Read Online On Strike for Christmas by Sheila Roberts - Free Book Online

soon.
    â€œI’m Rosemary Charles,” said the young woman. “This is Rick Daniels, our photographer. Thanks for agreeing to see us.”
    â€œNo problem,” Joy said. She stepped aside and motioned them in.
    They came into the front hall of Joy’s Victorian, and their presence seemed to fill the house. What should she do now? She’d never entertained the media before.
    â€œWould you like some coffee?” she asked as she hung their coats on the oak coat tree. Everything went better with coffee. Too bad she didn’t have any home-baked cookies to offer them.
    The photographer looked hopeful, but Rosemary Charles shook her head. “No, we’re fine. But thanks.”
    â€œWell, come on into the living room,” Joy said.
    That might have been a mistake. “Whoa,” said the photographer, gawking at her tree.
    Rosemary Charles stopped short at the sight it. “I see you’ve already got your tree up,” she said diplomatically.
    Joy felt herself blushing. The tree looked worse than any Charlie Brown tree. It was an embarrassment to treehood. “My husband did it.” She sounded like a tattletale. Great way to start an interview.
    Rosemary perched on the edge of Joy’s sofa and whipped out a small tablet. “So, you’re on strike and he’s doing everything?”
    â€œSomething like that,” Joy said.
    â€œAnd how did this come about?” Rosemary Charles wanted to know.
    Joy looked at the tree and squirmed. There it stood, the symbol of her and Bob on display for the whole world to see, everything connected but not quite right. “Are you sure I can’t get you something to drink?” She could sure use a drink, preferably one that was spiked.
    â€œOh, no. We’re fine,” said Rosemary Charles. She sat watching Joy, pen poised.
    Joy cleared her throat. “Well, my friends and I got talking about how women do most of the work to make the holidays happen.” So far so good, but now she wasn’t sure what to say next.
    Rosemary Charles nodded encouragingly as she wrote.
    Joy eased further into the conversation, like a nervous ice skater entering the rink. “And sometimes the men in our lives don’t really appreciate what we do. They don’t see the importance of it. They just sort of take it all for granted. They take us for granted.” She stopped her sentence, but in her head, she was on a roll. They think it’s a waste of time and they don’t want to be bothered, which translates into not wanting to be bothered with us. They don’t value what we value. They complain or belittle it. They don’t care, and that translates into not caring about us.
    That was it in a nutshell, she realized. Bob didn’t care enough to really make an effort for her. Oh, he came to the annual family holiday gatherings, but just once she’d like him to make an effort and really be there, participate instead of sitting on the outside looking in with an impatient frown.
    â€œYour husband, he’s Bob Robertson the mystery writer, right?” asked Rosemary Charles.
    Joy nodded. Here was the part Bob had dreaded. For just a moment she couldn’t help wondering if publicly pillorying him was going to make him any fonder of the holiday festivities.
    â€œAnd what does he think of this?”
    Now Joy was really stumped. Part of her wanted to blurt, “He’s a Grinch. What do you think he thinks?” But she didn’t. Bob could be a turkey this time of year, but he was her turkey and she didn’t want to roast him too badly. “I guess you’d have to ask him.”
    That response might have been a mistake. Rosemary Charles suddenly looked like a puppy that had been promised an entire bag of doggy treats. “Is he home? Can we talk to him?”
    As if on cue, Bob came sauntering into the living room. How convenient. He had to have been lurking just down the hall,