Page 12 of The Christmas Box

“I figure if you can make pretty cabinetry out of wood, you can make a pretty box, too, right?”

He shrugs, now appearing a smidge smug. “Well, right.” Then he gives his head a pointed tilt. “And you need this magic-looking box for…?”

“For the shop,” I say. “For the wishes.” I’m speaking excitedly, wanting him to get this and unsure why he doesn’t.

But now he’s shaking his head. “What wishes? What are you talking about, woman?”

“I told you, it’s a wishing box. For people to put their Christmas wishes in.”

He’s still looking at me like I’m crazy.

And I can’t make it any simpler, so I move on. “I’ll pay you whatever you want. Price is no object.” Though then I backtrack. This is what comes of rushing ahead with an idea before thinking it through. “Within reason, I mean. Iamtrying to get a small business off the ground here, after all.”

He lets out a laugh. And ugh, it makes him so much more attractive when he’s not scowling or acting all serious and grim. “Look,” he says, “I can make you a box, no charge. Or…coffee on the house maybe?”

“That’s great,” I tell him. “Coffee for life.” Though, again, perhaps I should think more carefully before blurting things out from sheer enthusiasm.

Now, though, his brow knits again. “Just…explain to me a little more what the purpose is. Wishing?”

I nod. “It needs a slot on the top where you can slide a slip of paper in. Christmas is a time for wishing, and if people can come into the Christmas Box and make a wish, it will give them the sense that miracles can happen if you just believe. You know?”

He pushes out a long sigh, eyeing me through a narrowed gaze. “What I know is…you’re a little loopy when it comes to all the Christmas stuff— but like I said, I’ll make your box. And I’ll be collecting on that coffee arrangement.” He ends with a wink that A) I didn’t expect, and B) makes me feel a little fluttery inside.

“Deal,” I say, holding out my hand for a handshake.

He takes it, his touch shockingly warm given that we’ve both just been out in the cold. “Deal.” And that makes me evenmorefluttery. I cringe inside at my own response.

Though quick as that, the touching is over, and now he’s moved on to looking puzzled about something else. “Was it supposed to snow?”

I shake my head. “But now they say it’ll keep coming down until well after dark.”

He offers a slight grimace in reply. “Maybe I should start over to the manor before it gets any deeper out there.”

I’m secretly amused that he’s already referring to the nursing home as “the manor,” same as the locals. “Is it safe in your truck?” I ask. “My grandpa had a ’56 Ford when I was little and it was no good in the snow.”

“Mine’ll plow through anything,” he claims, and I think it’s just masculine bravado at first, until he goes on—maybe because I look skeptical. “It belonged to my great-grandfather and got passed down. My dad gave it to me when I turned sixteen. Since then, I’ve overhauled it from top to bottom. Automobile purists don’t like it, but I wanted to drive the thing—not leave it sitting in a garage. I outfitted it to be reliable in the snow, for Chicago winters.”

“Well then,” I say, “sounds like I don’t have to worry about you making it there alive.”

He tilts me a sly half-grin I didn’t see coming. “You would worry about me? And here I didn’t think you liked me much.”

I just roll my eyes. “We just made a deal for a box. I want to be sure I get it.” Then I find myself flashing a slightly combative look. “Though I hope you’ll do better getting me the box than you did that Christmas laurel back in school.”

“Touché,” he answers with an arch of one brow. “And just FYI, I’m a lot more reliable these days.”

“Fingers crossed that’s true,” I tell him, holding up two intertwined fingers, still not fully convinced. Then I start toward the front door.

“Think Winterburger stayed open through this?” he asks behind me.

I stop, look back, then hold my hand out level, tipping it back and forth. “Iffy.”

“Dad loves their burgers. Can’t get enough of ’em.”

Maybe this is nosy, but since he was honest with me about this before, I decide to ask. “Are things…better than you expected? Between you and him?” I almost add that it seems like he spends a lot of time at Bluegrass Manor, but I don’t want to let on that I notice his comings and goings.

He releases a tired-sounding sigh to answer, “They’re…okay. I barely recognize the guy, actually. But being a nice guynowdoesn’t make up for being a shitty dadthen.”

I just nod. I could argue the point, but I don’t know if I’d be right. I had loving parents, so I haven’t walked in his shoes.

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