The Christmas Children. Irene Brand
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the pantry,” Carissa stammered.
Without asking questions, Paul motioned. “Get behind me.”
He pushed the table away and swung open the door, his body hunched forward, ready to attack if necessary.
“Come out!” Paul commanded.
Nothing could be heard for moments except Paul’s heavy breathing. Then there was a scuffling of feet, and Carissa stared, slack-jawed, disbelief in her eyes. Beyond words, she lowered the knife.
A teenage boy sauntered out of the pantry, followed by a little girl who held one of the red apples that Carissa had stored in the pantry. Another girl, probably eight or ten years old, peered around them, holding in her arms the teddy bear that Carissa had seen beside the fireplace the night she’d arrived.
The knife slipped from Carissa’s hand and clattered to the floor. She pulled out a chair from the table and slowly lowered herself into it to support her shaking legs.
“Any more where you came from?” Paul asked, peering into the pantry.
The boy shook his head. The smallest girl handed the apple to Paul; the other child started crying.
Carissa’s body trembled and a wave of nausea seized her. She dropped her head into her hands. She’d come to Yuletide looking for solitude so that she could experience a renewal of mind and spirit. She hadn’t had a minute of peace since she arrived. Within twenty-four hours, four people had invaded her house.
What had given her the foolish idea to look for Christmas in Yuletide?
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