She had the same response for everyone who asked, and everyone drew his or her own conclusions and dropped the subject.

Except for Joy's sister-in-law, Lonnie. "But what's he doing?"

Joy got busy fussing with a platter of cheese. "I'm not sure. He's working on some kind of surprise."

"A surprise, huh?" Lonnie looked skeptical.

"He'll be here," Joy insisted. But what was taking him so long? She heard a shriek down in the party room that sounded like Melia-probably getting teased by one of her cousins. The party was in full swing and no Bob yet. Joy resisted a sudden urge to grab her cell phone and call him and ask when he was going to get there.

They ate appetizers. Bob didn't show. They ate dinner. Bob still didn't show.

"Maybe he's had a heart attack or something," Melia worried.

"He'd better have at least broken his leg," Lonnie muttered, and put an arm around Joy.

"He'll be here," Joy said. Come on, Bob. Please.

The women cleared the tables, and the holiday cookies and candy made their appearance and still no Bob.

Joy sat at a table, drinking coffee with her sisters-in-law. Lonnie pushed a cookie platter toward her. "Come on, Joy. You can't drink coffee without a cookie to go with it."

Joy was having trouble even drinking the coffee. It landed like acid in her stomach. Maybe something had happened. Maybe he'd gotten in a car accident. Maybe she would just get the cell and give him a quick buzz.

"Well, look who's here," cried Susan, smiling.

Joy turned and saw Bob walking through the doorway, a pile of typed pages in his arms. What on earth?

Al came up to Bob and gave him a friendly slap on the back. "We've got plenty of food left."

"What's that?" called one of the nephews. "Your latest book?"

Bob shook his head. "Nope, it's your entertainment for the night."

Susan left the table and went over for a closer look. "What have you got for us?"

"The first annual Johnson murder mystery," Bob told her, and handed her a few papers. "This is your part."

She took the pages and read, "The Cooking of Joy." She grinned over at Joy. "Ha! I like it."

Others had gathered around him now, and Bob began pa.s.sing out papers.

"Hey," crowed Melia, "I'm Bonita Bon-Bon, the most beautiful woman in Holly."

Al was looking at his. "Big Al Capone?"

Bob shrugged.

"So how does this work?" Al asked.

Joy watched in amazement as Bob explained to everyone what to do. They all had five minutes to find some kind of makeshift costume, then they'd meet again and read through their parts. Everyone had a clue on his or her pages that no one else had. They'd have to pool their clues and use their powers of deduction to find which one of them was the murderer.

With yelps and shrieks everyone scattered, lifting table runners and tree decorations to make their costumes. And Bob stood there in the middle of the chaos, smiling at Joy. Then he said, "Surprise."

And she burst into tears.

Twenty-three.

The house was full of hungry people, and Glen was in the kitchen sweating. He had wrapped the presents that would go home with various guests, using all ten thumbs, but the stuff for Laura and the kids was still on the bed along with a pile of wrapping paper and ribbon, waiting to torture him. Ten minutes ago he'd realized he'd forgotten to get batteries for Tyler's remote control car, and now Scrooge's Ghost of Christmas Future was pointing a bony finger at a vision of Christmas morning and a car that wouldn't run and a crying kid.

Dinner was late, late, late. His mother had offered to help, but Laura had hauled her away, a.s.suring her that Glen had everything under control. Of course, he had nothing under control. He'd managed to burn both the peas and the instant spuds and now the kitchen stank. He had dirty pots and bowls piled in the sink like the leaning tower of Pisa. Meanwhile, everyone was out in the living room yucking it up while he was in here having a nervous breakdown.

His father strolled through the doorway. "Your mother sent me to see how you're doing," Dad said, hooking his hands into his suspenders. Why had his mom sent Dad in here when Dad knew even less than Glen about cooking? That was probably Laura's idea.

"How does it look like I'm doing?" Glen grabbed a potholder and opened the oven to take out the turkey. The pan burned its way through the potholder and he barely got the bird to the stovetop before dropping it with a howl.

His dad shook his head. "You're henpecked."

"Yeah? Well, how come you're in here seeing if I need help instead of Mom?" Glen retorted.

"Because your mother told me to. Looks like you're doing fine, son," his dad added, and left.

"Oh, yeah. I'm doing great," Glen muttered. "I'm in h.e.l.l."

He slopped the burned potatoes into a bowl, then dished up the burned peas. He had no idea where Laura kept that thing she served gravy in, so he left the canned beef gravy in the pan. He knew enough not to put the hot pan on the table, though. He grabbed the useless potholder and stuck it under the thing. Then he wrestled the turkey onto the serving platter and put that out.

"Okay, guys. Dinner," he called.

The hungry horde charged the table. As soon as Glen's dad had said grace, they fell on the food like Vikings home from a busy day of pillaging.

"Good job, son," his dad approved. He looked around the table. "Where's the rolls? Don't we have any?"

"Of course we've got rolls." Glen rushed back into the kitchen and emptied the bag of rolls into another bowl. He returned and set the bowl in front of his dad.

His mom eyed them critically. "Those don't look like my recipe."

"They're the house special," Glen replied, and couldn't help wondering if Laura had put her up to saying that. Was he really supposed to have made dinner rolls on top of everything else?

He remembered Laura complaining at Thanksgiving about having to make his mom's rolls. At the time he hadn't understood why she'd been complaining. He sure got it now. Laura was right. If Mom wanted her homemade rolls at a family dinner she could make the d.a.m.n things herself.

His father was attempting to saw into the turkey but not having much luck. "Something's wrong with this bird."

There was nothing wrong with the turkey. Couldn't be. "It's fine, Dad. Just cut it."

"I can't."

Exasperated, Glen got up from his seat and took the carving knife and fork from his father. He almost bent the fork trying to put it in. "What the h.e.l.l?"

"Oh, my G.o.d," said his brother Chuck. "The thing's still frozen on the inside."

"It's been cooking for two and a half hours," Glen said. "How can that be?"

"A turkey takes longer than that. Did you thaw it first?" asked his mother.

"Did you take out the neck and giblets?" asked Laura.

"Um," said Glen.

His cousin Frank burst out laughing, and some of the women giggled.

"I hope you got the rest of Christmas under better control than this," Frank said.

"It's covered," Glen said between clenched teeth.

"He did all the shopping today," Laura added.

"Did you remember to get batteries?" asked Frank's wife.

Tyler chose that moment to spit out his potatoes.

"I don't want my peas," Amy said. "They taste icky."

"That's okay, kid, so does everything else," joked Frank.

Now everyone at the table was staring at Glen, like they expected him to wave a magic wand and fix it all. But he didn't have a clue how to do that and he was too tired to look for one. He'd been going nonstop all month, and he'd used up his last ounce of mental strength getting ready for tonight. Game over.

He threw up his hands. "I can't do this. This is woman stuff."

"It's hard for one person to do alone without any help, isn't it?" Laura said.

Glen fell down on his knees next to her chair. "Make it stop, baby. Please, I give. You win."

She looked down at him, a funny expression on her face. "It was never about winning, you big doof. I just wanted you to understand."

"I understand now," Glen said. He almost added, "Please, G.o.d. I want to live again."

"So, from now on, when you get inspired to invite half the world over, will you help me?"

"Yes, yes," Glen said.

"Really help? No just putting a leaf in the table then going to watch the game."

"No, never."

"Because I'm not doing this all on my own anymore and letting you wiggle out of helping."

Glen crossed his heart. "No more wiggling."

She smiled down at him. "You promise? We have witnesses, you know."

"Teamwork," Glen promised.

"Oh, that's so sweet," murmured Laura's mother as Laura rewarded Glen with a kiss.

"Henpecked," muttered his dad.

"Leonard, be quiet," said his mom.

"That was all real touching," Chuck said, "but what about the turkey? And the peas and spuds are burned. I hate to say it, bro, but this dinner sucks. This is like prison food or something."

"I don't think cooking is your thing, Glen," one of the women said diplomatically.

Laura got up and picked up the platter with the bad-news turkey. "Don't worry, guys. Mom, Edna, you want to help me?"

Glen's mother and mother-in-law each scooped up bowls of disaster food, and followed Laura out of the dining room. A couple of minutes later they returned, bearing a platter of cold, sliced ham, a big bowl of potato salad, a molded Jell-O fruit salad, and Mom's dinner rolls.

"Plan B," Laura told Glen and kissed the top of his head. "We had it hidden in the extra fridge in the garage for just in case. And we've got Mom's Christmas cookies for dessert. I just couldn't let you keep working without a net, not when you've been trying so hard. It wasn't fair."

Glen sighed in relief. "Thanks, babe."

"Well, it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas," his dad cracked.

"Yeah, but you still need batteries," teased Frank. Maybe Frank wouldn't get invited back next year.

"Don't worry. I bought some," Laura said.

"She saved your bacon," Frank told Glen. Frank was definitely not getting invited back next year.

The turkey and all its tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs had been consumed, and Carol's old-fashioned figgy pudding had been a hit. Even little Chloe had liked it, licking the sauce from her bowl. Now they all sat in the living room, which was scented by bayberry candles and decorated with a small ceramic tree on the coffee table, watching the gas flames dance over the fake logs in the fireplace and listening to a CD of Christmas music.

Carol looked at Chloe, cuddled in her mother's lap and fighting the heaviness settling on her eyelids. They'd probably be moving in another year. Would she ever see or hear from them again? Maybe not, but that was okay. Maybe it was all right to risk letting people into your life, even if they drifted on out, because the time they were there was so special.

"This sure beats that turkey potpie I had in the freezer," Darren said from his spot on the couch. The way he smiled at Carol told her he wasn't planning on drifting off any time soon.

She wasn't sure how she felt about that. One thing she was sure of, it was nice to have someone here with her right now. She smiled at him and said, "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

She looked back at the fire. Funny, the images you could see in a blazing fire. For a minute there the flames moved in a way that looked like two people dancing.

Rosemary Charles stood at the door of Rick's apartment, stamping snow off her feet and waiting for him to answer the doorbell. She pressed it again. What was taking him so long answer, anyway? It wasn't like he wasn't expecting her. He'd asked her to stop by on her way to her parents', insisting that he had something important she needed to see. What she needed to see at Rick's Scrooge-in-residence place she couldn't imagine, but she was curious enough to let him lure her over for some hot b.u.t.tered rum.

She suddenly heard strains of "Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer" coming from inside the house. And then Rick opened the door. He was wearing a Santa hat.