Page 58 of The Christmas Box

“We’re on our way to my parents’ house in Detroit for Christmas, and we’ve been on the road since five this morning,” she explains, “but I insisted we stop.”

“Yeah, we were gonna finish our gift-shopping once we got there,” the slightly-rumpled-from-travel guy at her side tells us, “but looks like we might be doing it here.”

“Oh yes,” she says, “it’s definitely happening here. Get out the credit card, honey.”

And then…it keeps happening. More people keep coming in to the Christmas Box until we’re jam-packed. And though I see a few locals, most seem to be from out of town.

I’m busy showing people the wishing box—which is, of course, charming them—and pointing them toward specific items they’re seeking. “Do you have any holiday sweaters?” “Where are your gift bags?” “This reindeer plate is adorable, but I’d like to buy three Do you have more?”

Meanwhile, Dara is manning the checkout, and after I fetch the reindeer plates and finish helping someone at the cocoa bar, I see the line is backing up, so I start bagging items while she rings them up.

“Hi, I’m Taylor,” a thirty-something redhead tells me, holding out her hand across the bar as Dara tallies up the ornaments she’s buying. “I’m Helen’s niece, from Sweetwater.”

My eyes widen as I warmly shake her hand. “Oh—yes, she’s told me so much about you over the years. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

She glances around the place to say, “You’ve done great with your shop here. The whole town, in fact, seems so much livelier than I remember.”

I nod. “I only opened a month ago, but the rest of the town has been rebounding from hard times for a few years now.”

“Well, you seem to have the most popular place on Main Street,” she declares on a congratulatory laugh.

I start to protest, thinking: No, that’s Winterburger, or maybe the bakery. But today, suddenly, perhaps Idohave the town hotspot. And I’m still completely dumbfounded by it.

“I run a bake shop in Sweetwater,” she goes on, “but the town is struggling.” She ends on a more somber sigh.

Being well-acquainted with that kind of pain, I sympathize. But I also know what a little faith can bring—even just today it seems to have presented me with some inexplicable miracle—so I tell her, “My advice is to keep on believing. And hey, you should drop a wish for Sweetwater in our wishing box—you never know. Sometimes wishes come true.”

“I’ll do that,” she says, then glances toward the door, which Helen has just walked through wearing a velour sweatsuit. “Ah, there’s my sweet aunt. We’re meeting up here, then having lunch before I head back home in a couple of hours.”

I remind her to make that wish before she leaves, then wave to Helen before I get back to the business of business, which continues to boom.

And though I know Helen is the reason Taylor came in, Dara and I both remain stumped about the rest of them, so when an older woman mentions that she’s on her way to Chattanooga, I finally ask the question. “Where did you hear about us?” A spontaneous laugh leaves me as I add, “We’re trying to figure out where all these people are coming from.”

“Oh, I saw the sign on the expressway,” she says, “and the guy in the Santa suit.”

I just blink. “You saw the what and the what?”

Travis

Talk about absurd, how-did-I-get-here-and-what-am-I-doing? moments. I can’t believe I’m standing at the Winterberry I-75 off-ramp in a saggy Santa suit, ringing a bell that Helen informed me she used “when I worked the Salvation Army kettle outside Lexi’s grandma’s diner.”

But here I stand, waving people toward the Christmas Box after two crazy days of fevered preparation.

First, I called up Richard Hargis and told him about a business that needed immediate help, and my idea of putting a big sign on his property, facing the interstate. He told me what I already knew, that there were permits to get and hoops to jump through, and he wasn’t sure it was legal, period, as close to the road as I was suggesting—but then he added on a laugh, “Imagine we could probably get away with it for a day or two, though.”

Then I was so bold as to ask if he could help me build and erect it.

He answered with a big sigh. “Kinda busy with the holidays upon us, but…maybe my son can help. Gonnaneedhelp to make it big enough to read from the expressway.”

Then I even went a step further, knowing I was already pushing my luck, and asked if he thought one or both of his kids would do the lettering on the sign.

When he hesitated, I added, “I’ll handle whatever parts I can—I’ll work on this around the clock if I need to—but I don’t have that kind of talent, or the time to find anyone else.”

“To be honest,” Richard said over the phone, “this is turning into a pretty big ask.”

“I’m aware,” I told him. “And I apologize. But it’s the only thing I can think of.” Then I played that last card I was holding. “And…it’s my dad’s dying wish.”

“That son of a gun,” he said. “Sounds about like something he’d pull.”

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