted until some time before midnight, when Bob fell asleep in his office. He woke up with his head on his desk at two. Two in the morning and he wasn't done. The day ahead loomed before him like a death sentence. He rubbed his stiff neck and stumbled off to bed, hoping he'd be able to finish in the morning.

When he finally woke up he was alone in the bed. The scent of yeast and cinnamon drifted in to him. Joy had already been up baking cinnamon rolls. That meant it was late morning. Oh, no!

He sat up in a panic and looked at the bedside clock. It was 10:00
A.M.
already—10:00
A.M.
Christmas Eve day, and he had a daunting to-do list. He had to call the cops and confess he'd been suckered, then he had to rush out and shop, a misadventure that would be followed by a frantic effort to finish Joy's present. He looked out the bedroom window. The streets were an icy, snowy mess. That made the morning complete.

He fumbled into sweats and his favorite sweatshirt and ran downstairs to find some coffee. He rushed past the tree so fast he almost didn't see the pile of presents under it. Whoa, what was this? He put on the brakes and bent over to look at the tags on the packages.

Some were from their son to each of them, and he found Joy's present to him under there, too. But the rest, the ones for Melia and her family and for Bobby, were signed from Joy and him. It was a miracle.

He hurried on into the kitchen to find Joy and Bobby seated at the table, sharing coffee and cinnamon rolls. The presents were under the tree and Joy was baking again. She was all dolled up in her favorite Christmas sweater and had a pair of goofy-looking Santa earrings dangling from her ears. The old Joy was back. It was as if the past few horrible weeks hadn't happened.

She smiled at Bob and opened her mouth to speak, but Bobby was ahead of her. “Hey Dad, that Web site you shopped at made the news,” he said, and held up the paper.

Bob took it and read the headline.
PERSONAL SHOPPER RIPS OFF HASSLED HUSBANDS
. Back to ugly reality. Rosemary Charles was in fine form today. Who had contacted her, and when? At this point, what did it matter?

He read on. “Men all over Holly are having difficulty contacting the personal shopping site recommended by Bob Robertson, the mystery writer whose wife started the Christmas strike.” Bob felt an invisible steel band tightening around his forehead. There he was in black and white, the spoiler of Christmas. “Detective Ben Samuels from the Holly Police Department warns that this site could be a scam. Any readers who have used it should contact their credit card company immediately.”

Bob shook his head and dropped the paper on the table. He needed that coffee right now. The phone rang just as he was pouring himself a cup and he looked at it warily. It probably wasn't Santa calling to see if he had been a good boy.

“I wouldn't answer that,” Joy warned him. “We've already had six calls from hassled husbands.”

“Great,” he muttered.

“Don't worry,” she said. “I put a message on the answering machine explaining how outraged you are and offering your regrets that so many men, just like you, were taken in. And I said the police are working on it.”

“Are they?” Bob asked.

“I got the ball rolling,” she said.

Bob leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Thanks, hon. I probably owe you my life for that.”

“Oh, and I also offered free copies of your latest book to anyone who sends their mailing address to your Web site. I figured that would smooth most ruffled feathers, and you might pick up some new readers.”

Brilliant. Why hadn't he thought of that? “So, is it helping?”

“For the most part.”

“What does that mean?”

“Some of the callers want to rip off your head,” Bobby elaborated. “I don't know what their problem is, though. It's not like the credit card companies are going to make them pay, since it's fraud.”

But their wives were going to make them pay, since it was a major screwup, a screwup for which Bob was responsible. Nobody would forget that. The steel band got tighter. Bob took a fortifying gulp of coffee, scalding his tongue in the process.

“I bet there's going to be a lot of guys running around looking for presents today,” Bobby predicted.

“Speaking of presents, where did the ones under the tree come from?” Bob asked as he put a fat cinnamon roll on his plate. “Obviously not from my personal shopper.”

“Well, not the one on that Web site, anyway,” Joy said.

“You.”

“I had a few things tucked away,” she said modestly.

She'd saved him. His wife was a true heroine.

“So I guess you don't have to go out after all,” Bobby said. “You lucked out, Dad. You can hide out till the storm blows over.”

He lucked out the day he married Joy. “But I've still got to get presents for the families,” he said, and slumped against the kitchen counter. All those great things he'd ordered wouldn't be arriving on anyone's doorstep.

“I called your mom and your brother and explained,” Joy said. “You've got a few days' grace. And I already had something tucked away for Lonnie and Al and Suki and her husband.”

“Friends?”

“Done.”

“I don't have to go out?”

She shook her head. “All you have to do is get ready for tonight.”

Thank God. At least he'd be spared a public beating.

“Speaking of getting ready, I'm going to get a shower,” Bobby said, and left the two of them alone.

Bob sat down at the table opposite his wife. “You saved me.” It was a funny way to conduct a strike. And, cocky bastard that he'd been, he hadn't deserved saving.

She nodded. “Yep. I did.”

“I would have gone out and gotten the presents, you know.”

“I know. But there was no need for me to get spiteful about the whole thing. It wasn't like you didn't try, after all.”

He took a moment to digest that. It didn't digest well. He took a bite of his cinnamon roll and it was like homecoming for his taste buds. “These are good.”

“No, they're fabulous,” she corrected him.

“Just like you.”

His words didn't have much impact. She simply murmured a polite thank-you and took another sip of her coffee.

The unspoken question hung in the air between them for several minutes. Bob finally voiced it. “So you're no longer on strike?” he asked casually.

She shrugged. “I gave up.”

Those words didn't make Bob as happy as they should have. In fact, they pierced deeper than anything she'd said and done so far this season. “So, I'm hopeless, is that it?”
Please don't say yes.

Her smile was tinged with sadness. He was a disappointment to her. All his earlier anger and resentment had been the feelings of a fool. No man should put that look in his wife's eyes.

“You're not hopeless,” she said, “just different. I guess we'll always be two very different people. Anyway, everything doesn't always have to be done my way.” Her gaze dropped to her coffee cup. “I've been kind of a brat, expecting you to leave your comfort zone just so I could be happy. I always figured that deep down you really enjoyed the celebrations, that you just needed a nudge. I guess it's hard for me to imagine anyone not wanting to live like my family.”

Like everyone would want to be stuck in a never-ending holiday version of
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
with mobs of people coming and going all the time? What was it about large, loud families that made them think everyone wanted to be just like them? Bob wisely didn't ask. Why his wife thought the way she did didn't really matter. She was who she was and he loved her. And he wanted her to be happy.

“I should be glad you even come to my family's,” she continued. “And I'll settle for any kind of party you want. I just don't want us to grow apart. I don't want to experience important events by myself. I don't want you to draw away.”

She was regarding him earnestly now, waiting for him to assure her that he wouldn't.

There was nothing he would like better than to pull free of her obstreperous family, to never again have his house full of noisy people during the holidays. If he could he'd whisk her off to a desert island every holiday season where he could have her all to himself, where she would laugh and sparkle for him alone. But the best setting for all that sparkle was a social one. He'd always known it. She lived for her friends, her family, her parties. And this time of year was her time. Anyway, he'd been wrong to be so stubborn and vindictive when she was trying desperately to make a point. She spent eleven months of the year working on making his life good, doing everything from cooking his favorite food to running interference for him at book signings and chatting up the customers. Surely, for one month he could try to do whatever made her happy.

“I'm not going to,” he promised, and patted her hand. “Don't give up on me yet. I can be taught.” And one thing he'd learned was that having a few holiday traditions was good for the soul. He smiled at the memory of his adventures in the kitchen with Melia, and of how funny Hank and Linda had looked at his party in their crazy costumes.

Now Joy was smiling, too, looking at him with tears in her eyes, and he leaned across the table to kiss her. She met him halfway.

Just then Bobby sauntered back into the kitchen, wearing jeans and a sweater, his hair still damp. “Hey, you two. Get a room.”

Bob chuckled and went to pour himself some more coffee. Everything was right with the world again. At least for him. He hoped the other men in Holly were doing okay.

 

Glen had already gotten into a tug-of-war at Toy Town over the last Shopping Babe doll. She came complete with shopping cart, purse, and charge card, and after the costume screwup at the school concert, getting her was penance he had to do. He'd won, but the goon had actually threatened to sue.

Now he'd nearly gotten into it at Hollyworld with a guy wearing a baseball cap and a kill-you look over the last chick flick DVD on the shelf in the movie section until he realized it was Pete Benedict.