On Strike for Christmas by Sheila Roberts

the shelf. That should do it. Oh, but there was Chutes and Ladders. She’d played that with John when he was little. She shied away from the vision of a little boy with a sweet face and strawberry blond curls, instead forcing her mind to stay with the business at hand, and piled that game on top of the other. Look at all these aisles, she thought. So many toys. What else did they have that might tempt her?
    They had plenty, and before she knew it Carol had a teetering pile of goodies in addition to her two board games: a puzzle, a doll, a baseball and mitt, and a kit for growing sea monkeys. Okay, enough already.
    She paid for her treasures, then went to the booth where Corey Carlson and Flo the traffic girl stood exchanging chitchat. The other women had left and the two were alone now.
    The gaze Corey ran over Carol proclaimed him a connoisseur of women. By his age he’d probably had a few, so it was no surprise that he’d look. What surprised Carol was that the look seemed to hold some measure of appreciation.
    â€œHere comes another Santa’s helper,” he said jovially as she stepped up to the booth. “That looks like a pretty generous donation.”
    â€œIt’s for a good cause.”
    â€œYou’re right there.”
    â€œCan we give you a cookie in exchange?” Flo offered.
    Corey Carlson wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Carol took a cookie and wished she could remember how to flirt. She took the wish back instantly. What a disloyal thought!
    â€œHow about a cup of coffee to go with that?” he offered.
    Coffee would keep her up all night, and she hated being awake and alone in the long, dark hours.
    She shook her head. “No, thanks.”
    â€œIt’s Starbucks, only the best for our listeners. You are a listener, aren’t you?” he added with a grin.
    â€œYes, and if you’re fishing for compliments, I’ll be happy to give you one. I love your show.”
    His grin widened. “Glad to hear it.” He leaned his elbows on the counter. “Tell me more.”
    â€œWell, I’ve actually learned a lot about politics. And I like the way you treat your listeners when they call in. You’re not rude like some talk show hosts. I’ve never heard you cut someone off or call anyone a name.”
    â€œI try not to. Have I ever talked to you? What’s your name?”
    â€œCarol.”
    â€œChristmas Carol,” he quipped.
    Was he flirting with her? Yes, that was definitely the smile of a man who was flirting.
    Carol felt suddenly flattered, nervous, and guilty. She realized she was fingering the gold band she had finally transferred to her right hand. “Well, merry Christmas,” she said quickly, and started for the door.
    â€œWhat’s your hurry?” he called after her.
    â€œI have to get home,” she called back. My cat is waiting for dinner.
    She kicked herself all the way to her car. She’d just had an opportunity to rejoin the human race and she’d tossed away the application. She unlocked her car and got in, heart pounding fast. She wasn’t ready yet. Miserable as she was, she just wasn’t ready. Maybe she never would be.
    She flipped down her visor and looked at her reflection. What could that man have possibly seen in her? She looked old, and tired, like a woman who had run a race that turned out to be much too long and hard. She burst into tears. She hated her life, and right now she hated Christmas.

Seven
    On Thursday, December 1, Whit Walters, the editor of the Holly Herald, called Rosemary Charles into his office. “This,” he said, tapping the screen on his computer monitor, “is good stuff.”
    She couldn’t help preening a little. She sashayed over to the old leather chair opposite his desk and slid into it. “I know. I’m brilliant.”
    He ignored the opportunity to agree with her, instead turning back to his copy on the screen and saying,