Page 11 of Twelve Days and Twelfth Night

Grandpa huffed. “Because you meddled—”

“Meddled?”

“Meddled. Now your parents are coming out for Christmas. Even though civilians aren’t supposed to travel. Your father is going to sell the house and make me live with them in Iowa.”

Maggie measured one can of milk and poured it into the pan. “Papa can be exasperating, but he can hardly force you out of your own house.”

“It’s no longer my house. He owns it.”

Maggie spun to face him, dribbling milk over the stove. “How is that . . . ?”

Grandpa tapped one cane on the floor. “I was in the hospital a long time, had a couple surgeries. Your father offered to pay my medical bills, but I didn’t want a handout. So I sold him the house. He lets me live here rent-free.”

Which meant Papa didn’t need Grandpa’s permission to sell. “Oh no.”

“With your wages and the money left after I paid the doctors, we’ve been fine. Your dad even sends a bit each month. We’re fine.”

Then Maggie had to open her big mouth. Papa must have spent a substantial chunk of his savings to bail out Grandpa, and now Maggie had asked him for more money? Papa was well-off, not wealthy, and his charity had limits.

“I don’t want to live in Iowa.” Grandpa’s voice roughened. “I’ve lived in San Diego all my grown-up days. Met your grandma here. Raised your mama here. I had this house built.”

Maggie’s vision blurred, and she wiped milk driblets off the stove, where Grandma had cooked countless meals for the man she adored.

“I—I couldn’t take Tobias.” Grandpa buried his hand in the fur of the dog at his side.

“Rose.” Maggie’s sister was horribly allergic to dogs, and she would live with Papa and Mama forever.

Guilt flickered in Maggie’s chest, but she hauled in a deep breath and lit the stove. “Never fear. I’ll write to Papa and—”

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“But my new job pays more. I already told him I received the job—although on a trial basis. I just need to—”

“No, I’ll write. I’ll tell him it was a misunderstanding and not as dire as you thought.”

“I could—”

“No.” Grandpa aimed a finger at her. “The best thing you can do is keep your pretty little nose out of it.”

“Oh, Grandpa.” Maggie stirred the soup and blinked away the moisture in her eyes. “I’m sorry I disappointed you.”

A deep sigh emanated from Grandpa’s chair. “Oh, Maggie-mine, you could never disappoint me. Never. You have your papa’s gumption—and sometimes it gets the better of you. But you also have your sweet mama’s compassion.”

“I just want to help.”

“You want to help? Pray.”

Maggie balanced the spoon in the pan and darted out to her Bible and notebook by her favorite armchair. “I’ll add it to my list. I’ll pray that Papa will understand, that he won’t sell the house, that my show goes well so I’ll get this job permanently, that—”

“That’s a lot on your list.”

Maggie jotted down every detail. “I do keep the Lord busy.”

“Oh, Maggie-mine. Don’t forget. Prayer is more than listing. It’s listening.”

She didn’t quite know what he meant, but she smiled at him.

“I’ll tell you how you can start.” Grandpa tried to look stern again, but how could he when he had the sweetest brown eyes in the world? “Start by listening when the Lord tells you not to meddle.”