Page 70 of A Box of Wishes
Ben set his mug down. “I haven’t met your mother.”
“Be grateful. Aunt Bridget is a bit much most days, but at least she’s not spiteful.”
“What happened?” Ben checked himself. “Sorry. I understand if it’s private.”
“Don’t tie yourself in knots. I wouldn’t have started this conversation if I minded. My da was about to have a heart attack, though it was Ryan who’d felt ill all morning. The doctor later told us that if he hadn’t badgered my da to get it checked out, he could have died.”
“And your mother resents that? That Ryan saved her husband?”
“She resents that Ryan’s alarm sent all of us looking for her. Because my aunt Bridget found her in bed with some guy, cheating on my da. Everything fell apart after that. My mother blamed Ryan for her lies, my parents got a divorce, and I chose to stay with my da while she buggered off back to Ireland.”
“And Ryan thought it was all his fault.”
“You got it. For a while there, Aunt Bridget wasn’t the most supportive either. She tried to stop Ryan helping people—never mind that he can’t control his gift—and she did little about the slurs and abuse.”
“You did, though, right?”
Alastair chuckled. “Gods, the fights we got in. Cara, and I, and our O’Shaughnessy cousins. We could throw fists, but none of us could stop Ryan hurting and trying to help. It was horrible.”
“You’re right.” Ben shivered. “He hasn’t told me any of this. He said he gets a feeling when someone needs help, and then he hands them a square of paper and makes them write a wish. He did it for me, too.”
“That’s what happens now. I’ve seen him huddle in a corner, shivering. He’s had nosebleeds. We had the ambulance ‘round when he couldn’t catch his breath or when he was in so much pain he couldn’t bear it.” Alastair’s voice was bleak. “For years, there was nothing between him and the misery around him.”
Ben didn’t want to imagine Ryan in so much pain. “But now he has the box?”
“Ryan’s da, he doesn’t meddle, usually. But when Ryan turned sixteen, he took him aside and told him to visit the old country. Told him that he couldn’t tackle all the woes of the world, and to find himself a shield.”
“And that’s the box?”
“You got it. It’s somewhere Ryan can lock his gift away, so it doesn’t hurt him.” Alastair gestured a little vaguely, and Ben had the sudden urge to hug this man who cared as deeply about Ryan as Ryan cared about strangers. “He used to be open about his talent and got nothing but grief. He keeps it quiet now, and focusses on people who come to him for help. He’s made himself a life in his coffeehouse. He’s made rules for himself and for that box. But I don’t think he’ll ever forget what happens when he shares too much of himself.”
“I was wondering where you were going with that tale,” Ben said, the weight on his chest lifting a little.
“Yeah. But did you hear me?”
“I did, yes.”
“Good. And since you didn’t come to hear me prattle, what questions can I answer for you?”
Ben found the first smile of the day. “You already have. Your erratic schedule and mysterious packages aside, you’re not a man who’d use his cousin’s coffeehouse to drop off consignments of drugs.”
Alastair’s brows climbed his forehead. “You thought that was likely?”
“Not really. But it was a possibility. You always come home for Christmas. You bring packages from faraway places. All complaints against the coffeehouse were made in the winter. And the people who attacked Ryan demanded a recipe.”
“I thought you searched Ryan’s coffeehouse for stray recipes.”
“We did. Twice.” They’d searched everything except Ryan’s box, and after hearing Alastair’s tale, Ben was more reluctant than ever to push him to open it. He slid off his seat and stretched. “Back to old-fashioned police work,” he said. “Thanks for talking to me. It helped.”
Alastair’s answering smile didn’t reach his eyes. Ben wanted to ask what bothered him, wanted to offer his help, but knew he didn’t have the right. All he could do was wish the man a good day and be on his way.
Three days passed while Ryan buried himself in work and ignored the flowers, posters, and pink hearts taking over the town. It seemed that every merchant, regardless of the products they sold, turned their shop pink. He usually joined right in and found enjoyment in watching his customers have a good time.
This year, everything felt different.
Ben had been there, and now he wasn’t. And Ryan couldn’t face another Valentine’s Day watching other people in love. The whole damned festival irritated him as much as the radio, which trotted out the sappiest tunes, when all Ryan was left with was heartache.
Literally.
