Jane stared at the parody of the perfect Christmas: tumbling drifts covering the steps and clinging to trees.
Jim sniggered behind her. ‘You’ll not get out of this one.’
‘Why not? I can get a broom…’
‘I think you might want to pray.’
Jane tried defiance, even if her heart wasn’t in it. ‘Why?’
Jim pointed. ‘When you opened the backdoor to let out the suds that filled the kitchen because you opened the washing machine, what was on the top step?’
Jane goggled as a familiar shape emerged from the foamy mass.
‘Or rather who?’
This is in response to Sue Vincent’s latest prompt here