On Strike for Christmas by Sheila Roberts Page A

“I’ve got a nose for hot stories.” It was the only thing he had a nose for—he never seemed to notice that his office smelled like male sweat, farts, and old cigars. “And this is hot. It’s so dumb, so battle of the sexes—we are going to sell a lot of papers.”
    â€œSo I guess I can safely assume you liked my idea about doing a whole series, following some of these couples clear through to Christmas?”
    Whit was a large man with white hair, which was getting a little sparse on top. For just a minute, the way he smiled made Rosemary think of Santa contemplating a relaxing, postholiday evening with Mrs. Claus. He rubbed his stubbled chin, then nodded. “Oh, yeah. We’re going to have letters to the editor on this one coming out our ears. Good work, kid,” he added, and picked up a well-chewed, smoking cigar from the ashtray on his desk.
    â€œThanks,” she said. She started to get up, anxious to leave before she began smelling like the inside of a cigar box. Did newspaper editors all belong to some secret society that demanded they smoke those stinky things?
    â€œOh, before you go,” Whit said, “we should talk about the office party. You and Martha got it covered?”
    Rosemary regarded him playfully. “Actually, no.”
    Whit’s eyebrows took a dip, taking away the Santa resemblance. “No?”
    â€œI think, in the spirit of these articles, we’re going to go on strike, too.”
    Now the eyebrows shot up toward Whit’s vanishing hairline. “What?”
    Rosemary shrugged. “It’s not that hard to plan an office party. Call a restaurant, reserve a room.”
    â€œA restaurant won’t have that cake Martha always makes. And who’s going to plan the gift exchange?”
    â€œWhit, there’s nothing to plan. Everybody just brings something stupid all wrapped up like always. You put numbers in a hat and draw. You guys can handle it.”
    Whit was frowning. “You know, it’s all well and good to write about this, but that doesn’t mean you need to join it.”
    â€œI’m not at home. Just here.”
    â€œWell, that’s the dumbest thing I ever heard,” Whit blustered.
    â€œDon’t you think it’s a little sexist to make the women do all the holiday things around here?”
    â€œYou women like that kind of thing.”
    â€œThat’s because we’ve had the pleasure of getting to do it.” She sauntered toward the door. “And this year I think you guys should have a chance to experience that same pleasure.”
    â€œYou’re not forgetting who works for whom around here, are you?”
    Rosemary smiled at him over her shoulder. “Of course not, boss. But party planning is not in my job description.”
    â€œShould be.” He pointed his cigar at her. “I spoiled you. That’s the problem.”
    She just smiled and shut the door on him.
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    Glen’s day at the office had been the pits, with one fire after another to put out. He almost wished he hadn’t taken that new position. Sure, the money was good, and he liked his job. He especially liked the nice, big office that went with it. But he wasn’t sure he liked the headaches that accompanied moving up the old ladder of success. It demanded a lot of mental toughness for a guy to keep his game sharp, and that drained a lot of energy.
    He heaved a sigh of relief as he pulled up in front of his house. Home, sweet home, his two-story Craftsman-style castle with the front porch and the big columns, and the thirty-year mortgage, his sanctuary from the hassles of the office rat race. This was why he went to work every day, so he could return home to Laura and the kids and a good meal and a relaxing evening where the hassles of the office melted off him. The air had a nip to it, which made the thought of relaxing inside his nice, warm house all the more appealing. Unless a guy