Page 6

“Yes, that’s right. You can’t miss it,” Vivian confirmed.

Maggie turned and moved toward the back hallway, her soft-soled flats silent against the wide pine floorboards. The air in the hallway was cooler, smelling faintly of lavender polish and old books. She reached the bottom of the oak staircase and gripped the banister, her hand moving smoothly along the carved wood as she climbed to the second floor.

The upper hallway was quiet, illuminated only by the pale moonlight spilling through the arched window at the end of the corridor. Vivian’s master bedroom sat at the front of the house, overlooking the harbor. The furniture was dark mahogany, classic and timeless, the four-poster bed made up with a smooth white coverlet.

Maggie crossed the braided rug to the large closet along the one wall. Pushing open the door, she inhaled the rich scent of dried cedar and wool. On the top shelf, partially obscured by two neatly folded blankets, sat the box.

It was much larger than the one they’d opened in the square, easily eighteen inches long and bound in thick, tarnished iron straps. A heavy metal latch secured the front, stamped with a small, intricate maker’s mark that matched the ironwork on the old harbor dock gates.

Maggie reached up, placing both hands firmly against the cool cherry wood. She shifted her weight, sliding the box forward off the shelf until she caught its full weight against her chest. It was surprisingly heavy, the contents shifting slightly inside with a dense, paper-like rustle.

Holding the box securely against her body, she moved out of the closet and back toward the staircase. Everything in Vivian’s house seemed steeped in history, but as Maggie began her descent down the oak stairs, the distinct weight of four decades rested squarely in her arms.

Maggie set the heavy cherry wood box on the table beside Vivian. The iron straps gave a dull clink against the polished surface, the sound drawing everyone’s attention toward her.

Vivian reached out, her fingers still clutching the brass key. With a steady hand, she fitted the key into the iron latch. The lock turned with a sharp, satisfying click, and the lid swung back on hand-forged hinges.

Inside, stacked in four neat rows held together by faded velvet ribbons, were dozens of envelopes. Some were yellowed at the edges, the paper dry and brittle with age, while others were smooth white paper from recent years. Every single one was addressed in varying styles of handwriting, some in careful script, others in crude, blocky crayon, to the same recipient: Santa, Cranberry Cove, Massachusetts.

“Good grief, Vivian, what on earth are these?” Carol said, leaning forward to glance in the box, her sharp eyes scanning the neat bundles.

“Special letters,” Vivian murmured. She lifted a bundle from the top row, holding it gently in her lap. “The Wish Tree in the square handles the public requests, the warm coats, the grocery vouchers, the repair funds that the town council approves every December. But there’s another kind of wish that people don’t hang on a public Christmas tree branch where their neighbors might read it.”

Susan’s hand went to her chest in surprise, then she pulled her cardigan closer around her shoulders as she eyed the contents of the box. “Letters to Santa...” she whispered in awe.

Maggie’s heart hammered within her chest at the shocking realization that shook each of the four wide-eyed women in the room. They’d all heard about this mysterious “Cranberry Cove Santa” who grants private wishes, but Maggie never would have guessed that the woman who was like a sister to her could hold such a secret right in her upstairs closet.

“Yes,” Vivian said. “Not the toy lists from five-year-olds that the post office handles. These are the letters people write when they’ve run out of options, when they’re too proud to ask for help face-to-face, or when their hearts are breaking so quietly nobody else notices.”

“Oh.” Maggie stared at the wooden box, her pulse thudding in her ears as she tried to make sense of it all. “You’ve been collecting the letters?”

“Not just collecting them.” Vivian paused for a moment. “I’ve been answering them.” She ignored the collective gasps around her as she stared at the items in her hand, before placing them gently back into the side of the box. “Ever since I was in my late twenties, around the start of every winter season, the postmaster puts the letters sent to the town’s special PO Box into a blue pouch, and I pick them up every Tuesday evening.”

Diane sat up straight, her ledger entirely forgotten on the table. “You mean to tell us that for four decades, you’ve been investigating and fulfilling private town wishes as some magical Christmas fairy all by yourself?”

“Not all of them, but the ones that I could,” Vivian said as if that made her admission any less mind-blowing. “Sometimes someone just needed a box of wood for their stove without having to beg for it. Sometimes an elderly woman needed her roof shoveled after a snowstorm without having to burden her neighbors or family. Sometimes a family needed a warm holiday dinner delivered to their porch on Christmas Eve.”

“Vivian, that’s…” Maggie stared at the woman she’d known most of her adult life, seeing her in a whole new light. “I honestly can’t find the proper words.” She shook her head. She’d always known that, out of all of them, Vivian had the biggest heart. But she hadn’t realized just how big it really was.

“Why keep something as huge as this a secret from us?” Susan asked, her voice tight with sudden emotion. “We’ve sat at this table every week for thirty years. We would’ve helped you.”

“You all had children to raise, businesses to run, and your own problems to bear,” Vivian said smoothly, her eyes filled with affection. “I always knew that, as long as I was able to, it was my work to do.” She paused, her gaze settling meaningfully on her braced ankle. “Which brings us to our present problem.”

“Ah, I see where this is going.” Carol crossed her arms, her head tilting as she was hit with a realization. “The doctor put Santa on house rest for six weeks.”

“Yes, exactly. Which means I can’t drive down to the harbor, I can’t check on people, and I certainly can’t deliver packages after dark,” Vivian said. She reached into the cherry wood box and pulled out four unopened white envelopes resting on top of the current year’s divider. “There are four private requests already this season. Four people in Cranberry Cove who wrote a letter because they didn’t know where else to turn.”

She held the envelopes out toward the center of the coffee table and plopped them down.

“I need my four friends to take them,” Vivian said firmly. “I need you to read them, investigate what’s needed, and help me answer them before Christmas Day.”

Maggie looked at the four clean white envelopes resting against the dark wood of the table. A hush descended over the warm living room, broken only by the crackle of the wood stove and the distant sigh of the harbor wind against the glass.

“We don’t read other people’s private mail,” Diane noted, though her hand was already hovering over the table. Her eyes never left the letters in Vivian’s hand. Perhaps she was as eager as Maggie to be a part of their town’s Christmas magic. “Isn’t it an offense?”

“They’re addressed to Santa,” Vivian reminded her with a faint smile. “And tonight, you four are taking over Cranberry Cove’s Santa workshop.” Her eyes swept the table. “I’ve put them in an order suited to each of you.” Her head turned. “Diane, you take the first one, then Carol the second, Susan third, and Maggie will take the last one.”

Carol sighed and reached out first, her fingers sliding the top envelope off the stack. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” she murmured.