This Holiday Magic. Celeste O. Norfleet
looked around. Something was very wrong.
She must have been too tired to realize it. This wasn’t her town house. For one thing, this home had furniture. Hers didn’t, except for a bedroom set. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, realizing she’d just broken into someone’s home. She quietly stepped back and looked at the address number plate beneath the outside security light, then checked the front-door key still in her hand. It had opened the door with ease and her coded number had turned off the security alarm, so this had to be her home. She continued into the small foyer. That was when she heard the laughter and realized that she wasn’t alone. Her heart jumped.
There was only one logical conclusion—squatters.
The word leaped out at her like a snake from the bush. She tensed just thinking it. She was all too familiar with squatters. They were extremely common in many places in Africa. Mostly displaced refugees in fear of their lives, they moved into an area and took over completely. Some were compliant and assimilated with ease. Others were more fierce and forceful. They came. They usurped the resources. They stayed. Getting them to leave was nearly impossible. She continued looking around, knowing already that this was going to be a nightmare.
She walked in and examined the living-room area more closely. There were no crates, wooden pallets, cushions or discarded debris on the floor. No empty alcohol bottles, no drug paraphernalia and no stomach-turning stench.
Instead there was a huge television, beautiful Oriental rugs, stunning accent tables with lamps and very-expensive-looking mahogany wood furniture. None of which was hers. Her once-rigid and antiseptic living environment, devoid of personal effects, was now a family setting ripped from the pages of Architectural Digest. So, unless squatters had upgraded their game a thousand percent, there was something else going on here.
She relaxed a bit, then took a few more steps into the room, noting a cartoon movie muted and frozen on the large flat-screen television. There was also a kid’s puzzle and a few children’s books scattered on the floor. The last thing she needed to deal with right now was a squatting family with children at Christmastime.
“Who are you?”
Janelle turned quickly and looked down, seeing a small child peeking around the corner at her. She was holding a doll and wearing pink pajamas with a sparkling little crown on her head.
“You’re not s’posed to be here,” the child added. “This is my daddy’s castle.”
“No, sweetheart,” Janelle said slowly, “I am supposed to be here. This is my home.”
“Aneka, who are you talking to, child?” asked a female voice.
“The lady with the bags,” the little girl said.
“What lady with the bags?”
“Hello?” Janelle called out to whoever was with the child.
“Who the...?” There was a loud rush of movement and an older woman came hurrying out from the kitchen area. “Aneka, get over here now. Who are you? We don’t have any money and we’re not...” She stopped and looked more closely at Janelle.
An instant later she smiled joyfully. “Well, I’ll be. Janelle, child, is that you?” The woman walked over, grinning from ear to ear, her arms wide-open. She grabbed Janelle in a huge bear hug. “Welcome home.”
“Mrs. Ivers,” Janelle said, finally recognizing the older woman as her neighbor from across the street.
“Well, of course it’s me. Who else would it be? Child, you scared me half to death. You’re a sight for sore eyes. It’s been almost a year since you’ve been home.”
“Mrs. Ivers, what are you doing here?”
“Me? Babysitting. What in the world are you doing coming in here this late at night?”
“I live here,” she said with uncertainty as she looked around. “At least, I used to live here. It doesn’t much look like I do anymore.”
“Well, of course you live here.” Mrs. Ivers’s smile widened. “Where else would you live? It’s so good to see you. You must be exhausted. But I thought you weren’t coming home until after the first of the year. At least that’s what your father told me.”
“Mrs. Ivers, what’s going on? Why are you here with this little girl? Who is she and where are all my things?”
“Oh, your father had everything moved out and put in storage about a month ago. I’m here babysitting Aneka while her father’s at work. He should be home soon.”
“I still don’t understand. Who are these people, and why are they living in my house?”
“Your father said it would be okay for the time being.”
“My father?” she questioned. “Why would he say that? Why wouldn’t I mind my home being taken over while I’m away?” she added sarcastically as she pulled out her cell phone and called her father’s home. There was no answer. She called his cell phone. Again, no answer. She sighed. “He must be out to dinner or in a meeting.”
“Things have changed, Janelle.”
“What do you mean?” Janelle asked. Just then the microwave beeped. Mrs. Ivers turned and headed back into the kitchen. Seconds later the aroma of buttered popcorn filled the room. Janelle followed the scent and the little girl trailed after her.
“My name is Princess Aneka,” she said as her tiny little fingers held tight to her doll.
Janelle looked down at the mass of dark curls and ringlets looping just below her shoulders. Her dark eyes shone brightly as she looked up. The child was adorable. “It’s very nice to meet you, Princess Aneka,” Janelle said as she continued into her kitchen. “Mrs. Ivers, I’m exhausted. Would you please just take Aneka to your house? We can straighten all this out tomorrow.”
“Perhaps you should speak with your father first. My guess is that he’s still at the office.”
“No, he never works this late,” Janelle said as she looked at her watch, realizing that it was still on Tanzania time.
“That was before.”
“What do you mean? Before what?”
“You need to talk to your father,” Mrs. Ivers reiterated.
Janelle shook her head with annoyance. All she wanted was to go to sleep, but that was clearly not going to happen anytime soon. “Fine.”
She dialed her father’s private office number, expecting no answer since the company should have been closed hours earlier. To her surprise someone picked up the phone.
“Truman Developers.”
Janelle frowned. It was a man’s voice, but not her father’s. The voice seemed familiar, but that was impossible. It couldn’t be. “Yes, I’d like to speak with Ben Truman, please.”
“He’s unavailable at the moment.”
“Just tell him it’s his daughter.”
“Janelle?” he said.
“Yes. Who is this?”
There was a short pause as the man’s voice softened. “I’m sorry. Your father’s unavailable. You might want to call back tomorrow morning.”
“No, I don’t want to call back tomorrow morning. I need to speak with him tonight, right now.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll tell him you called.”
“Fine,” she snapped. Annoyed, she disconnected the call and looked across the kitchen. “What’s going on, Mrs. Ivers?”
Mrs. Ivers shook her head. “Your father ran into some financial trouble a while back. He’s working on fixing it.”
“What do you mean ‘financial trouble’? What’s going on and who’s the man