A Merry Little Christmas

by Catherine Palmer

  “These are not bad mattresses,” Peter said. “And you know, we have two small boys and a baby. Not to mention the dog, which my wife insisted must stay with us.”

  A look of uneasiness came over Tabitha’s face. She glanced away shyly. “The dog is not allowed to stand on the beds or the chairs, sir. I believe I can train him.”

  “But he is still a puppy, and he likes to chew things. Mr. Maddox, you have given us a good bargain on the rent for this house, and we are grateful. We believe that if we sleep on these mattresses, it will go well for us.”

  “No, please.” Jeremiah placed a hand on the thread-bare old bedding. “I’m serious now. You can put these in the garage and use the others. Please, I want you to do that. It won’t matter about the dog and the children. I know how rough they can be on things.”

  As he spoke, the puppy—a blur of wiry brown and gray hair—bounded through the open gate, tore across a swath of damp grass and leaped up on Jeremiah. Two streaks of mud followed the furry paws down his pant legs. Before he could react, the dog had moved to greet one adult after the other with a bounce and a kiss of wet pink tongue. Peter cried out in dismay at the brown smudges on their landlord’s trousers, and Tabitha gasped and clamped her hand over her mouth.

  “Hey, Dad!” Daniel caught his father’s attention just in time to drill the muddy football into Jeremiah’s arms. “Good catch! Oh, yeah—the Murayas needed to move in a day early. I forgot to tell you. Dr. Crane e-mailed me the other day.”

  Both boys came jogging over, followed closely by their smaller counterparts. Benjamin swung Justice onto his back as the puppy ran to meet them.

  “This is Mdogo,” Daniel announced, scooping the dog up in his arms. “It means small. Cool, huh? They haven’t been here ten minutes, and I’m talking African.”

  “There is no language known as African,” Peter Muraya said politely. “The national language of Kenya is Kiswahili. Sometimes we just say Swahili. Each country in Africa has a national language, and each tribe within the country has its own language. My family is of the Kikuyu tribe. So you see that Africans can have much trouble with communication.”

  “Yeah,” Benjamin said, “but at least you get to learn different languages. Schools around here keep cutting programs like that. In Missouri, about all we can talk is American.”

  “Pardon me, but you speak English, not American.” Peter smiled at the younger teen. “There is always much to learn, no matter where one lives.”

  “I can wash your suit,” a low voice spoke up beside Jeremiah. “I will remove the mud from your trousers.”

  He looked over to find Peter’s wife gazing up at him, her solemn expression mirrored in the eyes of the baby on her back. “It’s not a problem,” he told Tabitha. “Don’t worry about it. I take my clothes to a dry cleaner. And so, uh—” he surveyed the others “—why did you change the moving date? I thought we had settled on tomorrow.”

  “The motel rented out their room,” Lara explained. “Once the Murayas gave notice they were moving, the manager found a replacement very quickly.”

  “I see.” Jeremiah met her green eyes and instantly regretted it. She hadn’t bothered with makeup today, and her freckles were dancing wildly across her nose. Her cheeks had a bright glow, and her hair was just begging for his touch.

  “Well then,” he said. “I guess that’s the way it is.”

  “Yep. Adaptability,” she told him. “Life is all about being adaptable. So, you’re sure about the mattresses, because I’ve lugged these about all I want to for one evening.”

  “Absolutely. We’ll put them in the guest garage.”

  Before she could say anything else, Jeremiah set to work tugging the saggy old bedding out of the station wagon. Peter, Daniel and Benjamin joined in immediately. Before long, they had succeeded in hauling the Murayas’ mattresses into the garage and returning the beds to their former place inside the cottage. As the men worked, Jeremiah stripped off his jacket and tie, and by the time the puppy had said howdy four or five more times, he was a muddy, sweating mess.

  “I brought several boxes of donated food from my church pantry,” Lara called out to the parade of men moving in and out of the house. She stood behind a marble-topped counter as she taught Tabitha how to use the stove and microwave. “They’re in my car. If you guys could get those, we’ll set up the kitchen.”

  Jeremiah glanced at her as he started outside again. What on earth was he doing? He had planned to build a nice blaze in the fireplace in his room, dine on leftovers from the night before and relax with a book before an early bedtime. Instead, he was dragging around bedraggled old mattresses and fending off a puppy determined to change the color of his charcoal suit to a nice shade of mud.

  “Oh, by the way, Jeremiah, how was your meeting?” Lara asked when he passed her. “The one you had the other day.”

  He paused to think for a second. He wasn’t used to anyone knowing his business. Or caring.

  She clarified, “You’re remodeling a shoe factory in St. Louis?”

  “Yes. Fine. They approved the project.” He considered following his sons back outside but paused again. “Is moving students around part of your job description?”

  “About half of what I do isn’t official.”

  “Just a freebie?” he asked.

  She smiled. “The best things in life are free, or so they tell me.”

  “I do read the Bible, you know. I understood what you meant the other day—Christ’s death on the cross, the ultimate, undeserved freebie. Is that why you do all this? Somehow trying to pay Him back?”

  “That’s not possible. Free is free. No repayment required.”

  “Then why? It’s obviously more than a job.”

  Lara glanced at Tabitha, who was murmuring approval and awe as she inspected the contents of the kitchen cabinets. Then Lara’s eyes focused on the man who stood nearby, pinning him down as she assessed him.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking about pizza,” she said. “A couple of large pepperonis. Delivered. Could you take care of that, Jeremiah?”

  Chapter Three

  Lara wrapped a string of melted cheese three times around her index finger and popped it into her mouth. As she drew it back out again, she caught Jeremiah Maddox watching her.

  “I realize this is my third slice,” she said with a trace of guilt. “I skipped lunch.”

  He shrugged. “Eat as much as you want.”

  She gave him a faint smile and glanced toward the couch, where four sets of shoulders hunched over plates of pepperoni pizza as cartoons flashed across the television screen. The boys had decided the small dining table was too crowded with adults, and the TV held more appeal than the African history lesson Peter Muraya seemed determined to share with his landlord.

  Lara focused on Jeremiah again, and he was still staring. If the man wasn’t calculating her pizza intake, what was he gawking at? All evening, she had noticed his eyes following her. If she was making a bed, he was putting clothing in dresser drawers…and watching her. If she was helping Tabitha put food in the refrigerator, he was setting cans in the pantry…and watching her. Did she look that bad in her jeans and ratty sweatshirt? Was it the hair or what?

  “In 1963,” Peter said, “Kenya finally received independence from British rule. We call this Uhuru Day. Uhuru means ‘freedom’ in Kiswahili. It is like the Fourth of July for you. A very happy time of celebration each year.”

  Lara nodded, trying to be polite and attentive about information she already knew. She had been in and out of Kenya several times while working for the hunger relief agency. She had also studied the country’s history when she accepted the position as director of the international student program. Jeremiah downed the last of his soda and leaned back in the chair. He couldn’t have been listening to much of what Peter had said. Throughout the meal he had been gnawing on pizza, answering his cell phone or scrutinizing Lara.

  “Jomo Kenyatta was your first president,” Jeremiah said, fo
cusing in on Peter. “A few years ago, you changed to a multiparty system of government, I believe.”

  “Oh, you know about our country! Tabitha, Mr. Maddox is very knowledgeable.” Peter beamed at his wife. She had put Tobias to bed a few moments before and had just rejoined them.

  “This is most unusual,” she said. “Few Americans understand the history of Africa.”

  “I minored in political science,” Jeremiah told the couple. “I was interested in going to Africa at one time. The history and geography fascinated me, but the thing that intrigued me the most was the architecture.”

  “Architecture?” Peter’s brow furrowed deeply. “Do you speak of the Egyptian Pyramids? Or the old mosques in Mali? Africa has many things of which to boast—a long history, interesting cultures, beautiful art. But I cannot say we have much architecture that is noteworthy. Most of our early structures were built of primitive materials and have long ago vanished due to erosion, warfare or the encroachment of colonization.”

  Jeremiah shook his head. “No, I’m talking about round huts. Domes. You were building the most efficient structures in the world long before the modern world figured it out. A square or a rectangle isn’t nearly as strong, as weather resistant or even as useful as a circle. Depending on what it’s made from, a cube can easily crack, leak, burst or even collapse. The dome or cylinder shape withstands environmental pressures much longer.”

  “You must go to Kenya, sir,” Tabitha said, her dark eyes flashing sideways at him. “The Masai tribe builds domes of sticks, mud and cow dung.”

  “This story will amuse you,” Peter told the group. “When I was a boy, a man came to our village to assist us. He built a square tank for water containment. A cube. The sides cracked, and the rainwater ran out straight away, and we all laughed greatly at him. Next, he built a round water tank, and that catchment is still full to this very day.”

  “There you go,” Jeremiah said.

  At that pronouncement, Lara decided the landlord and his tenants were getting along fine. It was time for her to head out. She had a full Saturday planned, and she had been hoping for an early bedtime. But as she opened her mouth to bid her farewells, the cottage doorbell rang.

  At the shrill sound, the puppy began to bark frantically and the baby started wailing in the bedroom. Daniel lunged for the door, nearly tripping on Benjamin, who had headed in the same direction. Justice jumped to his feet and knocked his soda onto the floor. Tabitha let out a cry of dismay and leaped toward the kitchen to grab a towel. Peter rushed to control the dog. The door blew open, and seven teenagers—all talking at once—burst into the house.

  “This is it,” Daniel announced proudly, “the place to be! This is Peter and Tabitha, and Wisdom and Justice.”

  “Hey, Mr. Maddox!” one of the girls sang out.

  “It’s Dr. Crane!” a boy said. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Let’s all go over to your basement, Ben. There’s not enough room here.”

  “Hold on. I want you to meet everyone.”

  “Why don’t we order some more pizzas?”

  “I want mushroom. No anchovies this time. I mean it.”

  “Cute dog! What breed is he?”

  “What kind of names are Wisdom and Justice?”

  Lara grabbed her purse. She was slipping into her coat when a hand clamped onto her arm. Swinging around, she saw Jeremiah Maddox—howling baby in a squirmy bundle on his shoulder—glaring at her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Home.” She patted the baby’s little round bottom. “Have fun.”

  “Hold on a minute. You can’t abandon me here.”

  “You don’t have to stay, either.”

  “Yeah, but I—” He lifted Tobias from his shoulder and pushed him at Lara. “Take this baby.”

  “No,” she said evenly. “You picked him up. He’s all yours.”

  “He’s not mine. Nothing here is mine. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

  “Jeremiah, we have an agreement. I will check on the Muraya family twice a week and send you a note informing you that I’ve been here. Otherwise, I’m out of the picture.”

  “But this is not okay. There’s soda all over the floor. And a puppy. And—”

  “And teenagers and pizza and a whole lot of fun. Enjoy!”

  She waved the tips of her fingers at him and hurried toward the door. Sidestepping sprawling teenagers and somersaulting little boys, evading an anxious mother and dodging a puppy with springs in its legs, Lara made it across the room. She turned the doorknob, stepped out into the chill November air and pulled the door shut behind her.

  Thank God! Looking up at the stars, she felt a ripple of blissful praise well up inside her. This was going to be great. The Lord had solved another problem. Jeremiah’s boys would be wonderful for the two little Murayas, the puppy would add just enough havoc to keep things lively, Peter and Tabitha could make a happy home and Jeremiah…well, he was in for a shake-up of the tidy, comfortable world he had built for himself. Exactly what the man needed, in Lara’s opinion.

  She passed Peter’s badly dented car and lifted up a petition that God would keep him from having any more “smashing” moments. And then she turned her prayers toward the host of other matters pressing for attention. A student from Ivory Coast had suddenly lost e-mail and phone contact with her entire extended family. Political instability in the West African nation didn’t bode well. As Lara approached her car, she asked the Lord for a breakthrough in communication for the frightened young woman.

  Then there was the Indian student she had spent hours with that morning. His two older brothers had breezed through Reynolds University and were working on doctorates in other states. This poor kid, on the other hand, was a lost lamb. He was failing most of his classes and in danger of losing his student visa. And then there was the young man from Brazil on a tennis scholarship who had managed to break his leg….

  “Lara.”

  The word brought her to a halt. She knew it was Jeremiah even before she turned.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He stepped closer. “You can tell me why you thought it was okay to walk away the minute everything in that house started getting out of hand.”

  Clenched fists at his hips and the stern set of his jaw caused Lara to back into the side of her car. “I didn’t walk out on you. I would never abandon anyone. I simply needed to head for home.”

  “You walked out of the cottage and shut the door on me.”

  “And I’ll be back. I will check on the Murayas twice a week, as I promised.”

  “But you left me to take charge of that whole mess. I watched you go.”

  “You watched me, all right. You never stopped looking at me all night. What’s your problem? Don’t you trust me?”

  He slid his hands into his pockets and let out a breath. “Why should I trust you, Lara? I don’t trust anyone.”

  “Well, you should, and you can start with me. I said I would come back, and I will. I want this to be a successful placement for the Murayas. And I want you and your sons to be happy.”

  “You care whether we’re happy?”

  “Of course. I’m hoping that when the Murayas move out, you’ll be willing to rent the cottage to other international students. I’m going to do everything in my power to make this work. But it’s not going to be perfect, Jeremiah. They’re a family with three kids and a dog. You’ll have…issues.”

  “I don’t need issues.”

  “It’s not about what you need.” She realized she was having to lift her chin to meet his eyes. “It’s about the Muraya family. Life is never about us. It’s always about them.”

  “You don’t have two sons. My life is about us.”

  “I have forty-three students depending on me, some of them much needier and less capable than Daniel and Benjamin. Please relax. I’ll come back. You can call me if you have a problem. I want this to work, and you can count on me to be here.”
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  He gave a mirthless laugh. “Right.”

  “Maybe not here. But I’ll be available. I don’t live very far from you.” She dug into her purse. “Take my card. It has my home address and phone number on it. Students call me all the time. Host families, too.”

  “Other people in town are doing this? Letting families move in with them?”

  “The Murayas are your renters, that’s all. But I do work to connect local families with my students in order to facilitate cultural exchange. I recruit people from churches, civic clubs, that sort of thing. I try to pair each foreign student with a family.”

  He was studying her card in the moonlight when the cottage door suddenly opened and kids came pouring out. In the chill night air, they raced across the drive, passing Lara and Jeremiah in their headlong dash for the back door to the main house. She noted that Wisdom and Justice had stayed with their parents.

  “Yo, Dad, Dr. Crane!” Benjamin skidded to a halt in front of them. “You won’t believe this. Mrs. Muraya is going to teach Dan’s girlfriend and some of the others how to crochet. She makes bedspreads. Me and Dan are going to give it a try, too.”

  “Dan and I,” Jeremiah corrected. “Did you say you’re going to crochet?”

  “Yeah, why not? The girls will be over here all the time!”

  With a whoop, he bounded off. Lara laughed as Jeremiah shook his head. “Girls,” he said. “I figured there was an ulterior motive.”

  “See?” Lara said. “This is going to be fine, and they don’t need you around to solve everything. How much do you want to bet the Murayas have mopped up the spilled soda and put the baby back to bed? They’re probably running a bath for the boys.”

  “Let’s go check.” He took her arm. “I need to give them the spare key I had made.”

  “Oh, but…” She suddenly found herself linked arm in arm with Jeremiah as he propelled her back down the drive toward the cottage. “But I need to get home. I have a busy day tomorrow, and there’s a student from Ivory Coast who—”

  “Dinner,” he said. “If that baby’s crying, you owe me dinner. If he’s asleep, it’s on me. Winner names the restaurant.”