The Christmas Strike

There was a collective gasp.

“That’s right,” I reiterated. “No tree. No decorations. No cookies. I. Am. On. Strike.”

I crossed the hall, passed through the dining room, went through to the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator, poured cereal into a bowl, added milk, grabbed a spoon and took it into the maid’s room where I sat in my mother’s old rocking chair and dined on Special K and silence.

Except the cereal lasted longer than the silence. Soon the kitchen just outside my door erupted into the noise of six hungry people who weren’t even sure where the butter was kept. I listened to them as I crunched, willing myself not to go to their rescue. One question kept running over and over again in my brain. When a woman finally decides that her time has come, where the hell is she supposed to spend it?

CHAPTER 3

By the second day of my strike I knew I was in trouble. It was going to be impossible to keep from crossing the picket line if I stayed under the same roof as the rest of my family. For one thing, the maid’s room was far from soundproof. I could hear the chaos going on around me as I rocked in my mother’s old rocking chair, trying to talk myself into staying put.

Mealtimes were the worst. I tried to secrete myself in my office before anyone showed up looking for food. But I was forced to be an auditory witness to breakfast for two days in a row now because I’d overslept. It was like listening to a bad sitcom without the picture. I kept wondering why I didn’t just go out there and make them all some damned eggs. Although maybe Natalie got some of her defiance from me because, ultimately, I refused to budge, unpleasant as it was.

My family needed to learn a lesson and I needed—what did I need? Space, certainly. Although the confines of the tiny room weren’t exactly what I had in mind. I needed to not be taken for granted. And, above all, I needed to not be needed for a change. To just be. Peace and quiet. Ah, what a luxury that would be I thought just as the doorbell rang.

I was on strike so I didn’t make a move to answer it.

It kept ringing.

I kept rocking.

Finally, whoever it was started to bang on the front door. Where was everybody? I looked at the alarm clock on the small table next to the bed. It was already after nine in the morning so the kids were probably in school. Nat was probably working an early shift or running to the store for a few more gallons of peanut butter. That still left Jeremy and Gwen. Gwen was undoubtedly up in her room waiting for me to come to my senses and show up with a tray of food and some sympathy. And if Jeremy wasn’t slumped on the sofa, he had his head in the refrigerator. One of them would eventually act, wouldn’t they?

The pounding went on.

“All right, all right,” I yelled. “I’m coming!”

I didn’t run into anyone while I made my way to the front hall. Someone could be upstairs yet I’d never know it because of the racket our visitor was making on the front porch.

I flung the front door open, but when I saw who was standing on the other side of it I wished I’d stayed in the maid’s room where I belonged.

“Where the hell is my daughter-in-law?” Cole Hudson demanded as he swept past me without waiting to be asked in.

“Beats me,” I said, as I waved at Ernie, the cab driver, waiting in the town’s only cab idling at the curb. “Did you ask Ernie to wait?” I asked as I shut the door. “Because he’s the only cab in town and—”

“Good God, how can anyone live somewhere that has only one taxi? And the closest damn airport is two towns away.”

“For some reason, inexplicable as it may seem, Mr. Hudson, Willow Creek doesn’t attract a lot of men who fly their own jets,” I said, then turned to head back to my room.

He stepped in front of me before I made it halfway through the dining room.

“You don’t know where your own daughter is?” he demanded.

I’d forgotten how hard his face could look. All etched lines and sharp angles. He had silver hair that fell to nearly his shoulders and light gray eyes beneath uncannily black eyebrows. He was taller than me, but not by much. He probably stood six feet or so. I could practically look right into those stormy eyes.

“She’s a grown woman, Mr. Hudson. She comes and goes as she pleases. Besides, I’m on strike. I’m no longer responsible for knowing where anyone in this family is.”

His frown grew even deeper. “On strike?” His voice rumbled with incredulity. “I thought you were self-employed.”

“Oh, it’s not my clients I’m striking against. It’s my family.”

His gray eyes shot to the ceiling. “Heaven help me, I’m dealing with another one of the Blake women.” He looked me in the eye. “Tell me, are you all crazy?”

I felt my natural instinct to protect start to rev up but I eased off the pedal. I wasn’t going to get in the middle of this. I was on strike.

“My daughter’s room is upstairs. First door on the right. You might find her there.” I shrugged. “You might not.”

I stepped neatly around him and passed through the dining room and kitchen then went into the maid’s room and shut the door. I heard his footsteps on the stairs and I peered up at the ceiling. I won’t say I wasn’t curious to know what was going on up there. I was. But I wasn’t going to break my strike to find out.

As it turns out, I didn’t have to. Moments later, the door to my room burst open.

“Mother,” Gwen demanded, “how could you let that man come up to my room?”

“I’m on strike,” I reminded her.

She stared at me. “Well, I’m not going back to Chicago and nobody is going to make me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

She stared at me some more. “I mean it.”

“So do I. Now please shut the door on your way out.”

I half expected her to stamp her foot like Scarlett O’Hara. She settled for slamming the door.

I could hear them talking, though the conversation was muffled. They must have gone into the living room. Then there were footsteps running upstairs—probably Gwen’s—and the slamming of another door—probably Gwen’s.

I couldn’t help it. I smiled at the situation. Cole Hudson was an intimidating man but I was pretty sure he’d gotten nowhere with Gwen. This was the girl who had won the title of Miss Willow Creek two years in a row and graduated valedictorian of her class. Riding on floats in parades all over the county and giving a speech before practically the whole town hadn’t even caused a flutter in her toned tummy. Nothing—or no one—ever intimidated Gwen.

The door to my bedroom opened again.

Cole Hudson glared down at me. “So you find this amusing, do you?”

“Ever heard of knocking, Mr. Hudson?”

“Would you have let me in?”

“No.”

“Well, then,” he said, his light gray eyes boring into me, “let’s not play games. I need your help. For some inexplicable reason my son is in love with that woman up there—” he thrust his cleft chin at the ceiling “—and he wants her back.”

“And you think I could help…how?”

“By intervening, of course. By convincing her that the right thing to do is to go back to Chicago.”

“And how do I know that’s the right thing for her to do? She told me she’s unhappy with David.”

His face hardened. “She was happy enough until he had to cancel that blasted cruise!” he bellowed. “She’s acting like a spoiled brat.”