Read On Strike for Christmas for Free Online Page B

immature, how very Bob of him! She reached out to adjust the branches.
    â€œHi, hon. How was your meeting?”
    She yanked her hands back. Of course, that was exactly what he wanted. He was goading her, trying to get her to cave.
    She buried the anger, then turned and forced a smile for her husband, who was walking into the room looking very pleased with himself. “Great. I see you got the tree up,” she added sarcastically.
    He gave a faux-modest shrug. “I had a few minutes.”
    It looked more like a few seconds. “I suppose you think this is funny,” she said.
    He played dumb. “What?”
    â€œIs this mess supposed to make me change my mind and rush to the rescue?”
    He opened his eyes wide, the picture of middle-aged innocence. How had she managed to stay married to this man all these years without poisoning him?
    â€œYou know, you’re really being immature about this,” she said.
    â€œMe? Who’s the one who decided out of the blue that she wasn’t going to do anything?”
    â€œNot out of the blue. It’s been building for a long time. This weekend was just the last straw.”
    He looked at her like she was a bratty little kid throwing a tantrum. Maybe she was, and maybe she shouldn’t have snapped. Menopause was doing strange things to her. But his behavior…it was simply inexcusable.
    He came up to her, wearing a reconciliation smile on that John Grisham look-alike face of his and put his arms around her. “Come on, hon. Let’s forgive and forget and have a nice holiday. Okay? If you want, I’ll even hang the outside lights tomorrow.”
    It was tempting. “Well.”
    He kissed her. “This was all ridiculous, and beneath you, anyway.”
    Her frustration over his abysmal, uncaring, antisocial attitude was ridiculous? No. Ridiculous was what he had done to a perfectly good tree.
    She pulled away. “You just don’t get it, do you? Your whole attitude about the things that are most important to me stinks and I’m sick of it. You really don’t care, and this…” She waved her hands wildly. “…mess proves it.” Her voice was rising with each word. She was out of control. It felt good.
    He studied her. “Hon, are you about to have a hot flash?”
    â€œHave all your brains fallen out?” she roared. “What kind of thing is that to say?” This man worked with words. He wrote about complex characters. He was supposed to understand people.
    â€œJoy, this isn’t you speaking. It’s your hormones. Here. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll get you some eggnog.”
    â€œI’ll get my own eggnog, thank you.”
    She left him in the living room with the disaster tree. Let it stay that way, she decided as she yanked the eggnog carton from the fridge. It could stand there all month, a testimony to her husband’s disregard for both the season and his wife. She opened the carton with a savage pull. Let the strike continue.

Three
    Carol tried to cheer herself up by humming holiday songs on her way home. It didn’t work. She had only a five-minute walk from the Stitch In Time, and it just wasn’t enough time for her to lift her sagging spirits.
    Her condo was part of The Green, a charming shopping area at the heart of town that sported housing above boutiques, bakeries, and small businesses. During holidays like the Fourth of July, the annual Halloween Trick or Treat Walk, and the Hollydays Fair, those condos were the place to be. Residents got a bird’s-eye view of the revelers and the concert bands that played in the bandstand down below on the actual green. It was handy to be close to shopping, and there was always something to do, someplace nearby where Carol could go and find people to hang out with.
    Sometimes, the hanging out made her lonelier, though. Her only son, John, had been killed in a car accident when he was sixteen, and two