The Christmas Strike

She cocked her hip. “What the hell has gotten into you?”

“That’s another thing. Will you please watch your mouth? You gripe if anyone else uses bad language in front of the kids but you’re the worst of all.”

Gwen, wearing yet another expensive nightgown and robe ensemble, snickered from the sofa.

I swung around to face her. “And you. You’re a grown woman. Isn’t it time you got dressed and started doing something around here, too? Like maybe, for instance, making dinner?”

From the look on her face you’d think I’d asked her to sign up for boot camp.

Nat gave a short laugh. “Princess Gwen doesn’t cook, Ma. She orders.”

“Then what about you? You can’t make a damn box of macaroni and cheese for your kids?”

As if they’d been cued from offstage, the kids came running through the living room again.

“Grandma! When can we get a Christmas tree?”

“Do you know where my skates are?”

“Can I have a sleepover this weekend?”

“Aren’t you going to put stuff up outside this year, Grandma?”

“You know what,” I said as I eyed the other adults in the room, “I think you’d better start asking your parents those questions—or Auntie Gwen—because as of right now, Grandma is on strike.”

“What?” Both Nat and Gwen asked in unison.

“I am going on strike,” I enunciated clearly. It wasn’t something I’d planned to say. But while my blood boiled, the story Mike had told us on Friday at the diner bubbled up with it. If a man could go on strike against his wife for lack of affection, why couldn’t a woman go on strike against her family for lack of cooperation? “As of this moment, all of you are on your own. For meals. For laundry. For Christmas.”

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.”

That brought me to my feet. His assessment fit how Gwen was acting as well as the expensive clothes she wore. But no one was going to get away with calling my daughter a spoiled brat. Except for me, of course.

“Mr. Hudson, if my daughter says she’s unhappy, then she’s unhappy. And I am not about to do anything that would result in her making the choice to go back to a man that she’s unhappy with.”

He scowled and started to pace—unsatisfactorily, I’m sure, given the length of the room. As it was, the energy of his anger only seemed to make the room smaller. I was feeling slightly claustrophobic.

“Do you have any idea what David is dealing with in Chicago?” he demanded. “He’s in the middle of the biggest project of his career so far and it’s in crisis. There are dozens of men whose jobs depend on the decisions he makes right now. He doesn’t have time for this foolishness.”

“Then why is he calling here seven times a day?”

He stopped his pacing and glared at me again. “Because my son is foolish in the ways of romance, like a lot of men of his generation.”

“You’re calling your son a fool?”

“When it comes to love, yes. Obviously he doesn’t use his head.”

“For love, Mr. Hudson, some of us use our hearts.”

He made an angry sound of dismissal. “Spare me, please.”

We were obviously getting nowhere. “Look,” I told him, “even if I wanted to help you, I couldn’t. Because I’m on—”

“Strike,” he finished for me with a click of his large white teeth. “I see that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

I could feel the heat rise on my cheeks. Oh, I wanted to give him a piece of my mind, all right. Instead, I returned to the rocking chair and started, once again, to rock. I was pretty sure that Cole Hudson wasn’t used to being ignored. And I was right.

“Damn it! You’re even more infuriating to deal with than your daughter is,” he proclaimed before stalking off and shutting the door behind him with a resounding thunk.

I heard his purposeful steps upstairs followed by the not-so-muffled voice of Gwen suggesting he go back to Chicago and tell David to come himself if he wanted her back so badly.

Back to Chicago. The phrase rang in my head with the echo of a bell.

Chicago.

Why not? Chicago, I told myself, would be a great place to carry out my strike. I didn’t have a lot of money to spend on myself, but I had enough room left on my emergency credit card for a few nights in a reasonably priced hotel and transportation would be free, courtesy of Cole Hudson—even if he didn’t know it yet.

I scurried out to the hall closet, trying to ignore what was going on upstairs. It sounded like Gwen was winning. I grabbed my suitcase and quietly hurried back to the maid’s room. I threw the suitcase on the bed and started to fill it. My choice of clothing wasn’t much since most of my wardrobe, what there was of it, was still upstairs. I threw in jeans, T-shirts, a couple of sweaters, some plaid flannel pajamas with matching robe. I’d be walking around Chicago by myself for a few days. What did it matter what I wore? Maybe I’d see a matinee performance of a play, have a massage, order some room service. A few days of solitude. A few days of not being needed. A few days to just be Abby again.

Okay, Abby in sneakers, but I wasn’t going to risk going to my bedroom to get anything and giving Gwen a chance to talk me out of what I was going to do. I’d simply jump into Cole’s taxi with him and off I’d go—traveling light and not very far, but traveling, nonetheless.

I had finished packing and was scribbling a note, telling my family I’d be spending the rest of my strike in Chicago, when I heard the front door slam. I grabbed my parka, purse and suitcase, but by the time I got out to the front porch all I could see of Cole Hudson was the tail end of Ernie’s taxi.

I looked at the house. No. I couldn’t go back in. Now was the time. And the opportunity was here, it had just gotten a little bit of a head start, that was all. I didn’t see Jeremy’s truck anywhere, meaning only Gwen was in the house. I’d have to make a run for the garage. I was afraid that all anyone would have to do was to try to talk me out of it. I was sure I’d cave like a soufflé after someone slammed the oven door.

Suitcase in hand, I hotfooted it from the house, thankful now that I hadn’t much to pack. I winced when I pushed the button to open the old wooden garage door. It had always been loud. Now it seemed as if it screamed. I tossed my suitcase into the station wagon, then eased the door shut. I knew Gwen would hear as soon as I started the car. Face it, the wagon’s muffler had been damaged goods for a while now. But I figured that once I was down the short driveway, I was as good as gone.

I can’t even explain what it felt like as I drove away from the house and headed in the same direction Cole’s taxi had taken. I grinned. Yes, I could, I thought. It feels like I’ve escaped.

I tamped down the guilt at the same time I pressed harder on the gas pedal. There was no way Cole Hudson was taking off in his plane without me.

I averaged ten miles over the speed limit but even so, as I pulled into the small airport, Ernie was already pulling out. I rolled down my window and waved him to a stop.

“Which plane is Hudson’s?” I asked.

“That one,” he pointed. “Over there.”

I followed his outstretched finger. The plane was sleek and white, accented with black-and-silver stripes. As elegant as its owner—and just as powerful looking.

“Thanks, Ernie,” I yelled, not taking my eyes off of the plane.

Was I really going to do this?

Yes, I was, my heartbeat answered.

I parked, got out of the car, grabbed my suitcase and started to run. For the first time I appreciated the Louis Vuitton pilot’s case that Gwen had given me years ago when Jo, Iris and I had started planning our trip to Europe. Its wheels had no problem at all keeping up with me. I was running into the wind and yesterday’s snowfall was blowing around hard enough to sting my face. But I felt alive. Freedom was ringing! And, okay, it wasn’t Rome or Paris. It was Chicago. The point was, it wasn’t Willow Creek. I was making a symbolic stand—and not just for myself. For all of us—Iris, Jo and me. I’d go to one of the best restaurants that would let me in wearing jeans and sneakers and toast the others just like we’d always promised we would if one of us ever left again.

Too bad I’d have to put up with Cole Hudson’s company to do it. But Chicago was only about thirty minutes away by air. And a man like Cole Hudson was sure to have a driver waiting for him at the airport so I’d get a free ride into the city, too.

He hadn’t started the engines yet when I reached the plane. He hadn’t even taken up the stairs or shut the door. My luck was holding.

“Anyone home?” I yelled.

“Good God! What are you doing here?”

I spun around to find him coming toward me, his leather flight jacket plastered to his chest by the wind, his long silver hair streaming back from his rock hard face. I ran to meet him.

“I came to hitch a ride,” I said with all the confidence and pluck I could muster. Surely, he wouldn’t turn down pluck. And confidence he’d respect.

“Sorry, Ms. Blake. I don’t take on hitchhikers.”

I gave him my most winning smile. The pluck was fairly oozing out of me. “Come on. I need to get out of here. You’re leaving. It’s serendipity.”

“Forget it,” he grumbled as he kept walking.

I hurried to keep pace. “I’ll sit in the back and be really, really quiet,” I yelled over the wind.

“No!” he yelled back.

“Oh, stop being so argumentative. All I’m asking is to fly along with you. You’re going to Chicago anyway. You’re using the fuel. You’re depreciating the plane—or whatever it is planes do. You might as well have a passenger on board. In fact, it’s practically your patriotic duty to have a passenger on board.”

He stopped walking and turned to stare at me, those dark brows lowered over his gray eyes. I was pretty sure he was going to say no again, so I kept talking. “Just one way, that’s all you have to take me. And then I’ll be out of your hair and won’t bother you again.”

Finally, he spoke. “One way, you say?”

I nodded with the energy of one of those bobble-headed dogs in the back windows of cars. “I’ll worry about how to get back once I get there. Just take me with you—please.”

Was that a gleam I saw in his eye? Was he going to change his mind? I thought for a moment that he might even smile.

“All right,” he said. “As long as the deal is for one way only.”

“Well, you’re not likely to be flying into Willow Creek again anytime soon, are you?”

“Heaven forbid,” he grumbled.

“Then you’ll take me with you?”

He stood back and held out his arm toward the stairs. “After you,” he said.

The cockpit was to the right. It looked complicated and technical and interesting. I’d never known anyone who could fly a plane before. I started for the cockpit, fully intending to experience whatever I could.

“Turn left,” Cole Hudson ordered from behind me.

I was flooded with disappointment. “There are two seats up there and—”

“Ms. Blake, I agreed to take you with me. I didn’t agree to be your traveling companion. I prefer to fly solo and you did promise to sit in the back and be silent.”

“Fine,” I said shortly. “I’m sure it’ll be more pleasant that way, anyway.”

“Wise choice. Now sit down and strap yourself in. I’m behind schedule already.”

There were four chairs covered in black leather and a black leather sofa with small round tables at their sides. All were bolted to the floor. It was practically a flying living room. I sat down on one of the chairs. Nothing like flying business class, let me tell you. I sank into glove-like leather and discovered that the seat swiveled a full three hundred and sixty degrees. While I twirled, I noticed what looked like a small wet bar between the cockpit and the cabin. I hopped out of my seat to investigate. By the time I got there, Cole was blocking my way. His jacket smelled like worn, expensive leather.

“I thought I told you to buckle in,” he boomed.

“You haven’t even turned this thing on yet,” I pointed out. “I was just snooping. Looking for something to drink.”

His frown deepened. “This isn’t silence, Ms. Blake.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Look, you spoke to me first. I was merely being polite. Frankly, I’m also thirsty.”

He stepped aside. “Help yourself, by all means. Then kindly buckle in.”

I opened my mouth to say something and he put his finger to his lips.

“Shh.”

“Grouch,” I muttered to his back as he returned to the cockpit.

I opened the little refrigerator and found, among other things, small bottles of champagne. I grinned. Might as well start toasting the other members of the Prisoners of Willow Creek Enrichment Society in flight. After all, I was pretty sure that I was the first of us to ever fly in a private jet.

“Would you mind taking your seat back there,” Cole growled from the cockpit.

I quickly grabbed a bottle of champagne, located a crystal flute in a cabinet above the refrigerator then hightailed it back to my seat, strapping myself in for takeoff.

I could hear the crackle of the plane’s radio and the rumble of Cole’s voice, but not what he was saying. It was so unfair that I had to sit here, away from the action. It was akin to wasting the experience. Maybe after we were airborne and Cole was busy flying the plane I could sneak into the cockpit and grab the second seat before he noticed.

Finally, he started the engines. The louder they got, the harder my heart pumped. It was excitement, not fear. I had no way of knowing, but my guess was that Cole Hudson was an excellent pilot. He didn’t get to be a famous architect by being the kind of man who settled for mediocre in anything.

I swiveled my seat around as we started to taxi down the runway. “Goodbye, Willow Creek,” I whispered as we moved faster and faster. Then suddenly the plane gave a slight jerk and we were up and climbing.

And climbing.

It seemed to go on forever. I tried to relax and not white-knuckle the armrests. Breathe, I told myself. Every journey has to have a takeoff. When I felt calm enough to look out the window, it was as if we were traveling through cotton candy. Then the view cleared to a gorgeous blue and I was staring down on a floor of fluffy clouds.

Eventually, we leveled off. I popped the cork from the champagne bottle and filled the flute to the brim.

“To Jo and Iris,” I whispered, as I raised my glass. Maybe I was escaping for only a short while, but I was doing it on a private jet while drinking the most expensive thing I’d ever tasted. I drained my glass and poured myself another.

I woke up with a jolt. It took a few seconds for me to get my bearings. Oh, right. Private plane flown by famous architect. I scanned the view. We were descending. I must have slept all the way to Chicago. I stretched and grinned as I swiveled my chair full circle. So far, no signs of the city.

In fact, there wasn’t a sign of much of anything at all. And why was it so dark? We’d only been flying for thirty minutes, hadn’t we?

I could see a control tower ahead but unless we were a lot higher than I thought we were, it didn’t look very tall or imposing. And the runways, outlined by blue lights, didn’t look very long. Still, the control tower seemed to be the tallest thing around. Everything, including the terminal, looked flat and low—and dark. We couldn’t possibly be landing anywhere in Illinois. Where were the golden arches? The billboards? The neon of a gazillion franchises that lined every airport I’d ever seen?

With one final, gentle bounce, the plane landed. I unbuckled my seat belt and worked my way up to the front while the plane was still taxiing in.

I practically fell into the cockpit. “Where are we?”

Cole Hudson jerked his head around. “You should still be seated,” he said curtly.

He gave me a look of annoyance when I bumped his knee as I struggled to land in the copilot’s seat.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said before setting his mouth in a grim line.

“I know. But I’d like to see where I’m going, if you don’t mind. This doesn’t look like Chicago. Why is it so dark? How long have I been sleeping?”

“I’d say you’ve been sleeping for at least three hours.”

“Three hours! Where are we?”

The grim line of his mouth morphed into a small smile. “Welcome to Goose Bay, Labrador, Ms. Blake.”

I gasped. “Labrador? As in Canada?”

He glanced my way. “Someone did well in geography.”

“What are we doing here?”

“Refueling.”

Okay, refueling. That made sense. Sort of. “And then are you flying back to Chicago?” I asked hopefully.