Page 11 of The Christmas Box

“Oh, crud,” she replies. “I was planning to get groceries after work—I’ve pretty much let us run out of food.”

“You should gonow,” I tell her without a second’s hesitation. Being caregiver for her mother is Dara’s top priority. Her older siblings provide financial support and she provides the care—her work with me is mostly to give her a break and get her out of the house.

“Are you sure? What if it gets busy again?”

With another glance out the window, where the only movement is the snow descending in thick, heavy flakes, I say, “I don’t think it will. In fact, I have a feeling we’re done for the day. You go on. I’m fine here.”

She nods. “You’re probably right.” Shedding her antlers, she bundles up in a tie-dye parka, pulls on a hot pink winter hat, then sets out up the snow-covered sidewalk.

Of course, that leaves the shop even quieter. Sure, holiday music continues to play, but something about it almost depresses me—because who is it playing for, after all?

I glance around, taking it all in, and yes, it’s a winter wonderland, and yes, business is good—but…is something missing?

Maybe this is the first time since we opened that I’ve had the chance to stand here alone and take in the Christmas Box,withoutthe customers,withoutDara,withoutrushing to restock shelves or wash coffee cups.

And I’m slightly horrified to look around at the sparkling trees, twinkling lights, Santa mugs, and smiling snowmen and realize: it’s just a shop.

Somehow, I wanted this to bemorethan just a small town store,morethan just a tribute to my mother,morethan just a way to make a living doing what I feel passionate about. I wanted it to feel trulymagical. I wanted it to spread the love of Christmas I shared with Mom and Grandma. I wanted it to hold charm and warmth and a feeling that all is right in the world.

A tall order, I know. And perhaps an unrealistic expectation. But also a thing I thought would just naturally, organically happen when I put all the pieces together.

I wanted people to walk through the door and feel the same wayIfelt last night placing that star on top of the tree and making that wish for the Grinchy hottie across the street: Filled with hope. Filled with possibility. Filled with belief.

And instead…it’s just a shop.

And maybe it’s silly to have expected it to be anything more than that. Christmas is in the heart, after all—not hanging on the branches of an evergreen or tucked into a glittery gift bag.

And yet, even so, what if therewasa way to make people who come to the Christmas Box feel the same as I did putting that star on the tree? What if there was a way to fill every person who walked through the door with that same sense of hope and anticipation? What would that look like?

A box.I don’t know where the words come from. It’s almost like they’re whispered in my ear. But I know instantly what they mean.

The next question is: Where do I get the perfect box? Because it can’t be justanybox. It has to be unique and special—a box that gives off the same sense of magic I want to create with it.

I’m kind of excited as I start thinking about it—my heart begins to race. Butwhere, where, wheredo I find this perfect box?

I let my eyes drift from floor to ceiling, from back wall to front windows, as if the answer lies hidden somewhere inside the store. Which is when my gaze falls on the shiny red pickup across the street, now covered in a layer of snow. It’s the only vehicle still left outside, and lo and behold, Scrooge McHottie himself has just come outside to get something from the truck bed.

What bizarre impulse compels me to rush out and across the empty street without even first grabbing a coat? I’m not completely sure, but…he builds things. And time is short. And he’s right in front of me. So it makes sense, right?

I approach as he hoists slats of wood up onto his shoulder to carry inside, noticing hewassmart enough to put on a coat.

“Could you build me a wishing box?”

He squints at me through the snow like I have reindeer antlers sprouting from my head—and not the fake kind. “A whatting box?”

“A wishing box.”

“Can you close the tailgate?” he asks, occupied with balancing the wood.

I slam it shut, then follow him to the Lucas Building, holding the door for him.

“It should be about this big,” I go on once we’re inside, holding my hands about eighteen inches apart, “and have a unique style that looks a little magical and like maybe it came straight out of Santa’s workshop. It should make people ooh and ahh when they see it—the very sight should draw them closer. Can you do that?”

He plunks the bundle of wood in his arms onto the old counter at the rear of the space and turns to face me. “So you’re saying you want me to make you a magic box.” He’s still squinting, as if checking to make sure he hasn’t misunderstood.

“Well, it doesn’t really have tobemagic,” I explain. “It just needs tolookmagic.”

“A magic-lookingbox,” he repeats. Then murmurs sarcastically, “Sure, nothing odd about that.”

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