Page 43

High on his wooden ladder, Arthur froze mid-motion. His hand, which had been securing a brass wire clip around an evergreen branch, paused completely. He turned his head, his sharp eyes looking down from his high perch toward the group standing beside the display table.

Ben looked up toward the ladder. “Is that one of the old family pieces? I didn’t realize your family’s yard carved holiday ornaments for the Wish Tree.”

Arthur gripped the rail of his ladder, his weathered face growing remarkably still under his wool cap. He cleared his throat, his tone flat and cautious as his gaze moved toward Ben. “That heart has been hanging on this tree for a lot of years. The wood is old, dry, and brittle. It shouldn’t be touched or taken down for a closer look.”

Maggie noticed the sudden, tight tension in Arthur’s posture. His reaction wasn’t just cautious. It was defensive, as if looking closely at the small shipwheel carving threatened to reveal something he had kept hidden for decades. She looked between the quiet man on the ladder and the wooden heart, feeling the faint, mysterious pulse of a long-buried secret.

“I didn’t want to take it down. I was just observing the craftsmanship,” Ben said mildly, keeping his tone respectful. “It’s rare to see an old Hale mark preserved so clearly.”

Across the plaza on the iron bench, Vivian shifted slightly beneath her blanket. Her hands were clasped tightly over her brass thermos, her eyes fixed on the display table as a quiet, unspoken shadow passed between her and the man standing on the ladder.

Across the square, two volunteers were arranging wooden crates of handmade star ornaments, while Theo and Laura stood near the granite railing, watching the fishing schooners rock against the wooden piers.

Ben pointed toward the lower curve of the ornament, curiosity getting the better of him. “The shipwheel is definitely the mark from the old boatyard. But if you look closely at the lower edge, there’s a second mark carved right beside it. It’s a small five-pointed star with a hollow center, cut using a narrow V-gouge chisel.”

Maggie’s eyes tracked the subtle lines carved into the wood. “Does every shipwright use a star on custom pieces?”

Ben shook his head, resting his broad hand against the pine table frame. “The wheel was the commercial yard emblem used on dory rails and schooner knees. But a master builder only added a personal star when he was carving a private gift for someone close to him. It meant the piece was unique, crafted by hand after the yard closed for the evening, made with a specific recipient in mind. My late father used a single pine needle on the gifts he carved for my mother, and someone at the Hale yard must have used that hollow star.”

“It’s an old piece of wood that has been hanging in the weather for many, many years,” Vivian pointed out flatly, her voice carrying clear across the cool afternoon air. “Who carved a wooden ornament decades ago no longer matters to the town. The Wish Tree belongs to everyone in Cranberry Cove, and the decorations serve the tradition.”

High on his wooden ladder, Arthur once again looked down from the middle branches of the fir toward the green iron bench. He adjusted his grip on the ladder rail, his voice low, gravelly, and loaded with emotion. “Some things still matter. No matter how many years have gone by, or how many festivals have come and gone.”

The words hung in the winter air like a visible frost. Vivian didn’t lift her head from her brass thermos, but her hands tightened noticeably over the blanket covering her lap. Maggie observed the subtle exchange between the two elders, an empathetic resonance stirring in her chest. She recognized that tight, defensive posture because she had carried it herself for long, lonely months, hiding behind routine to avoid confronting the vulnerability of her heart. Seeing the unspoken affection and lingering regret passing between them, Maggie realized how deeply the town’s holiday history was tied to their silence.

Maggie moved around the display table, her leather gloves tucked into her coat pockets as she approached the green iron bench. The cold breeze rustled the pine garland hanging along the arbor behind Vivian, carrying the sharp scent of fresh evergreen sap and sea salt.

“When you got that first wish letter forty years ago,” Maggie began, keeping her tone as low as possible, “you immediately quietly spread the word about the post office box so people could write down their private hopes without fear of being judged.”

Vivian looked up, her eyes sharp and guarded beneath her wool hood. “That tradition has helped so many families over the years.”

Maggie looked down at her friend with sincere, caring attention. “The boatbuilder’s mark was identified on the ornamental heart. And we know that the heart has been in your possession since the very beginning.”

Vivian took a slow, deliberate breath, her posture remaining rigid against the iron backrest. “The records of the society and the heart are confidential.”

Maggie leaned in slightly, her voice staying at a private register meant only for the two of them. “Was the first private wish written about the same person who received that carved heart and that letter?”

The direct question settled over the bench with immense weight. For a brief second, the guarded mask on Vivian’s face flickered, revealing a glimpse of something akin to long-buried heartache that touched Maggie to her core. Vivian looked toward the Wish Tree, where Arthur was quietly wrapping the light wire around a thick pine branch.

Vivian swallowed hard, closing her eyes for a brief moment before meeting Maggie’s gaze with firm resolve. “The secrets of the private wishes belong to the people who wrote them and the one that grants them. That rule has protected this town for ages, and I won’t break it now.”

Maggie didn’t press her further. She offered an understanding nod, returning to the display table where Ben was organizing the wooden star ornaments. As she stood beside Ben, feeling the steady warmth of his hand resting against her sleeve, she looked back at Arthur working quietly on his ladder, and Vivian sitting alone on her bench.

An unquestionable certainty settled in Maggie’s mind. Arthur was the boatbuilder who had carved the mysterious heart with the shipwheel and the private star. He was the author of the town’s very first wish letter ever to be sent to “Santa Claus,” and Vivian was the secret subject of the letter that had started four decades of devotion and selfless service.

Suddenly, a loud, energetic bark echoed across the brick plaza from the harbor entrance, jolting Maggie from her internal revelation. A large golden retriever with honey-colored fur came bounding across the open square, his long tail waving wildly as he trotted past the wooden display tables. The cold ocean breeze rustled his thick coat as he paused near the Christmas Wish Society booth, his eyes sparkling with mischievous excitement as he nudged his nose into Theo’s open crate, neatly snatching a carved pine star in his jaws.

Theo let out a delighted gasp, smacking his gloved hands on his thighs in laughter as the friendly dog sat down near the wooden bench, holding the wooden star carefully between his front paws. “Baxter stole the star!” Theo announced, his bright voice ringing clear across the plaza.

Ray came hurrying across the brick square behind the dog, his heavy jacket open at the collar, his cap slightly askew from the run. He held a leather leash in one hand and a wooden box filled with vintage holiday tins in the other. Pocketed inside his coat were a pair of dark leather gloves, their silver buckles catching the pale afternoon sun.

“Drop the ornament!” Ray called out, his deep voice full of breathless amusement as he reached the display table. He knelt on the cold brick, using his free hand to gently take the carved pine star from the dog’s jaws before returning it to Theo’s open crate. “I’m sorry about the sudden raid. He must’ve assumed your crate was his toy crate.”

Theo stroked the dog’s fluffy ears with gentle care. “It’s okay. He didn’t chew it at all. He held it very gently.”

Diane arrived near the booth a few seconds later, her face flushed with a bright, rosy color as she adjusted a long wool scarf wrapped twice around her neck. She carried a small notebook under her arm, her eyes darting nervously between Ray, the dog, and the rest of the committee. “I told you to keep him on the leash while we were crossing the harbor road,” Diane said, her tone flustered as she tried to maintain her usual organized demeanor.

Maggie looked at her friend in surprise, noticing that the wool scarf Diane wore belonged to Ray, while the leather gloves sticking out of Ray’s coat pocket were unmistakably Diane’s lost pair. The subtle, flustered energy between them was unmistakable, pointing toward a brand-new connection that neither of them seemed quite ready to voice aloud.