Free Trading Christmas by Debbie Macomber

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?
    â€œI think someone tried to eat your coat,” the little girl said.
    â€œA goat did.”
    â€œMust’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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œEmily? 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.
    â€œWho the hell are you?” Santa cried.
    â€œWhat are you doing in my house?” Charles demanded.
    â€œFaith!” 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.
    â€œFaith Kerrigan. What have you done with my friend?”
    â€œIf you mean Emily Springer, she’s in Boston.”
    â€œWhat?” 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.
    â€œI…I flew in from the Bay area to surprise my friend for Christmas. She didn’t say anything about going to Boston.”
    â€œWe traded houses for two weeks.”
    â€œOh…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.”
    â€œApparently,” 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.
    Adding to the mass confusion were the six elves, who seemed to be arguing among themselves about which one of them would have the privilege of bashing in Charles’s nose.
    Charles’s head started to swim. He raised his arms and shouted in his loudest voice, “Everyone out!”
    The room instantly went silent. “Out?” Faith cried. “We don’t have anywhere to go. There isn’t a hotel room between here and Spokane with a vacancy