"I think that will be penance enough," said Father, and shut the window.

A sleepless night, two cups of coffee, and one good talk with her mother had helped Laura see that she'd been wrong. Of course it wasn't fair to blame Glen for an honest mistake, one she could have fixed by just taking a sneak peak in that bag, and it had been both mean and stupid to keep harping on it. Yes, she'd started this strike because she wanted to prove a point, but she sure hadn't wanted to prove it at her child's expense. And if it hadn't been for Mrs. Green, Amy would have paid the price. Somehow, when Laura went on strike, she'd seen it as really involving only her and Glen. She'd been wrong and that mess the night before was as much her fault as his. No, more. She was a rotten mother, a rotten wife, and a rotten person.

She dumped the morning edition of the Herald with its incriminating picture of Glen and the cop in the garbage-someone would wave it in his face before the weekend was over, but it wasn't going to be her-then left the kids in the family room playing under the blanket tent she'd made them and wandered into the living room to watch by the window for him. While she waited, she studied the tree he'd decorated with them. He hadn't done a half-bad job. In fact, if she were honest, she'd have to admit he'd done a pretty good job of decorating both the tree and the house. He'd done a pretty good job at most everything she'd dumped on him, especially considering the fact that he'd gone into the whole experience completely clueless.

Which, of course, had been her point when they started this. But whose fault was that, really? Who always picked up the slack, making it easy for Glen to do nothing? She'd ask him to help, but then, when he didn't get around to doing it fast enough, she'd just step in and take over. No wonder Glen thought all the parties and dinners he dumped on her were no big deal. She'd made it no big deal for him. And by being his little holiday enabler, she'd stoked the coals of her own aggravation.

She heard a car door shut and looked out the window to see him coming up the walk. She jumped off the couch and rushed to the front door, ready to tell him she was sorry for putting both Amy and him in such a humiliating situation and that the strike was done. She'd had enough. She got to the front hall just as he came in.

He looked at her sheepishly. "Hey, baby."

She rushed him and threw her arms around him. He was such a big goof, the world's biggest kid, really. And she loved him to death. Her throat tightened, and for a minute she couldn't speak.

"I guess this means you're not p.i.s.sed anymore, huh?"

"You big goof," she said tenderly.

He grinned. "So, what am I doing today?"

He was ready for more, after last night? "Doing?" she repeated.

"I've got a lot to make up for. I'm ready."

"Well, I'm not. I think we need to end this."

He frowned down at her. "Hey, I can handle it. Anyway, I need to. I'm under orders."

"What are you talking about? Whose orders?"

"G.o.d's."

"What?"

Glen frowned. "Don't ask."

Oh, boy. He was cracking up. He looked so determined she didn't have the heart to insult him by telling him she didn't think he could cut it. At least there wasn't much left he could mess up, she told herself. Well, except the shopping, the cooking, Christmas morning. It was a lot to risk. "I don't know," she said.

"I can handle it," he insisted, but she noticed he left off his usual c.o.c.ky "piece of cake."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Anything you dish out, I'll eat."

"All right," she said, unable to hide the skepticism in her voice. "You're going to get the full holiday experience." To herself, she added, but from here on, boy, you'll be working with a safety net.

Joy and Carol strolled the Green, visiting the various arts and crafts booths and sipping hot chocolate. Other people pa.s.sed them, bundled into winter clothes. Joy saw a lot of hand-knit scarves, hats, and mittens, testimony to the women of Holly's new fascination with knitting. Multicolored lights festooned the bandstand at the center of the Green, and a bunch of kids were running around it, laughing and throwing s...o...b..a.l.l.s at each other. All the booths were swathed in red and green bunting. The snowflakes drifting down on the whole scene made Joy think of snow globes.

"I think this snow's going to stick around," Carol said.

"I hope not," said Joy. "We're picking Bobby up at the airport later this afternoon, and I hate driving in the snow."

"Won't Bob be driving?"

"Yes, and that's why I hate driving in the snow."

Carol chuckled. "So, are you excited to see your baby?"

"Oh, yes."

"Did you break down and make cookies for him?"

Joy nodded. "I ran over to Laura's and did it while Bob was out running errands. Now there's a tin of gumdrop cookies under Bobby's bed."

Carol just shook her head. "Aren't you ready to give this up yet?"

"Not yet." Although what good it was doing Joy couldn't say. Bob wasn't even fazed and she was on chocolate overload.

They pa.s.sed a booth selling homemade cookies that had a long line of men waiting at it. "I wonder if all those men have wives on strike," Carol mused.

"If they do, it's turning out to be a good thing for the cookie business," Joy said. "And good for a story," she added, watching Rosemary Charles approach one of the men in line. As usual, the reporter had her personal Jimmy Olsen in tow. Of course she'd be here covering the fair, looking for strike stories. Interested to hear what the man would have to say, Joy stole a little closer to eavesdrop.

"Sir, I see you found a creative way around the strike," said Rosemary.

He smiled. "Home-baked cookies and I didn't have to bake them. I like it. Between the Hollydays booths and Bob Robertson's advice, we're sailing through the strike."

"May I quote you on that?" Rosemary asked the man.

"Sure," he said.

Goody, thought Joy, more male propaganda. Why had she bothered? Why had any of them bothered?

"Less people this year," Rick observed to Rosemary.

"The women are on strike and a lot of guys shopped the Internet."

"UShopTillIDrop.com? Interesting site."

"It seems a little impersonal," Rosemary said. "Having somebody pick out the presents for the people you care about. I mean, where's the thought in that?"

"Hey, do you really care as long as you get a cool present?" Rick countered.

"What makes a present cool is the fact that someone picked it out specially for you."

Rick shrugged. "Well, I did eBay, so everybody on my list is getting something special."

"Used," Rosemary said in disgust.

"But special."

"Did you get your white elephant gift for the party tonight on eBay?"

"Oh, yeah," Rick said with a grin.

Rosemary looked suspiciously at him. "Geez, what tacky thing are you bringing this year?"

"You'll just have to wait and see," he said. "But I'll give you a hint. It makes gross noises and all the guys are going to fight over it."

"Lovely." Like the setting for the party. Well, what could a girl expect with the men in charge? Rosemary shook her head. "I don't know where we're going to put the presents, since that sports bar probably won't even have a Christmas tree up."

"We can put 'em on a pool table," Rick said.

"Men," she said in disgust. "You put so much thought into things. I hope somebody learns a lesson from this strike."

"Don't hold your breath," Rick said. "And anyway, talk about tacky, that rotten errand you sent me on at the school program probably rates pretty high on the tack-o-meter."

She made a face at him. "That was not tacky, that was news. And didn't I tell you it would be all right? I wouldn't have made a story out of that screwup if I knew their little girl was going to be embarra.s.sed."

"Okay, all-knowing one. How did you know that Teach was going to come through?"

"Easy. Miss Weis."

"Who the heck is that?"

"My kindergarten teacher. She kept spare clothes on hand in case someone wet their pants or fell in a mud puddle. And then there was Mrs. Sonstroem. She kept string cheese and crackers in case someone forgot their lunch. And Miss Hoyle-"

Rick cut her off. "Okay, okay. I get your point."

"You can always count on teachers. They're always prepared." Rosemary gave his arm a playful poke. "And all good reporters know that."

"I think I'm gonna hurl."

They pa.s.sed a booth peddling hand-beaded jewelry, and Rosemary stopped. One particular necklace using a fat, pink quartz bead as a centerpiece caught her eye and she picked it up. The tag was a little pricey, so she put it back down.

"Everything here is overpriced," Rick said at her elbow.

"You're paying for the artist's time and talent," she told him.

"I guess," he said. "Hey, if we're done I think I'll put my camera away and get some elephant ears. Want one?"

She'd rather have had the pink quartz necklace. She stole a look at Rick. He was standing with his hands shoved in his jacket pocket, his camera dangling from his neck, looking around like he was bored. Mr. Christmas. Whoever ended up with him would wind up just like these other women, frustrated and on strike.

Rosemary suddenly didn't feel all that companionable. "Not right now. I see Kay Carter. I'm going to go talk to her."

"Suit yourself," Rick said and let her go.

As she pa.s.sed a strolling quartet of carolers dressed in d.i.c.kens costumes, she found herself wishing she hadn't committed to going out with Rick on New Year's Eve. He really wasn't her type.

Joy and Bob met their baby at the airport. Bobby was six feet of gorgeous; well muscled, with even features, a strong chin, and heartbreaker blue eyes. His face lit up at the sight of them and he gave them a huge wave. As if they hadn't already spotted him, as if they hadn't both been looking for him since the first pa.s.senger from his flight had disembarked.

"Hey, guys," he said cheerfully, stepping out of line. He hugged Joy, then left an arm draped over her while he gave his father's hand a hearty pumping.

Joy smiled up at her son and thought she'd explode with happiness. This was all any mother needed for Christmas. "You look great," she said. He looked so grown up now. Just one year at college and he'd completed the transformation to manhood. Where was that tiny baby she'd rocked during 2:00 A.M. feedings, the little boy who had climbed trees, skinned knees, and sat in her lap whenever he had the chance? It wasn't a new question and she still didn't have an answer. Life went too fast.

"You've shrunk," he told her.

"No, you've grown." And he looked just like his father had when she first met him, right down to the smile.

"Yeah, another inch. Weird, huh?"

"You're just a chip off your old man, a towering presence," Bob joked.

Bobby looked down at him and grinned. "Whatever."

They started toward the baggage claim. "I have to go to Melia's after dinner," he said to Bob. "Can I borrow the car?"

"It's snowing," Joy protested.

"Don't worry, Mom. I haven't forgotten how to drive in the snow," Bobby a.s.sured her. "Anyway, Melia will kill me if I don't get over and see Sarah."

They weren't even to the house yet and he was already talking about taking off. This was how it was with grown kids. They came home to visit, but the parents were never at the top of the list. Right after dinner it would be just her and Bob and the TV. Ho, ho, ho, humbug Christmas. Yet again she saw a long line of unsatisfying holidays stretching far into her future and sighed inwardly.

The road was crusted with a thick layer of snow as they wove in and out of airport traffic on their way to the freeway. Bob was skating along, following the car in front of him too closely as always.

"We're toast if that car stops suddenly," she warned.

Bob reached over and gave her a condescending pat on the leg. "It'll be okay."

She shook her head. "We'll be roadkill before Christmas."

"Speaking of Christmas, what's going on, Mom?" Bobby asked. "Melia said you're on some kind of strike. You even made the paper over where I am. What's the deal? I don't get it."

Silence fell like a bomb in the car. At last Bob spoke. "Your mom doesn't think I enjoy the holidays enough. She's on strike so I'll see how much I appreciate what I hate."

Not fair, Joy thought. Bob was twisting this into pro-Bob propaganda and as good as asking their son to take sides.

"What does that mean?" Bobby asked.

"It just means your father's taking care of Christmas this year," Joy said, trying to put a smooth facade over the whole holiday mess.

"Dad in charge of Christmas, huh?"

"It should make things interesting," Joy said, trying to keep her voice light.

"Sounds like a reality show or a sitcom to me," Bobby said, sounding disgusted.

"No TV, just a never-ending newspaper story," Bob said.

"That's kind of sick," Bobby said.