Page 42 of The Christmas Box

“All right,” I say, widening my eyes on him, “since it sounds like you’re friendly with him, maybe you can find a time to chat Nick up about this. Marissa and Cash are both in their late twenties and have been together for at least five years. And I happen to know Nick and his wifeloveMarissa.”

Travis squints at me doubtfully. “So I’m supposed to tell this guy I barely know that he should browbeat his son into proposing?”

I shrug. “It’s worth a shot. I know you can find a way to bring it up.”

“Um, sure,” he says, sounding the exact opposite of sure.

As we keep going, we find other similarly challenging ones. Greg Banks didn’t put his last name on the form, but I can tell it’s him; he wishes his partner, Michael, would agree that it’s time to adopt a baby. “Michael is my UPS delivery guy,” I tell Travis. “Next time he’s here, I’ll figure out a way to…pry into an intensely personal part of his life?”

“Good luck with that,” my partner in crime says dryly.

But some get easier. An unsigned one reads:I wish for a nice gift from my husband on our 25thanniversary on Christmas Eve.“That’s gotta be from Gina—she’s married to Carl from the Country Creamery.” I point toward the building next door to the south. “He’s a pretty rigid, pragmatic guy—I can believe he’d skip a big anniversary, not thinking it’s important. But I can easily drop a hint that won’t seem related to this box.”

Then I open a wish from Dara and read it aloud. “I wish that my mother can somehow get up to Lexi’s apartment for Christmas dinner.” And my stomach drops.

“What does that mean exactly?” Travis asks.

I let out a sigh. “Every year since my mom and grandma died, I host Christmas dinner for anyone in town who doesn’t have somewhere else to go. It’s become a tradition. Helen comes, Dara and her mom, and we have a handful of others—Dean from the post office, who’s been alone ever since his wife died, and Elaine Mitts, who’s usually by herself because her kids all moved far away and don’t come home for the holidays.

“Anyway, until a few months ago, I lived in a cottage half a mile up Main Street, near the big curve, but I sold it as part of opening the shop, and this is the first year dinner will be upstairs here. And…” I stop and shake my head. “…I didn’t even think about Judy’s wheelchair. I feel like a dolt. And I guess Dara felt bad bringing it up.” I release another sigh, then lift my gaze to his. “Maybe I should see if Helen can host—but she takes on more shifts around the holidays so other people can take off, in exchange for not having to work on Christmas Day, so I’d hate to ask her. Or maybe Dara and her mom would prefer having it at their house—but no,” I say, thinking out loud. “It’s small and cramped, and Dara would love a bigger place for them. They never have people over.”

I lift my gaze to his. “And you should come, by the way. I would have invited you sooner, but with you hating Christmas and all, I didn’t figure you’d darken my door. Now that you seem to hate it a little less, I hope you will.” Then I cringe. “Even if, now, I’m not sure what to do about Dara’s mom, which kind of puts an enormous damper on the whole event.” No wonder Dara didn’t want to tell me what she wished for.

“Look,” he says in a calming voice, “let’s just think about this for a minute. How wide are the steps to your apartment?”

“Pretty wide,” I answer. “I can show you.” I lead him into the back room and point to the old wooden stairway.

“She’s not a big woman,” he says. He’s right—in fact, she’s thin and petite. “Surely I can get her up to your place, as long as she doesn’t mind letting me carry her. Do you think she’d be okay with that?”

“She’s pretty easygoing,” I tell him, “so yes, totally.”

“Then problem solved.”

“That means you’ll come?” My eyebrows raise slightly.

He tosses me a sideways glance as we stand in the back room near a little wooden desk that holds my business computer. “I feel like I’ve been tricked,” he says. “Into a major Christmas activity.”

I only shrug. “Well, you don’thaveto come. But then Judy can’t, either. And everyone’s holiday is ruined. No pressure, though.”

He tilts his head, looking irritated and amused at the same time. “Sounds like I’m coming to Christmas dinner.”

When we return to the pile of wishes, we find plenty more that we can’t help with—people wishing for improved health or relationships—and have to set those aside. “I’m depressed now, though,” I announce, “since you’ve made me feel responsible for granting these.”

And he doesn’t let me off the hook—exactly. He just says, “Well, all you can do is keep looking for the easier ones.”

I continue making a stack of some that feel possible. For instance, though she left her name off, I recognize Mikayla Watkins’ wish for a Christmas tree for her little ones because she can’t afford it. I hold that one out to show Travis. “Mikayla’s having a tough year—her husband left her for another woman and has pretty much just disappeared,” I explain. “She brought her kids in just to put wishes in the box, and I gave them all hot chocolate. I can donate a tree.”

He gives his head a tilt. “Find all the kids’ wishes and maybe those are doable, too?” he suggests.

“Yes, that’s a great idea,” I tell him—then we move on. There are so many to go through that we can’t linger.

A moment later I read aloud from another slip, “Eve Lindley wants a visit from Christmas carolers, like in the old days. She’s a nice elderly lady—nearly ninety. What a sweet, simple sort of wish.”

“If you know any carolers,” he says dryly, as if she’s requested the impossible, and sounding more like his old Grinchy self.

“That one iscompletelydoable,” I declare with fervor. “Easy peasy, in fact.” I add it to the pile.

And he opens another. “Someone named Darlene— no last name—wants Christmas cookies because she can’t make them anymore and it just doesn’t feel like Christmas without them.”

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