Trading Christmas: When Christmas Comes / The Forgetful Bride

“Mister, you’ve got a goat following you.” Some kid, about five or six, was kind enough to point this out, as if Charles hadn’t been aware of it.

“Go away.” Charles attempted to shoo the goat, but the creature was clearly more interested in its evening meal than in listening to him.

“Oh, sorry.” A teenage boy raced after him and took hold of the goat by the collar. After several embarrassing seconds, the boy managed to get the goat to release Charles’s coat.

Before he drew even more attention, Charles grabbed a cart and galloped down the aisles, throwing in what he needed. He paused to gather up the back of his expensive wool coat, which was damp at the hem and looking decidedly nibbled, then with a sigh dropped it again. As he went on his way, he noticed several shoppers who stopped and stared at him, but he ignored them.

He approached the dairy case. As he reached for a quart of milk a barbershop quartet strolled up to serenade him with Christmas carols. Charles listened politely for all of five seconds, then zoomed into a check-out line.

Was there no escape?

By the time he’d loaded his groceries in the car and returned to Emily’s home, he felt as if he’d completed the Boston marathon. Now he had to make it from the car to the house undetected.

He looked around to see if any of the neighborhood kids were in sight. He was out of luck, because he immediately caught sight of six or seven of the little darlings, building a snowman in the yard directly next to his.

They all gaped at him.

Charles figured he had only a fifty-fifty chance of making it to the house minus an entourage.

“Hello, mister.”

They were already greeting him and he didn’t even have the car door completely open. He pretended not to hear them.

“Want to build a snowman with us?”

“No.” He scooped up as many of the grocery bags as he could carry and headed toward the house.

“Need help with that?” All the kids raced to his vehicle, eager to offer assistance.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“What I want is to be left alone.” Charles didn’t mean to be rude, but all this Christmas stuff had put him on edge.

The children stared up at him, openmouthed, as if no one had ever said that to them in their entire lives. The little girl blinked back tears.

“Oh, all right,” he muttered, surrendering to guilt. He hadn’t intended to be unfriendly—it was just that he’d had about as much of this peace and goodwill business as a man could swallow.

The children gleefully tracked through the house, bringing in his groceries and placing them in the kitchen. They looked pleased when they’d finished. Everyone, that is, except the youngest—Sarah, wasn’t it?

“I think someone tried to eat your coat,” the little girl said.

“A goat did.”

“Must’ve been Clara Belle,” her oldest brother put in. “She’s Ronny’s 4-H project. He said that goat would latch on to anything. I guess he was right.”

Charles grunted agreement and got out his wallet to pay the youngsters.

“You don’t have to pay us,” the boy said. “We were just being neighborly.”

That “neighborly” nonsense again. Charles wanted to argue, but they were out the door before he had a chance to object.

Once Charles had a chance to unpack his groceries and eat, he felt almost human again. He opened the curtains and looked out the window, chuckling at the Kennedy kids’ anatomically correct snowman. He wondered what his mother would’ve said had he used the carrot for anything other than the nose.

It was dark now, and the lights were fast appearing, so Charles shut the curtains again. He considered returning to work. Instead he yawned and decided to take a shower in the downstairs bathroom. He thought he heard something when he got under the spray, but when he listened intently, everything was silent.

Then the sound came again. Troubled now, he turned off the water and yanked a towel from the rack. Wrapping it around his waist, he opened the bathroom door and peered out. He was just about to ask if anyone was there when he heard a female voice.

“Emily? Where are you?” the voice shouted.

Charles gasped and quickly closed the door. He dressed as fast as possible, which was difficult because he was still wet. Zipping up his pants, he stepped out of the bathroom, hair dripping, and came face to face with—Santa Claus.

Both men shouted in alarm.

“Who the hell are you?” Santa cried.

“What are you doing in my house?” Charles demanded.

“Faith!” Santa shouted.

A woman rounded the corner and dashed into the hallway—then stopped dead in her tracks. Her mouth fell open.

“Who are you?” Charles shrieked.

“Faith Kerrigan. What have you done with my friend?”

“If you mean Emily Springer, she’s in Boston.”

“What?” For a moment it looked as if she was about to collapse.

Immediately six elves appeared, all in pointed hats and shoes, crowding the hallway.

Santa and six elves? Charles had taken as much as a Christmas-hating individual could stand. “What the hell is going on here?” he yelled, his patience gone.

“I…I flew in from the Bay area to surprise my friend for Christmas. She didn’t say anything about going to Boston.”

“We traded houses for two weeks.”

“Oh…no.” Faith slouched against the wall.

All six of the elves rushed forward to comfort her. Santa looked like he wanted to punch Charles out.

Charles ran his hand down his face. “Apparently there’s been…a misunderstanding.”

“Apparently,” Faith cried as if that was the understatement of the century.

The doorbell chimed, and when Charles went to answer it, the Kennedy kids rushed past him and over to Faith. Their arms went around her waist and they all started to chatter at once, telling her about Heather not coming home and Emily going to Boston.