Page 22 of A Box of Wishes
“Exactly,” Ben said. “Christmas is for families. I don’t want to impose.”
“You couldn’t possibly. Everyone in town who wants to poke their head in is welcome.”
“Here? You open the coffeehouse on Christmas Day?”
“Always do. It’s very cheerful. We set one long table in the centre of the room. Some people stop by for a coffee, others stay longer. Many of my regulars bring other people—and the Box of Wishes can get busy…”
Ben was silent, and Ryan didn’t push. They stood in the half-tidied office, their fingers brushing while they watched Morris sleep.
“About that,” Ben said after a while. “Can you explain it to me? The box and the papers and why some people—”
Ryan thought about it.
Fate had a way of helping when help was needed. And Ryan and the box were the means to make it happen. All people had to do was ask.
It wasn’t true for all cases, of course.
If someone asked to win the lottery to rid themselves of debt, nothing would happen. If they asked for help so their family wouldn’t be homeless… that would be a different matter. Even if it resulted in a lottery windfall.
Ryan had tried to explain it before, but even his ma didn’t grasp the distinction he’d been trying to make. Not surprising, since her idea of happiness had every member of her family partnered and settled down. She was a relentless matchmaker, and she thought all Ryan had to do was make a wish to that effect.
“Ryan?”
Ben’s fingers tightened on his, and Ryan took another deep breath. Talking about his gift had brought him trouble in the past. Would Ben judge him because he was different? Ryan refused to believe it. He clutched Ben’s hand and took comfort from the press of his fingers. “Do you… believe in magic?”
“A few days ago, I’d have said no.”
“And now?”
“Now… now I know there has to be something else.” Ben turned to him, and his eyes burned with intensity while the colour in his aura darkened to the velvet blue of a night sky. “I’m a police officer, Ryan. Before I became a detective, I spent three years in uniform. I’ve seen… all sorts. Even when I’m scared and out of my mind with worry, I can tell the difference between blood and red paint.”
“Ah.” Ryan had wondered about that himself. “When I handed you the paper and pen… what did you write?”
“Gods… I’m not even sure. Something like ‘please, don’t let Morris die’? Does it matter? Can’t you tip out the box and check?”
“No, I can’t.”
“What?”
“The box is locked for a reason.”
“And that reason is?”
“To preserve people’s privacy, of course. When people come here, they’re… distressed. For many, asking for help is a last resort. You wouldn’t want to have your wish laid out for all to see, would you?”
“Probably not. Have you ever opened the box?”
“It was open when I found it in Ireland. The padlock and the key were with it. I locked the box as soon as it was mine, and I’ve not opened it since.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Seven years.”
“And for seven years, people have been putting wishes in the box? It must be quite full.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe? You mean it doesn’t see much use?”
