Trading Christmas by Debbie Macomber Read Free Book Online

book and I won’t have time to play in the snow.” He started to close the door.
    â€œNot at all?” The oldest boy asked the question with a complete sense of horror.
    â€œIt’s Christmas,” another reminded him.
    The woman’s voice sounded again, shriller this time.
    â€œWe got to go.”
    â€œBye,” Charles said and, despite himself, found that he was grinning when he closed the door. His amusement died a quick death once he was back inside the house. Despite his attempt to block out all evidence of Christmas, he was well aware that it waited right outside, ready to pounce on him the minute he peeked out.
    Grumbling under his breath, he returned to the kitchen and grudgingly set his dinner in the microwave. Some kind of casserole, duly labeled “Charles.” He resisted the urge to call Emily Springer and tell her exactly what he thought of her little Christmas deception. He would, too, if she’d misled him—only she hadn’t. He blamed himself for this. Because he’d just realized something—he’d confused Leavenworth, Washington, with Leavenworth, Kansas.
    The doorbell chimed once more, and Charles looked at the ceiling, rolling his eyes and groaning audibly. Apparently he was going to have to be more forthright with the family next door. He stomped across the room and hauled open the front door. He wanted to make it clear that he didn’t appreciate the disturbances.
    No one was there.
    He stuck his head out the door and glanced in both directions.
    No one.
    Then he noticed a plate of decorated cookies sitting on the porch. They were wrapped in red cellophane, which was tied with a silver bow. His first instinct was to pretend he hadn’t seen them. At the last second, he reached down, grabbed the plate and slammed the door shut. He turned the lock, and leaned against the wall, breathing fast.
    He was in the wrong Leavenworth, but he might as well be in prison, since he wouldn’t be able to leave the house, or even open the door, for fear of being ambushed by Christmas carolers, cookies and children.
    Not exactly what he’d had in mind…

S IX
    B ernice Brewster was beside herself with frustration. For two days she’d tried to reach her son Charles, to no avail. He refused to use a cell phone and the one she’d purchased for him sat in a drawer somewhere. She was sure he’d never even charged the battery.
    Growing up in Boston, Charles had been fascinated by history, particularly the original Thirteen Colonies. Now look at him! Granted, that interest had taken him far; unfortunately it seemed to be his only interest. If he wasn’t standing in front of a classroom full of students—hanging on his every word as she fondly imagined—then he was buried in a book. Now, it appeared, he was writing his very own.
    Why, oh why, couldn’t her sons be like her friends’ children, who were constantly causing them heartache and worry? Instead, she’d borne two sons who had to be the most loving, kindest sons on God’s green earth, but… The problem was that they didn’t understand one of the primary duties of a son—to provide his parents with grandchildren.
    Bernice couldn’t understand where she’d gone wrong. If there was anything to be grateful for, it was that Bernard hadn’t lived long enough to discover what a disappointment their two sons had turned out to be in the family department.
    Charles was the younger of the two. Rayburn, eight years his senior, lived in New York City and worked for one of the big publishers there. He insisted on being called Ray, although she never thought of him as anything but Rayburn. He was a gifted man who’d risen quickly in publishing, although he changed houses or companies so often she couldn’t hope to keep track of where he was or exactly what he did. At last mention, he’d said something about the name of the publisher changing