GABRIEL'S GIFT: A Lost Hearts Christmas Story by Christina Dodd Page B
Authors: Christina Dodd
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one for us and our baby, and said a special, Christmas prayer that we might find each other."
"Good." He nodded. "That's good." It seemed as if divine intervention might be needed before they would be able to resolve this crisis. Lighting a candle might be the only solution.
In the house, he heard a scraping noise above. "Hey, I've got to go. I think we've got critters upstairs." Another scrape. "In the playroom."
"Scorpions?"
"Bigger than that."
"Oh, no." She sighed in distress. "Possums."
"Probably. Or raccoons." In the matter of droppings, neither of the animals had manners.
"Now I'm glad I didn't come."
He laughed. "I'll check it out and call the exterminator. And I'll give you a call later. I love you."
"I love you, too."
He hung up, girded his loins and headed upstairs to the playroom. On his way, he glanced in the bathroom and boys' dormitory, but saw no signs of animal life. He entered the playroom and flipped on the light, expecting to see some wild animal scurry out of sight.
No movement. No signs of opossum or raccoon: no scratches on the woodwork, no animal pellets along the walls. He almost turned away and headed toward the girls' dorm, when he remembered the storage room. The size of a large walk-in closet, it included toys and games for every age; the Prescott family was constantly growing and changing, and it seemed every year brought a new baby, a new adolescent, a new graduate and a new marriage. And then another new baby.
He moved toward the storage closet. If the family kept growing, he was going to have to expand the ranch house just for Christmas.
He popped open the door.
Because … whoa.
His critter wasn't a critter. Not unless it carried its belongings in a Disney princesses backpack and slept in a faded Little Mermaid sleeping bag. A bowl with the congealed remains of chicken noodle soup had been pushed hastily aside. A black coat with pink lining hung on the hook that also held the baby bouncy chair.
There was no sign of the little girl these scattered possessions belonged to; she had fled in a hurry. But he knelt beside a photo stuck in a frame, of a girl and mother, both dressed as raggedy Anne dolls, both smiling. The mother looked young and pretty … and the little girl was missing her two front teeth.
Wow. He had a housebreaker. A really, really young housebreaker. A squatter, really.
But where was she?
He glanced around. Heard a noise above. Glanced up.
Ah. There, in the ceiling. The attic access had not been shut properly. The kid had looked for a way to escape if cornered, and concocted a pretty good plan. He had arrived; she had scooted up the ladder and hid in among the insulation and ductwork.
Loudly, he said, "What a mess. When the kids get here for our Christmas celebration, I'll have to speak to them about cleaning up after themselves."
Up above, nothing stirred. Maybe she hadn't heard him.
But maybe she had.
He used his cell phone to take a picture of the framed photo, then he headed downstairs to make lunch.
He hadn't planned to do much for his lunch — dig out a frozen meal or a can of spam — but he found himself in the big family kitchen, frying stew meat, flinging in onions and garlic, jalapeños in adobo sauce and a tablespoon of fragrant cumin, opening a can of Rotel and pouring it into the pot. He turned the heat down low and simmered and stirred, scenting the whole house with his award-winning chili that made grown men weep and women worship at his stove. As the pot bubbled, he puttered around, shredding a nice sharp cheddar, opening a bag of corn chips … setting his trap.
The round, oversized, wooden table occupied the one empty corner of the kitchen. It had seen many a family meal, and he hoped it would see many more. But for today, he arranged two placemats on opposite sides of the table. He put a wide bowl and a soup spoon on each place, and a glass of water — some people got excited about the spiciness of his chili — and an icy
"Good." He nodded. "That's good." It seemed as if divine intervention might be needed before they would be able to resolve this crisis. Lighting a candle might be the only solution.
In the house, he heard a scraping noise above. "Hey, I've got to go. I think we've got critters upstairs." Another scrape. "In the playroom."
"Scorpions?"
"Bigger than that."
"Oh, no." She sighed in distress. "Possums."
"Probably. Or raccoons." In the matter of droppings, neither of the animals had manners.
"Now I'm glad I didn't come."
He laughed. "I'll check it out and call the exterminator. And I'll give you a call later. I love you."
"I love you, too."
He hung up, girded his loins and headed upstairs to the playroom. On his way, he glanced in the bathroom and boys' dormitory, but saw no signs of animal life. He entered the playroom and flipped on the light, expecting to see some wild animal scurry out of sight.
No movement. No signs of opossum or raccoon: no scratches on the woodwork, no animal pellets along the walls. He almost turned away and headed toward the girls' dorm, when he remembered the storage room. The size of a large walk-in closet, it included toys and games for every age; the Prescott family was constantly growing and changing, and it seemed every year brought a new baby, a new adolescent, a new graduate and a new marriage. And then another new baby.
He moved toward the storage closet. If the family kept growing, he was going to have to expand the ranch house just for Christmas.
He popped open the door.
Because … whoa.
His critter wasn't a critter. Not unless it carried its belongings in a Disney princesses backpack and slept in a faded Little Mermaid sleeping bag. A bowl with the congealed remains of chicken noodle soup had been pushed hastily aside. A black coat with pink lining hung on the hook that also held the baby bouncy chair.
There was no sign of the little girl these scattered possessions belonged to; she had fled in a hurry. But he knelt beside a photo stuck in a frame, of a girl and mother, both dressed as raggedy Anne dolls, both smiling. The mother looked young and pretty … and the little girl was missing her two front teeth.
Wow. He had a housebreaker. A really, really young housebreaker. A squatter, really.
But where was she?
He glanced around. Heard a noise above. Glanced up.
Ah. There, in the ceiling. The attic access had not been shut properly. The kid had looked for a way to escape if cornered, and concocted a pretty good plan. He had arrived; she had scooted up the ladder and hid in among the insulation and ductwork.
Loudly, he said, "What a mess. When the kids get here for our Christmas celebration, I'll have to speak to them about cleaning up after themselves."
Up above, nothing stirred. Maybe she hadn't heard him.
But maybe she had.
He used his cell phone to take a picture of the framed photo, then he headed downstairs to make lunch.
He hadn't planned to do much for his lunch — dig out a frozen meal or a can of spam — but he found himself in the big family kitchen, frying stew meat, flinging in onions and garlic, jalapeños in adobo sauce and a tablespoon of fragrant cumin, opening a can of Rotel and pouring it into the pot. He turned the heat down low and simmered and stirred, scenting the whole house with his award-winning chili that made grown men weep and women worship at his stove. As the pot bubbled, he puttered around, shredding a nice sharp cheddar, opening a bag of corn chips … setting his trap.
The round, oversized, wooden table occupied the one empty corner of the kitchen. It had seen many a family meal, and he hoped it would see many more. But for today, he arranged two placemats on opposite sides of the table. He put a wide bowl and a soup spoon on each place, and a glass of water — some people got excited about the spiciness of his chili — and an icy
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