The Christmas Strike. Nikki Rivers
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