Three Christmas Wishes. Sheila Roberts

it was time to show herself. “I’m keeping them for a friend. She’s a teacher. She’s coming to get them tonight.”

      “Why are they out of the cage?” Mrs. Bing demanded.

      Jailbreak? Noel had a very creative mind; why couldn’t she think of something? “Um, the latch on their door must have jiggled loose.” Did that sound lame to anyone besides her?

      “Well, put them back,” Mrs. Bing ordered.

      “Now?” She’d have a heart attack right here.

      “Don’t worry,” said the interloper. “I’ll get ’em.”

      She watched as he chased down the first rat and bent to pick up the disgusting little squeaker. Nice butt. Oh, who cared?

      “You didn’t need to be home,” Mrs. Bing told Noel as the unwanted visitor scooped up Useless Rat Number Two and stuck him back in the cage with Useless Rat Number One.

      “I was done shopping,” Noel said. “I wanted to come home and...check for leaks.” Ha! Brilliant. No one would want to buy a house with leaks.

      Mrs. Bing’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “When did you notice a leak, Noel?”

      Noel’s guilty conscience started a fire on her cheeks. “I thought I saw water the day before yesterday. In the kitchen.”

      “Really.” Mrs. Bing was not fooled.

      The rats were safely in the cage now. “Let’s go look,” said the interloper.

      So they all trooped out to the kitchen to look.

      The kitchen was as cheerful and warm as ever with its yellow walls. Noel and Riley had painted those walls last summer. She’d even sprung for the paint herself. All the love she’d been pouring into this house and Mrs. Bing was going to sell it out from under her just like that. Mrs. Bing was an ingrate.

      “Where exactly was the leak?” asked Mrs. Bing.

      “Uh, over by the window. I think.”

      The interloper gave the window and surrounding wall a checkup. “No signs of water damage. But the counters need replacing.”

      “The counters are fine,” Noel informed him and he raised an eyebrow.

      “Come on. I’ll show you the rest of the house,” Mrs. Bing said. “Noel, you can wait down here.”

      “That’s okay. I’ll come with you,” Noel said. Her rent was paid up. She had every right to join the home tour.

      They walked from room to room, the interloper seeing ways he could change every one.

      “You know, this house is very nice just as it is,” Noel informed him.

      The interloper cocked his head. “Yeah? Then why don’t you buy it?”

      “I want to. Mrs. Bing knows that,” Noel said and looked accusingly at her landlady.

      Mrs. Bing’s cheeks turned rosy. “Noel, if you had the money I’d sell it to you.”

      “Noel, pretty name,” said the interloper. He thrust out a hand for her to shake. “Mine’s Ben, Ben Fordham.”

      Noel put her own hands behind her back. “What do you intend to do with this house, Ben Fordham?”

      “I intend to fix it up.”

      “And then what? It needs a family, people to live in it and love it.” Okay, she was lecturing now.

      No, no. She wasn’t lecturing. She was getting in touch with her inner Marvella Monster, chasing away a predator.

      He held up his left hand. “Not married.”

      “Well, then...” Suddenly it dawned. “You don’t want this house for yourself. You’re going to flip it.”

      “I’m going to fix it up and sell it to a family who will love it.”

      Fix it up? Ha! He was going to destroy its character. Noel turned to Mrs. Bing. “Mrs. Bing, please don’t sell the house to this...this...Scrooge. He only wants it so he can make a profit. Please let me rent to own or give me time to come up with a down payment. I love this place. I’ll take care of it.”

      “I saw how you’re taking care of it with the dirty dishes on the counter,” Mrs. Bing said, pursing her lips.

      “I never have dirty dishes on the counter, really. That was...” Noel was aware of Ben the Bad Man looking at her.

      “Camouflage?” he guessed. “Like the rats and the so-called leak.”

      She wasn’t too proud to beg. “I’m sure you can find other houses to buy.”

      “Of course I can,” he said, and she breathed a sigh of relief. Until he added, “But not at this price point.” He turned to Mrs. Bing. “Why don’t we go back to your house and talk?”

      Nodding, Mrs. Bing started down the hall.

      Ben the Bad Man turned to follow her and Noel caught him by the arm. “Please don’t buy this house.”

      He looked down at her pityingly. “This is nothing personal. It’s just business.” Then he gently disengaged his arm and trailed Mrs. Bing down the hall. “Nice meeting you, Noel.”

      “I wish I could say the same,” she called after him then leaned against the wall and wished all manner of Christmas disasters on him. She hoped he fell off a ladder while hanging Christmas lights and broke his leg. No, make that both legs. She hoped his dog bit him. And if he didn’t have a dog she hoped all the dogs in the neighborhood would poop on his lawn. She hoped Santa would drive right by his house or, better yet, drive over it and dump an entire load of coal down his chimney. She hoped...he’d have a change of heart. Maybe he’d have a dream and get visited by a bunch of ghosts showing him what a bad boy he was.

      Or maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to win him over.

       Chapter Four

      Riley called Noel shortly after the invaders had left. “How’d it go?”

      “He wasn’t fooled. And he wants to buy the house and flip it. He’s talking about taking down walls and ripping out counters and all kinds of things. He’ll ruin its character.”

      “Too bad the rats didn’t work.”

      “Please don’t say that word,” Noel begged, looking over at the useless rodents in their cage.

      “Sorry. I’ll come over and collect them for you.”

      “No need. The house thief already did that.”

      “He saw the cage?”

      “What can I say? I screwed up. It’s just that they had me so icked out I couldn’t concentrate.”

      “We’ll think of something,” Riley said. “And I’ll come and get them tomorrow, okay?”

      “In the morning?” If she had to look at them all day...

      “Yes, and don’t worry. I’m sure this will all work out.”

      Perhaps, but meanwhile, she had to be proactive. She said goodbye to Riley then pulled out her laptop and did an internet search for Ben Fordham. She found him under Fordham Enterprises. We Turn Nightmares into Dream Homes, he promised on his website. And there was a picture of the dream-maker himself. He looked like an HGTV star in his jeans and T-shirt and tool belt, with his muscles and dark hair and trust-me smile. He was on the front porch of a pretty Victorian, sitting on the railing, one leg dangling casually. Underneath that was a before-and-after example of his work, two shots of the same house. In one it resembled something out of a Halloween movie, with peeling paint and a front lawn overrun by unruly shrubs; in the other,