Free Finding Noel by Richard Paul Evans

said.
    â€œWhich are you, hobos or runaways?”
    Macy stopped. “We’re neither,” she said gently.
    â€œSomeday someone’s gonna set fire to that place and the whole neighborhood’s gonna go up in flames. Not that anyone would mind that much.”
    â€œLet’s go,” I said, tugging at Macy’s arm.
    Macy didn’t move. Instead she stepped back towardthe woman. “I was looking for someone who used to live here.”
    â€œNo one’s lived there more than ten years, honey.” Then the woman strained to look at her. “Come closer.”
    To my surprise Macy walked over to her. When she was within arm’s reach, the woman squinted and examined her more closely. Then she slowly reached out and touched Macy’s cheek. A smile broke across the wrinkled face. “Well, now, you’re just all grown up now, aren’t you, little Macy?”
    Macy looked at her in astonishment. “How do you know my name?”
    â€œWhy would I forget that?”
    â€œDo I know you?”
    â€œYou did. You used to play at my house almost every day.” She gazed into her face as if waiting for her to remember. “We’d get the old player piano going.”
    Macy looked down. “I remember a piano. I’d play at your house?”
    â€œAlmost every day, especially when your mama was so sick. You and your sister would come over and ask me for chocolate. I used to have them Brach’s stars in the plastic sacks.”
    â€œYou know my sister?”
    â€œI should hope so. Well as I know you.”
    â€œDo you know my sister’s name?”
    The woman just looked at her. “My stars, what have they done to you?” She tugged on the dog’s leash. “You come home with me. We have some catching up to do.”
    The old lady turned and looked at me. “I know I don’t know you. ”
    â€œI’m a friend of Macy’s,” I said.
    She extended the grocery bag to me. “Well, friend, would you mind carrying my bag? I’m an old lady.”
    I took the sack from her. “No problem.”
    She turned to her dog. “C’mon, Fred, let’s you and I take Macy home.”



Big Day. We learned Macy’s sister’s name. It was hanging from her Christmas tree all along.
    MARK SMART’S DIARY

The woman lived just three houses down from Macy’s old home in a red brick house with cloth awnings that looked altogether out of place in a neighborhood where prefab houses covered in aluminum siding were the norm. She had lived in the same home for fifty-seven of her eighty-two years of life, she told us.
    With some effort she climbed the seven steps of the concrete porch; we followed after her. She brought a tangle of keys from her coat pocket, unlocked the door and we all went inside.
    She crouched down and unleashed her dog, then stood. “I’ll take the milk now.”
    I handed her the bag, and she hobbled off to the kitchen, leaving Macy and me alone in the living room. The front room was rectangular, the floor covered with gold shag carpet, the walls coated with faux gold-leafed wallpaper yellowed with age, especially near the windows. The furniture looked like it had been bought in the fifties, and the house smelled of lilac air freshener. On one of the walls was a faded mural of Hawaii. Mounted on the opposite wall was a display of Wedgwood plates above an antique player piano, aleviathan of an instrument with wood cabinetry set in a herringbone pattern.
    In one corner of the room was a squat artificial Christmas tree with a single strand of lights hung haphazardly across it. In the opposite corner of the living room was a three-stepped étagère of burled walnut adorned with porcelain figurines. Macy walked over to it and squatted down to examine the dolls. I sat down on the couch and watched her.
    â€œYou came on a good day,” the woman said from the other room. “I’m going