Glen wound up working late on Friday. Naturally, this had to happen on the day of the big party. Friday night for a party, now there was a winning idea. Laura could have picked a Saturday, but no, she had to pick a night at the end of a long workweek, a night when some people often had to work late. Real considerate. But he had his game plan in place. No problem. He could do this.
His secretary, Kathleen, had poked her head in his office door before abandoning him. “See you later,” she said. “I’d offer to bring something tonight, but Laura says you’ve got it all under control.”
“I do,” Glen assured her. “Piece of cake.” He was running late, but it wouldn’t take that long to swing by the store and get party fixings.
There was nothing to this party stuff. At the Town and Country he grabbed a supply of Hale’s Ale, some Bud, a couple bottles of white wine, a case of pop, and half a dozen bags of various kinds of chips. There. That should do it.
He came home, laden with grocery bags and announced, “Okay, we’re set.”
“Good job, babe,” Laura commended him as he stowed the beer and wine in the fridge. “Hurry up and eat. You’ve got to get the kids in bed and everything set out before the company comes.”
Glen stopped in the middle of emptying a bag and looked at her. “Wait a minute. Why can’t you put the kids to bed?”
“I want to come to the party,” Amy said.
“No, baby, this is a grown-up party,” Laura told her.
“Girls can come to grown-up parties,” Amy suggested.
“Not this one,” Laura said firmly, and hauled Tyler’s hand out of his mashed potatoes. To Glen she said, “I’m not putting the kids to bed because I’m you. You never clean up dinner or put the kids to bed before a party.”
“I sure as hell do.”
“You come and kiss them good night after I’ve given them their bath.”
“And I clear the table,” Glen reminded her. “That’s something.” He wasn’t a total bum.
“Okay,” Laura said. “I’ll clear the table. But I’m not loading the dishwasher.”
“Geez, you’re hard.”
“I’m not hard, I’m on strike. So be glad I’m even clearing the table.”
“And what are you going to be doing while I’m getting the kids in bed and doing the dishes?”
She smiled at him. “Getting ready. I wonder if there’s a game on TV I can watch while I’m waiting for the company.”
“Ha, ha. Hey, go ahead. I can handle this,” Glen said in his double-dog-dare voice.
“I know you can,” she said as she put a pile of plates in the sink. “Well, I think I’ll go take a bath.”
She patted his cheek as she went by. She might as well have said, “Neener, neener, neener.” He almost growled in response.
Look at that cute butt, he thought as she left the room. When it came to bodies, his wife’s was perfect—a nice small package, curved in all the right places, and she had a smile that a man would do anything to win. And what was hidden inside all that great packaging? A real sick puppy who loved to see a guy squirm.
Stay in the game, urged Glen’s inner coach, bringing him back to the moment at hand.
Right. Stay in the game. Keep your eye on the goal. He sprang into action and dished up his dinner from the stove, wolfing it down like he was in some kind of speed-eating contest. A guy shouldn’t have to hurry through his dinner like this. But, if he wanted to get everything done and prove to his wife that he could handle whatever she threw at him, he would. Heck, at this point to prove to Laura that he could handle this holiday stuff, he’d eat ground glass.
“I want to come to the party,” Amy said again, as he put his dish in the sink.
“Yeah, I know, but you’ve got to go to bed.” Glen heaved a heavy sigh. He was really draggin’ his wagon, and right about now, going to bed along with the kids sounded pretty good.
He hurried the kids upstairs and into their jammies. Laura usually gave them a bath before bed, but, hey, a kid didn’t need a bath every night, and especially not this night.
“Okay, guys. Into bed,” he said. “Mommy will come hear you say your prayers.” If she can spare the time in between her bubble bath and painting her nails.
He found Laura in the master bathroom, standing in front of the mirror looking totally hot. She’d put on perfume. Oh, man, it smelled good and it made him think of sex. Perfume and sex went together like milk and Christmas cookies. She was wearing his favorite slinky, black dress and putting on a kick-ass red lipstick. Her hair was all down and sexy. She looked like just what he wanted for Christmas. She set down the lipstick, then pulled a bottle of red nail polish out of one of the drawers and began shaking it. Red, his favorite color.
Glen developed instant amnesia and all his earlier irritation slipped away. He came up behind her and put his arms around her. “Let’s have a quick party of our own before everybody gets here.”
She looked at him in the mirror and gave him a flirty little smile that really raised his hopes, then said, “You have too much to do.” Then she slipped away, saying, “I’m going to go kiss the kids. You’d better hurry up and change.”
“You’re cruel. You know that?” he called after her.
“Yes, I am,” she called back. “Be a good boy and get dressed, and if you’re lucky I’ll chain you to the bed later and get out my whip.”
“You’re already whipping me pretty damned good,” Glen muttered. He climbed into his jeans, then grabbed a polo shirt and ran downstairs to party central.
The kitchen clock assured him he had twenty minutes before the guests came. He heaved a sigh of relief. Good. He was going to make it. He went out to the garage for the big bucket they always put the drinks in. Oh, yeah. Ice. He looked in the spare freezer in the garage for the party ice. Nothing.
He hauled the bucket in and set it on the work island in the kitchen, then went and called upstairs, “Hey, baby, where’s the party ice?”
“You didn’t pick any up?” she called back down.
“Don’t we have any?” Laura always got ice for the parties. Except he was Laura now. Oh, boy.
“Not unless you got some.”
Well, okay. He’d make a quick run to the 7-Eleven and still be back in time. He piled the bags of chips on the island next to the bucket with no ice. The dinner remains were still on the stove and the dirty dishes sat in the sink. Who cared? It made the place look lived in.
He grabbed his car keys, pulled a coat from the closet, and rushed out the door. The clock on the minivan dash told him he had fifteen minutes before the first guests arrived. Laura would come down and see the messy kitchen, see him not there, give him a bad time when he got back. And if so much as one single party guest sneaked in before him, she’d really give him a bad time. “Not gonna happen,” he vowed, and squealed away from the curb.
It had started to snow since he got home, and cars were cautiously tracking along a slippery sheet of white. It didn’t bother Glen, though. He could drive in anything. And right now he needed to drive fast.
The cop got him half a block from the 7-Eleven. Glen swore. Now he’d never make it back in time. He slumped in the front seat, a beaten man.
The officer came up to the window and Glen let it down. “Sir, could I see your license and registration?”
Glen obliged. He hated to think how much this ticket was going to cost. This was turning out to be an expensive party.
“Do you know how fast you were going, sir?” the cop asked.
Sadly, he did. “Too fast.”
“You were doing forty in a thirty-mile zone, and the streets are slippery. Is there some emergency?”
“Party ice.”
“Party ice?” The officer’s polite smile leveled into a straight, narrow line.
“My wife’s on strike for Christmas,” Glen blurted. “I’m doing everything. Last night I burned cookies. I’m in charge of the party tonight. I forgot the ice. Everyone will be there any minute. I’ve got mashed potatoes and green beans on the stove and dishes in the sink and I didn’t give the kids a bath and she’s painting her nails.” Glen took a deep breath. “Just give me the ticket. I deserve it.”
But the cop was now looking at him like he’d confessed to losing his job.
“I’m going to give you a warning this time, sir. But you need to get the lead out of your foot, especially on a night like this.”
“Oh, man, thanks,” Glen breathed. “I really appreciate it.”
The officer nodded. “My wife’s on strike, too.”