Page 5 of A Box of Wishes
Tarbert made a note on his tablet, brows drawn tight as if he struggled with a choice. “Have you been to this coffeehouse before?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“You don’t know the owner?”
“Never spoke to him before this morning. What’s this all about?” Ben had wondered that ever since a detective inspector had arrived from Northampton, and he’d heard the questions the man had asked Ryan.
“It’s possible that this is more than a bungled break-in.” Tarbert steepled his fingers. “There are rumours that the coffeehouse is a front for a drug dealer.”
Ben wanted to point out how ludicrous a suggestion that was. He swallowed the words just in time. Since when did he feel defensive about the people he interviewed? Or convinced of their innocence when he’d barely met them? “Any evidence?”
Tarbert shook his head. “Not exactly. The initial report came through Crimestoppers roughly this time last year. The specialist unit followed up, but they’ve not seen anything untoward. We had another tip four weeks ago. And now this break-in. Since you were first on the scene and the owner knows who you are… maybe you should monitor the place for a bit.”
“Using the break-in as cover.”
“Yes. Any problems with that idea?”
“None. Do you suspect the owner, or do you think someone’s making use of the coffeehouse?”
“Blow me if I know,” Tarbert grumbled. “Strictly off the record, I can’t imagine Ryan O’Shaughnessy of all people as a drug dealer. I know his mother, did I say? Fiercest woman I’ve ever met. It could all be hogwash or spite, but if it’s not…”
“I understand.” Ben stood and tugged his jacket straight. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Good man.” Tarbert turned his attention to the next item on his to-do list before Ben had even closed the door behind him.
When his ma had taught him to bake, she’d also shown him how to make use of the freezer. Ryan was grateful for the lessons as he shoved trays of croissants and cinnamon buns into the oven. His morning hadn’t been peaceful. After covering the early breakfast shift, dealing with the police and his insurers, and finding a carpenter who could fix the back door in a hurry, he’d finally escaped into the kitchen after lunch for a much-needed stint of baking. But now he worked by rote, his enjoyment overshadowed by memories of the detective who’d sat in the corner booth, huddled over his mug of tea as if nobody had offered him comfort in a long time.
Ryan had never met anyone so distracting.
From cropped dark hair to slate blue eyes, Ben Hobart was gorgeous. He’d be devastating if he smiled. But the cloud of dark grey Ryan saw around him told a different story. The detective was lonely and heartsore and needed a bit of happiness in his life.
Ryan never argued with his other sight. Helping people find their slice of contentment made him happy. It was the reason he ran a coffeehouse.
“If I wanted to spend the day with grumpy people, I’d have opened a pub,” he’d told his da more than once and meant it.
There were few things that a cup of something hot beside a plate of pastries couldn’t cure. And for those ailments… The need to check on the Box of Wishes flared hot in Ryan’s chest and Ryan didn’t question it. He left the kitchen and headed for the bar.
The box stood where he’d placed it on the day of the autumn equinox.
Fashioned from rowan heartwood, with a long, metal-bound slot in the top, it might once have lived in the entrance hall of a country hotel, collecting letters for posting. Ryan had found it one summer in a tiny antique store in Connemara. He’d pulled it from between piles of trinkets, and the sudden fierce burn—as sharp as touching a live wire—had stopped his breath and brought tears to his eyes.
His mind had screamed at him to let go, to drop the box and run.
Ryan had held on.
He’d been running already, had been trying to escape his need to help others whatever the cost to himself, even as he knew he’d fail. Clutching the box hurt, but with the pain came understanding. He knew what the box could do and why he’d been the one to find it.
When he’d opened his coffeehouse, he’d taken to displaying the box on the bar between the autumn equinox and Christmas Day, during the part of the year when people sought solace more than at any other time. And whenever he felt Fate nudge him, he reached under the counter and set a small square of coloured paper on the customer’s tray between the coffee cups and the plates filled with cakes and pastries. He added a marker pen to the paper and nodded when the customers dropped the square—now neatly folded—into the box after they’d written their wish.
Most did it with a sheepish grin or a tiny, embarrassed smile. Some didn’t look at him at all. And only once had a customer asked him why he felt a sudden need to write on the coloured bit of paper and put it into the box.
“Because you need help and were ready to ask for it,” Ryan had answered.
The bell jangled as a customer entered, and Ryan’s mood brightened when he caught sight of the newcomer’s face. “Alastair!”
“Hey, kiddo. Look at you, all grown up.”
“Three months, big difference.” Ryan couldn’t believe his eyes. “Why didn’t I know you were coming? No email in the jungle?”
