On Strike for Christmas Read Online Free

she had been positively inspired.
    The next morning Bob came into the kitchen in search of his morning coffee, which he would take with him to his computer.
    Joy was busy frosting minicakes for a party she was catering the following night, and mentally fine-tuning her big announcement.
    â€œI should be done in time for us to go see a matinee later if you want,” he offered.
    â€œMmm,” she said noncommittally.
    Happily unaware of what was about to happen to him, he kissed her on the cheek and disappeared into the bonus room that served as his office.
    She smiled as she piped frosting wreaths on the little cakes. You might not have as much time as you think .
    She finished her decorating, then stored the cakes in the pantry. She checked the kitchen wall clock. Bob had been in his office almost an hour now and would be well into his story. He hated being interrupted when he wrote. Well, Scrooge hadn’t thought he had time for all those ghosts, either. Sometimes, the vital intruded on the important.
    He turned as she entered his office, looking slightly perturbed, and draped an arm over his chair. Except for the frown, he could have been posing for a publicity shot, wearing a turtleneck and jeans, his computer sitting behind him. His face was taking on that aura of maturity men got when they hit middle age. He looked oh so wise, but Mr. Know-it-all still had a lot to learn.
    â€œSomething wrong?” he asked.
    â€œNo, not at all. I just thought I’d better let you know about my new plans for the holidays.”
    His eyes shot heavenward. “Oh, no. What horrible torture have you planned for me now?”
    â€œAbsolutely nothing,” she answered sweetly.
    â€œI know you just said something in another language. How about a translation?”
    â€œI’ve decided I’m going to give you nothing to complain about this year because we’re going to have a very Bob kind of Christmas.”
    Bob’s expression went from perturbed to relieved. And then it got suspicious. He pulled back like a man preparing for a slap in the face. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI mean this is going to be a Bob Humbug holiday. I’m not doing anything.”
    He stared at her like she’d gone completely insane. “What?”
    â€œYou heard me.”
    â€œHearing and understanding are two different things. Joy, you’re not making any sense.”
    â€œOkay, let me clarify. I’m not doing any of it this year. No baking, no shopping, no present wrapping or stocking stuffing, no decorating, no cooking, and certainly no entertaining. You are going to get your wish for a non-Christmas.”
    Bob stared at her, at a loss for words. Bob caught without a clever comeback; now, there was a rare sight. Too bad she hadn’t thought to record this moment for posterity.
    â€œYou can’t do nothing, Joy,” he finally said in a voice that showed he was already weary of the conversation and anxious to get back to his world of dismembered bodies. “In case you’ve forgotten, our son will be coming home in three weeks and he’ll expect Christmas.”
    Bob Junior, whom they still called Bobby, her darling and his father’s pride and joy, was a freshman this year, attending college two states away. He’d expect to see decorations up and old family friends and neighbors coming and going, and, of course, to find several batches of Joy’s Christmas cookies waiting for him when he arrived.
    She had a sudden vision of her son marching out the door, suitcase in hand, calling over his shoulder, “If this is your idea of Christmas, I’m out of here.” Okay, maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
    â€œAlthough if I had my way that’s how it would be,” Bob said.
    There he went again, Mr. Sour Milk, spilling over everything. Well, you are going to get your way, Joy decided. She promised the angry son in her vision that she would make this up to him