Kneeling in front of Amy, he took both her arms. "Daddy's going to run home and get your tree costume, so don't worry. Okay?"

She nodded, a world of trust in those big eyes. "Okay."

He turned and bolted for the door. Going out of the room he almost knocked over Mac, who was delivering his son.

"Whoa, dude. What's the hurry?"

"I've gotta get home," Glen called over his shoulder. "We got the wrong costume."

"You'll never make it back in time," Mac called after him.

Oh, yes, he would. He was in the minivan in less than two minutes. He took it slow going out of the parking lot, not wanting to run down a kid, but once he was on the road, he floored it. He had to get back with that costume.

His cell phone rang and he pulled it out of his coat pocket and checked the number. Laura. If she thought he was going to take her call so she could rag on him she was nuts. He dropped the phone back in his pocket and pressed down harder on the gas pedal.

He made it home in record time, snagged the bag, and dashed back to the minivan. You can do this, he told himself and screeched away from the curb. Just a few more minutes...

He was almost to the school when he heard the police siren. s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t, s.h.i.t!

Rosemary Charles had noticed that Glen Fredericks wasn't seated in the school auditorium with his wife like the rest of the men. She'd elbowed Rick and pointed to where Laura Fredericks sat. A tall, skinny guy with hair like Weird Al was leaning over the chick's shoulder, whispering something in her ear.

"Something's gone wrong," Rosemary said.

That was obvious. Laura Fredericks looked ready to go ballistic. She shot up from her seat like she'd gotten an electric shock to the b.u.t.t and scooted down the row of people, trampling several sets of feet in the process, then raced out of the auditorium.

"Okay, I smell something juicy," Rosemary said. "Be right back." Then she was off across the auditorium and talking to the tall, wild-haired guy and his wife. She nodded sympathetically, but she was wearing her reporter's-scoop smile when she came back to Rick. "Oh, this is good. Fredericks brought the wrong costume and he's gone home to get the right one."

Rick frowned at her. "And you're hoping like h.e.l.l he screws up and doesn't get back in time so his kid will be scarred for life."

Rosemary frowned back. "I don't want his kid scarred for life."

"But you want him to not make it back. That's kind of sick, isn't it?"

Rosemary smiled. "His little girl will be okay, trust me. Teachers are always prepared for this sort of emergency. And it's Fredericks's suffering I'm interested in. It's great for the story. So, I need you to go hang out in the parking lot and get a picture of him coming in."

"I'm surprised you don't want a picture of the kid in her underwear," Rick grumbled.

"Just go, will you?"

He was here on a.s.signment. He had to. But he didn't like it. And as he lurked in a dark corner of the parking lot, hunched inside his coat, he felt like some sort of traitor to his s.e.x.

The cold air tickled the back of his neck with icy fingers, and he pulled his coat collar tighter around his neck. This was a total waste of his talent. Some photographers got pictures of people digging through the ruins of war, or of runners breaking through the tape for a gold medal. What was he getting? Pictures of pathetic Christmas trees and even more pathetic men who couldn't even find the right costume for their kids' Christmas program. This was dumb, if you asked him. But no one had.

In the distance he heard a police siren. Probably the one big thing that would ever happen in Holly was taking place right now and here he was, hanging around the elementary school parking lot, missing out.

But wait. The siren was getting closer.

Suddenly he saw a minivan blowing up the street, a patrol car in hot pursuit. Who did the clown think he was, O. J. Simpson? Was he ever going to stop? Wait a minute. That minivan looked familiar. Forgetting all about feeling like a traitor, Rick took off across the parking lot. This picture wouldn't exactly measure up to Olympic gold, but it was as close to gold as he was going to come here in Holly.

"Officer, I can explain," Glen started to say to the angry cop approaching his window. And then he recognized that square jaw and the thin lips. "Oh, no."

The thin lips got even thinner and pulled down into a frown. "What was it this time, Mr. Fredericks? Did you run out of eggnog?"

"I got the wrong costume for the school program. My little girl's gonna be the only one who's not wearing leaves. They're starting any minute." The cop didn't look like he believed Glen. "I've got it right here," Glen rushed on and started to reach for the bag next to him.

"Keep your hands where I can see them," barked the cop.

"Oh, man, look. I'm not lying. And you know I'm not a criminal. You already ran my license twice, for G.o.d's sake. You can check my story for yourself if you don't believe me. The bag's right there."

"I'm going to ask you to please step out of the car, sir." Hand on his gun, the officer stepped back.

As Glen got out he caught sight of that d.a.m.ned photographer from the Herald, across the street, snapping pictures. "Great. This is just great," he muttered.

The officer leaned in the car and snagged the bag. He opened it and looked inside, then tossed the bag back on the seat with a disgusted frown.

"Okay, can I please go to the school now?" Glen pleaded.

"As soon as I give you a ticket. Please get back in the car. I'll need your license and driver's registration."

"Oh, come on!" Glen cried. "The program's going to start. I promised my kid."

"The sooner you get that information for me the sooner you can go."

"Oh, man. How about a little sympathy here?" Glen begged as he dug out his license. "You've got kids. What would you have done if you were me?"

"Checked the bag before I left home."

Glen handed over his license and registration, then swore under his breath as Barney Fife went back to his patrol car. He drummed the wheel while the cop did his thing. His heart was thumping like he was racing down a football field. Come on, come on, come on! He was starting to sweat now. He looked at his watch. Okay, the program had started. If the cop gave him his ticket in the next sixty seconds, then if he made it into the parking lot in under a minute, if he ran down the hall...he'd still be almost fifteen minutes late. Please don't have started on time.

The officer came back with yet another present from the Holly P.D. "You might want to remember that I'm right behind you when you pull out."

"Thanks," Glen said between clenched teeth. This was police brutality. Or something. He was going to report this guy.

He pulled out. Slowly. Went down the street. One mile under the limit. Signaled. Turned into the school parking lot. And parked his car in a load zone.

He grabbed the bag with the costume and bolted into the school. Down the hall, turn the corner, past the princ.i.p.al's office, down one more hall, heart pumping, lungs stinging. There was Mrs. Green's room.

And no one was in it.

"Noooo," Glen bellowed, and collapsed on a little desk. The thing crumpled under his weight and tipped him on his b.u.t.t. It was the final straw. He lifted his eyes heavenward and roared, "Why me?"

But deep down, he knew. This was like some huge, cosmic plot to ruin him. G.o.d was punishing him. First he'd taken his wife for granted, then, only last week he'd...He had to get to confession. He'd go tomorrow, he resolved. If he lived through tonight.

He picked up both himself and the desk, then left the room for the auditorium, where Laura would be waiting to kill him.

Twenty.

The kindergarten cla.s.s was just filing off the stage when Glen made his way down a row of irritated parents, muttering, "'Scuze me."

Laura frowned up at him. "Why didn't you answer your cell?" she hissed as he fell onto the seat next to her.

"I was kind of busy," he hissed back. He looked at the departing forest of trees. "Where's Amy? Did she get to go on?"

"That's what I was trying to call you about. Mrs. Green had an extra costume that she keeps for emergencies. You didn't need to leave."

He'd risked heart failure, broken the sound barrier, gotten another ticket, and sent his car insurance rates through the roof for nothing. And he'd missed seeing Amy make her speech. He crossed his arms in front of him and began to quietly turn the air blue.

"Glen." Laura glared at him.

He shut up, polite on the outside, cursing on the inside.

"Hey, sorry you missed seeing your kid," Mac said to him after the program was over. "At least your wife got pictures of it." He stuck his cell phone in Glen's face, showing Glen a picture of his son. It was impossible to tell whether or not the kid in the picture was Mac's. Mostly it looked like a brown cardboard tower with legs under it.

They collected Amy, who, like all the other kids was already bouncing in antic.i.p.ation of cookies and punch. "Did you see me, Daddy?"

Laura was looking at him in disgust. He felt like the world's biggest doof. "You were great," he said. No lie there. He was sure she was.

They ate cookies and drank gross red punch with the other parents for a while. But then Tyler managed to dump punch all over another kid and it was time to go.

They found the minivan right where Glen had left it. No ticket, thank G.o.d. Maybe he just wouldn't tell Laura about the one he got tonight. She'd find out soon enough, and she already had plenty to get on him about. And she was gearing up for it. He could tell by the way she was snapping her gum. He climbed in behind the wheel and braced for the a.s.sault.

Sure enough. "Glen, I thought you checked the bag."

Was every woman given a lifetime supply of salt at birth to rub in a guy's wounds? "Don't start with me," he warned as they drove out of the parking lot.

"It's probably going be in the paper, you know. Rosemary Charles and the photographer were here tonight."

"I know," Glen said between gritted teeth. That would be front page news. And tomorrow she'd have something to say about that, too. Like he needed her telling him he'd screwed up. Like he couldn't see that for himself. Like he didn't already feel rotten. Like this wasn't all her fault in the first place, her and her d.a.m.ned strike. He kept his gaze straight ahead. If he even so much as looked at Laura right now he knew his head would pop off.

"I should have checked the bag."

Because, of course, she knew her dumb s.h.i.t husband would screw up? Okay. That was it. He screeched the minivan to a curbside halt and turned to face his wife. "Hey, I'm doing the best I can." He stabbed a finger at her. "You want things to go the way you want them? You end this dumb-a.s.s strike of yours. Otherwise, you take what you get."

Laura blinked, then clamped her lips tightly together. From the back seat Amy softly said, "Daddy?"

Great. Now he was like George Bailey in It's a Wonderful Life, having a complete meltdown. "It's okay, baby girl. Daddy and Mommy are just having a little talk," he said calmly, and put them back on the road.

Next to him, Laura looked ready to pop like a string of Christmas lights. Merry Christmas, Glen thought glumly.

They completed the trip home in silence. Glen broke it as they walked in the door. "I'll put Amy to bed."

"Fine." Laura bit off the word like it was his head and walked away with Tyler.

He put Amy in her princess jammies, then supervised the tooth-brushing ritual. He almost cried when she said her prayers asking G.o.d to bless Daddy. Daddy didn't exactly deserve blessing right now.

Glen tucked her in and stayed on his knees by the bed. It was so small, covered with pink blankets and pillows and stuffed animals. Kneeling there he felt big and clumsy. And dumb-a big, dumb doof.

"Daddy's sorry he blew it and you didn't get to wear the tree costume Grammy made for you tonight," he said miserably.

She smiled at him, such details unimportant. "I liked being a holly bush."

"I think Santa's going to have to bring you something special for doing such a good job saying your part. What do you think?"

"I just want my Shopping Babe doll Santa promised," she said sleepily and snuggled into her pillow.

"Then I know you'll get it. I love you, baby girl," he whispered and kissed her forehead. That was one thing he wouldn't screw up anyway.

Laura was still in with Tyler when Glen came out of Amy's room, so he went downstairs and hid out in the family room, aiming his remote at the TV like a gun and flipping channels. She never came downstairs and he didn't go up. When he finally went to bed, she was turned with her back to his side. He doubted she was asleep, but he didn't ask. Instead, he just slipped into bed and lay with his back to hers. He didn't like lying facing this way. It felt unnatural. So, what else was new? His whole life felt unnatural.

Horrible dreams chased him through the night. In one he was in stocks in the Green, wearing nothing but a pair of red long johns. Everyone he knew had gathered there to throw s...o...b..a.l.l.s at him, and Laura stood at the head of the line, stuffing a rock inside her s...o...b..ll. Right in back of her stood his mom, who scolded, "I went to all that trouble to make costumes for you and look what you did!" And then he was out of the stocks and floating alone on an ice floe somewhere in the Arctic. All he had was his burned Christmas cookies. He kept hollering for Laura, and his voice got hoa.r.s.er and weaker. Finally he lay down on the ice floe. "Just let me die."

The words were still on his lips when he woke up. And the bed was empty.

He pulled on socks and jeans, grabbed a T-shirt, and went downstairs, anxious to negotiate a truce. They'd never before gone to bed mad. This had to get fixed.

The kids were in the family room, doing their Sat.u.r.day morning cartoon ritual, and Laura was in the kitchen, on the phone, probably talking to that reporter from the Herald. She glared at him, effectively zapping his desire to make up. She'd thrown him in the deep end of the pool and now she was acting like it was his fault he couldn't swim.

If he stayed here one more minute, he was going to...Okay, time to leave, right now. He stormed out of the kitchen, grabbed his coat and car keys, and went out the door.

It was snowing outside and it looked like it was going to stick, a sure guarantee to bring out all the bad drivers. The way things were going it would be just his luck to run off the road and hit somebody's tree. He got in the minivan. Destination: church.

He drove by the Green on his way and saw there was already a good crowd collecting for the Hollydays arts and crafts fair. It looked like one of the school PTOs had set up a booth to sell Krispy Kreme doughnuts again this year, and they were already doing a brisk business. Couples strolled among the booths, holding hands. Some men were alone, wandering aimlessly like they were lost-obviously the guys who hadn't used Bob's Internet shopper. Thank G.o.d he'd at least done that right, Glen thought. Amy would have her Shopping Babe doll.

The memory of the previous night's debacle jumped on him like a mugger, making him feel almost sick.

Ten minutes later he was at church, in the confessional with Father Thomas. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been two weeks since my last confession."

Glen began to go down the list. "I've taken the Lord's name in vain, I've had impure thoughts. And I wanted to kill my wife."

There was a long silence on the other side of the screen.

Glen suddenly wished he were a Protestant. They didn't have to do this stuff. "Just for a second, though," he rushed on. "I mean, it was one of those thoughts that goes through a guy's head when he's going nuts, just one of those I-could-kill-that-woman kind of thoughts. I wasn't really going to." He wasn't making it better trying to explain. No matter how he said it, it still sounded bad. Anyway, how could you explain to a man who didn't have a wife how insane women could make a guy? Glen gave up. "I can't take it, Father," he said. "This strike is making me crazy. I'm a guy. I'm not wired to do all this woman stuff."

"But you committed yourself to go along with it. You promised to do everything on your wife's list. Isn't that what I read in the paper?"

Whose side was Father Thomas on, anyway? Glen frowned. "Look, Father, I know I shouldn't have had that thought. I love my wife. I really do, and I'm not planning on b.u.mping her off. Just give me my penance, okay?" A million Hail Marys ought to do it. He'd go find a nice, quiet bowling alley to say them and stay away all day.

"Go home and do everything your wife asks you with a smile," Father Thomas instructed him.

Glen almost fell off the seat. "What?"