Loe raamatut: «The Christmas Children»
“I’m sorry I made you remember.”
“Maybe it’s just as well for me to remember. As long as the past festers in my heart, I’m not the kind of person God wants me to be. And the longer we work toward bringing Christmas to Yuletide, the more it makes me realize that I’ve not honored God by the way I’ve lived. My only concern has been Paul Spencer and no one else.”
“I understand what you mean. Helping with the celebration and looking after the children has caused me to look at my own spiritual needs,” said Carissa.
“We’ve been getting along pretty well the past three weeks, so let’s forget our past problems and concentrate on finding Christmas—the way we’d planned. I believe we’ll find it by caring for the children and bring Christmas to Yuletide.”
Paul reached ut a hand to her, and with only slight hesitation, Carissa took it.
IRENE BRAND
Writing has been a lifelong interest of this author, who says that she started her first novel when she was eleven years old and hasn’t finished it yet. However, since 1984, she’s published twenty-four contemporary and historical novels and three nonfiction titles. She started writing professionally in 1977, after she completed her master’s degree in history at Marshall University. Irene taught in secondary public schools for twenty-three years, but retired in 1989 to devote herself to writing.
Consistent involvement in the activities of her local church has been a source of inspiration for Irene’s work. Traveling with her husband, Rod, to all fifty states of the United States, and to thirty-two foreign countries has also inspired her writing. Irene is grateful to the many readers who have written to say that her inspiring stories and compelling portrayals of characters with strong faith have made a positive impression on their lives. You can write to her at P.O. Box 2770, Southside, WV 25187 or visit her Web site at www.irenebrand.com.
The Christmas Children
Irene Brand
For God so loved the world, that He gave His only
begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him
should not perish, but have everlasting life.
—John 3:16
To our friends, Rodney and Karen Dill,
who by example have given a new meaning
to the term “adoptive parents.”
Dear Reader,
I’m writing this letter in mid-December, and the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. Since this book has a Christmas theme, and since my hero and heroine take on the role of caring for three orphaned children, it seems fitting to consider the role of Joseph and Mary in the incarnation of Jesus.
Mary willingly submitted when God chose her to be the instrument to fulfill His promise to Israel and to the rest of the world. She set aside her own plans and rejoiced, even though this acceptance might have led to alienation and shame. Joseph also responded with faith and understanding to God’s plan. It must have been disturbing news to him that Mary was going to bear a child, and Joseph also ran the risk of being ridiculed by his peers, but he nevertheless accepted the message from the angel as God’s will.
Like Mary and Joseph, the main characters in The Christmas Children, Carissa and Paul, had to make drastic changes in their lives to provide for the children who came to them during the Christmas season. It took faith and dedication, for as with Mary and Joseph, the “when and how” was not laid out for them. When they accepted God’s will, they stepped out on faith that what God had initiated, He would bring to completion.
Often God calls us to a particular commitment. Our response to that message may bring with it joy or sorrow, but how blessed we are when we accept that plan that God has for our lives, not just at Christmas, but throughout each day of the year.
May God bless you.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Darkness had fallen when Carissa Whitmore drove into Yuletide, New York, and parked her SUV in front of a fast-food restaurant. At first, she couldn’t understand why she felt so let down, until she recalled her reason for being there. She’d come to this lakeside village to find the kind of holiday spirit she’d enjoyed as a child, but she couldn’t see any indication of Christmas.
Carissa had anticipated a village ablaze with Christmas lights, nativity scenes and decorated trees, but except for the streetlights sparkling on the gentle snowfall as it filtered among the evergreen trees, the town was dark and uninviting. Stifling her disappointment, she entered the restaurant, sat at the counter to order a sandwich and a cup of tea. When she finished the meal, Carissa asked the waitress for directions to the police station.
The woman answered Carissa’s question, then asked, “Are you the one who’s moving into Naomi Townsend’s house for the winter?”
Carissa smothered a laugh, but her blue eyes sparkled with mirth. She’d lived in a metropolitan area since leaving Minnesota twenty-five years ago. Carissa had forgotten how little privacy a person had in a small town.
“Yes, I am,” she said. “I’m supposed to pick up the key from the chief of police.”
The woman peered over the counter and nodded approvingly when she saw that Carissa wore boots. “I see you know how to dress for winter. It’s only two blocks to the police station, but the streets are kinda slippery. It’ll be safer if you leave your car parked here and walk, ’specially since you’re from down South and maybe don’t know how to drive on snow.”
Carissa laughingly admitted that she had no experience with treacherous roads. When she lived in Minnesota, she couldn’t afford a car.
She zipped up her heavy coat and stepped out into the chill air. The business section of Yuletide was located on the southern tip of Lake Mohawk—a small lake that measured four miles from north to south. Many vacation and permanent residences dotted the lakefront and extended into the wooded highlands.
Although Yuletide lacked Christmas ornamentation, it was a picturesque alpine village of small shops and businesses. Carissa looked forward to exploring the stores at her leisure, but she didn’t dawdle tonight; the wind from the lake was penetrating her heavy parka. She gave herself a mental pat on the back for being wise enough to shop at a mall in Pennsylvania on her way north. Her Florida clothing wouldn’t have been warm enough for Adirondack weather.
Warmth from a wood-burning stove welcomed Carissa when she entered the police station. The chief of police, a short sturdy man, sat behind a massive oak desk that dwarfed him.
“Hiya!” the chief greeted her. “I’m Justin Townsend. Mary, at the restaurant, called and said you’d arrived. We’ve been expecting you, but figured the snow had delayed you.”
Carissa unzipped the front of her parka and shrugged out of the hood, revealing a head of short, curly blond hair.
“The highways were clear until a few miles south of Saratoga Springs. After that, I had to maneuver my way out of a dozen or more snowdrifts. I’d have stopped, but I didn’t see any motels after the snow got so heavy.”
Chief Townsend stood and reached across the desk to shake hands. “Welcome to Yuletide.”
He took a ring of keys out of a desk drawer and handed them to Carissa. “Naomi’s my sister-in-law. Sorry you missed her, but she left for Florida three days ago. She’d intended to show you around before she had to leave.”
“I was delayed at the last minute, and Naomi already had prepaid airline reservations, so I insisted that she go ahead. I called her on my cell phone this morning. She’s already in Tampa enjoying the view of Tampa Bay from my eighth-floor condo. When I called, she was sitting on the balcony drinking a cup of coffee.”
A grin spread across the chief’s broad face. “Well, you won’t be drinking coffee on her balcony in the morning.”
Justin gave Carissa directions to his sister-in-law’s home. “If you want to wait a while, I can drive out with you. My deputy will be back in a half hour.”
“Oh, you don’t need to do that, unless the house is hard to find.”
“It’s along the main road, but it’s getting dark. I thought you might be a little skittish about going into a strange house and all.”
Carissa’s even teeth gleamed in a wide smile. “I’ve lived alone for more than twenty years, so I’m not afraid of an empty house.”
“No need to be,” he assured her. “Yuletide is noted for its low crime rate.” He beamed expansively. “I keep it that way. Remember, Naomi’s house is the first two-story log house on your left, a mile north of town. There’s a security light in the yard. We have someone in the station ’round the clock, so call if you need help finding the place. Drive carefully.”
Before Carissa reached the sidewalk, Chief Townsend stuck his head out the door. “Naomi turned the temperature down. The house might be a little cool, but it’ll warm up in a hurry when you raise the thermostat.”
Carissa waved her hand to indicate she’d heard him and hustled to her vehicle.
The drive along a narrow road, bordered by snow-covered evergreen trees, reminded Carissa of her childhood in Minnesota. And a wide smile spread across her face as she pulled up to the chalet she was to occupy for the next few months. The storybook setting was exactly what she’d been expecting.
Carissa had never met Naomi Townsend, but Betty Potter, a saleswoman for Cara’s Fashions—Carissa’s designing business—had called upon Naomi often. One weekend when Betty had been stranded in New York, Naomi had invited Betty to stay with her in this lakeside home. It was Betty who’d brought Naomi and Carissa together, when she’d learned that both of them wanted to spend the winter away from home.
The dusk-to-dawn pole light illuminated the two-story chalet with a soft glow. A porch, with waist-high banisters, hugged the house protectively, and a set of snow-covered steps led to the front door. Drifts blanketed the roof, and the evergreens in the yard bowed low under their accumulation of snow.
A sliver of moon hovered over the Townsend house, and Carissa remembered a portion of one of Whittier’s poems: “The moon above the eastern wood shone at its full; the hill-range stood transfigured in the silver flood, its blown snows flashing cold and keen.”
When she’d unwillingly memorized those words in an elementary school in Minnesota, Carissa hadn’t suspected that she would ever find her way out of her dismal circumstances. But by sheer determination she had, and now stood in a setting that the poet could have been describing.
A cold wind discouraged Carissa from unpacking the car. She took the small bag containing her overnight essentials, walked up the steps and fitted the key in the lock. Expecting the house to be cold, Carissa was pleasantly surprised when a draft of warm air greeted her entrance. She could even smell food! Had she come to the wrong house? But the key had worked, so this had to be the Townsend home.
Carissa respected Betty’s judgment, but still, she’d had some reservations about agreeing to occupy a home she hadn’t seen. Her hesitation had been unfounded. The house could be a fitting subject for a magazine article.
She stood in the great room facing a fireplace encased in native stone. The room’s furnishings were a combination of antique tables and chests with modern cozy chairs and upholstered couches. The vaulted ceiling was supported by rectangular logs, and a grandfather clock beside the stairway chimed the hour of nine o’clock as Carissa admired the setting. A teddy bear on the fireplace ledge gave the room a homey atmosphere.
Walking toward the kitchen, Carissa stopped suddenly. The television was on, although the sound was muted. Naomi had been gone for three days, and Carissa had understood that no one had been in the house since then. She looked at the thermostat, which was set at seventy degrees. Justin had distinctly said that Naomi had lowered the temperature. Had someone been in the house since then? Was someone there now? What other explanation could there be?
Suddenly, Carissa’s lodging didn’t seem so enticing. Should she telephone the police chief and ask him to check out the house? But if she’d misunderstood him about the thermostat, the man would think she was foolish. And she knew several people who never turned off their televisions. She reasoned that it had been a harrying day, and she was worn down, or she wouldn’t be so skittish. Carissa’s body ached for a hot bath and a comfortable bed, and she got ready to settle for the night.
She locked the front door and checked the windows, finding everything secure until she reached the sliding door that accessed a deck on the rear of the house. That lock had been jimmied. She turned on an outside light. The snow on the deck and steps was undisturbed, so apparently no one had entered the house through that door, but Carissa was uneasy knowing that someone could come in. Maybe people in Yuletide weren’t as particular about locking their doors as she’d learned to be in a city.
Still, she knew she would rest easier if she had some kind of protection against unwanted guests. Barely over five feet tall, and weighing a little less than a hundred pounds, Carissa knew her appearance wouldn’t intimidate a burglar. She didn’t see a gun in the house, and she didn’t know anything about firearms, anyway.
After years of experience in the business world, Carissa had learned to be resourceful. She brought several pans from the kitchen and stacked them in front of the door, moved two heavy chairs to provide a barrier, and put a set of fireplace implements in front of the chairs. Spying a decorative set of sleigh bells on the wall, she hung those across the entrance. It would be impossible for anyone to enter the room without waking her. But for added security, she took a poker from the hearth and carried it upstairs to use as a weapon if she should need it.
The master suite on the second floor had been prepared for Carissa—a large, comfortable bedroom with a connecting bathroom. A glass door, covered with heavy draperies, led to a balcony, and Carissa parted the curtains and peered through the door’s frosty glass. Several inches of snow covered the balcony. Justin was right—she wouldn’t be drinking her morning coffee outside.
Naomi had left a note on the pillow, and the words “Welcome to my home” gave Carissa the feeling of a warm, gracious hug.
The room was cool and Carissa turned the switch on the electric blanket. While the bed warmed, she bathed. A few minutes later, bundled into a warm, ankle-length nightgown, Carissa laid the poker nearby and, sighing deeply, she stretched out in the warmth of the king-size bed. A Bible lay on the bedside table and Carissa reached for it. It had been a long time since she’d looked inside a Bible, but if she was going to be successful in her search for Christmas, she knew she’d have to start with God’s word. She turned to Matthew’s account of Jesus’ birth and read a familiar passage aloud.
“‘Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judæa in the days of Herod the king, behold, there came wise men from the east to Jerusalem, saying, “Where is He that is born King of the Jews? For we have seen His star in the East and are come to worship Him.””’
Carissa remembered enough from her childhood teachings to know that a person found Jesus through the eyes of faith. How strong was her faith? She believed that God had been her lodestar as she’d built a successful business. And she’d tried to repay Him by contributing a great deal of money to charitable organizations. To find the Christ Child, however, she’d have to go further than that. A Scripture verse she hadn’t thought of for years flashed into her mind: “You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.”
Carissa had been hesitant about opening her heart to anyone, but she knew it was the only route to the peace found in the Savior who’d been born in Bethlehem years ago. She longed to experience the close fellowship she’d once known with God—the only thing that had sustained her through a difficult childhood. Would she find it in Yuletide?
The warm bed brought comfort to her tired body, and she thought she’d fall asleep immediately, but an hour later, she was still awake. She didn’t consider herself an imaginative woman, but intermittent with the wind gusts that blew tree branches against the house, she thought she heard whisperings and muffled footsteps. Finally, she went to sleep—only to awaken suddenly.
Terror as strong as a bolt of electricity flooded her body as she struggled to a sitting position. She glanced at the illuminated dial of the clock on the bedside table. Three o’clock in the morning! What had awakened her?
Her pulse fluttered when she heard a muffled exclamation downstairs, a clatter of pans and the ringing of sleigh bells. Someone was in the house, and she knew it wasn’t Santa Claus.
An intruder had stumbled over the barrier she’d placed in front of the glass door. Without waiting to put on a robe, Carissa jumped out of bed and grabbed the poker. Heart in her mouth and hands shaking, she was halfway down the stairs when the pale glow of the security light revealed a tall figure disentangling himself from her self-made booby trap. He groaned softly, and Carissa assumed he was injured.
She had left her cell phone in the car. If she went upstairs to use the phone on the bedside table, the man might follow her, and she’d be trapped. The man was between her and the kitchen phone. Her car keys were in the pocket of her coat, which she’d hung in the entryway closet. Realizing she was on her own, Carissa slipped down another few steps, just as the intruder stopped in front of her and looked upward. She swung the poker and hit him on the forehead. Carissa screamed as the man folded up like an accordion and fell backward on the floor. She’d only meant to stun him.
Jumping over his body, she sprinted to the kitchen and grabbed the wall phone. She dialed 911, and recognized Justin Townsend’s voice when he answered.
“This is Carissa Whitmore at Naomi’s home. A man just broke in. I’m afraid…I’ve killed him.”
Dead silence greeted her remark for a few seconds, then Justin shouted, “Don’t touch a thing! I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Carrying the poker with her, Carissa rushed to her bedroom and tied a long robe over her nightgown. The intruder was stirring by the time she returned downstairs, and she breathed easier knowing he wasn’t dead. Poker in hand, she waited by the door and kept a wary eye on the trespasser until a police cruiser screeched to a halt in front of the house.
Carissa opened the door, and Justin pushed by her into the living room.
He knelt beside the fallen man and checked his pulse before he took a quick glance around the room. When his gaze encountered the furniture in front of the glass door, he looked up at Carissa.
“What’s happened here?”
“I sensed that someone had been in the house when I got here. I couldn’t lock that door, so I piled things around it before I went upstairs to bed. This man came in, stumbled over my booby trap and awakened me. I hit him with a poker. Is he going to die?”
His eyes twinkling, the police officer said, “Nope. It’d take more than a knock on his hard head to kill this man. Don’t you know who he is?”
“How could I?”
“This is Paul Spencer, Naomi’s brother.”
Carissa’s breath rushed from her mouth, and she dropped like a deflated balloon into the closest chair she could find.
Tasuta katkend on lõppenud.
