Page 8

“Oh, really?” Maggie drawled, looking around at the circle of women. “Think about what’s in your hands. Diane, you got the letter from your first love’s mother, thirty years after you stopped speaking to each other.” She looked at Susan. “You got the request from your own grandson.” Her eyes landed on Carol. “And you, Carol, you got one from Nurse Patty, with a request about a problem with a certain town doctor that I bet only you can solve.” She held up the envelope she’d gotten. “And I got a grieving widower’s grandson’s request to help heal the man’s heart.”

Diane shifted in her chair, her analytical gaze darting toward Vivian as her brows drew tighter together. “Vivian, you didn’t slip off that stool deliberately, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t plan for my step ladder to break and send me plummeting toward the ground.” Vivian gave them all an incredulous look, but as she rested her head back against her chair, a small, knowing smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Although, it truly couldn’t have worked out better.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Maggie pressed.

“When I got these requests this year, I knew it was time to finally bring the four of you in on this secret of mine.” Vivian drew in a breath before continuing, “I admit that they were handpicked for each of you, but after so long running this operation on my own, I was still unsure if opening up this door was what was best for you.” Her eyes warmed. “Getting injured wasn’t on my holiday to-do list, but I do believe it was the kick in the pants I needed.”

Vivian paused, her hand moving to cover her heart. “I wholeheartedly believe in each of you. This is not just about you helping those in need, though that is reason enough. It’s about what your hearts may get back in return for it.”

The room fell quiet for a few contemplative moments as each of them thought over what Vivian had just said.

Maggie felt as if her heart and mind were a tangled mess, and she couldn’t keep her doubts from spilling out. “He doesn’t want my help,” she whispered, her chest tightening as she thought of the tall, silent man who worked at the harbor docks. Ben Foster wore his grief like an iron cloak, shunning town gatherings and keeping his distance from everyone except his young grandson. “Ben barely speaks three words at the hardware store. He doesn’t want anyone to pry into his private life, especially someone like me, practically a stranger.”

“The letter wasn’t written by him,” Vivian pointed out. “It was written by a boy who loves him. You aren’t prying into Ben’s private life, Maggie. You’re answering a boy who asked for help. Who wished for it in the most magical way he knew how.”

Maggie once again looked at the wedding band on her right hand. The smooth metal was warm against her skin now. For two years, she’d built a wall around herself out of committee binders, volunteer schedules, and bakery orders. She’d been terrified of leaving enough space for that grief to come spilling in.

Now, a seven-year-old boy was stuck watching as his grandfather built a strikingly similar wall.

“I’ll go to the house tomorrow,” Maggie said, her voice steady and resolute as she tucked the envelope safely into her coat pocket. “I’ll find a reason to stop by that doesn’t mention Santa or private wishes.”

“The harbor council is delivering winter wood to people on Saturday morning,” Carol offered as she tapped her smartphone screen. “I can add Ben’s house to the route list if you want an official reason to drop by.”

“That works,” Maggie agreed. “I’ll bring a batch of fresh cranberry scones or cinnamon rolls from the bakery as well.”

Susan smiled, her eyes brimming with warm approval. “Food always opens a door faster than speeches.” She patted her flat belly and wiggled her eyebrows to emphasize her point, bringing a smile to Maggie’s face.

For the first time in two years, Maggie didn’t feel the familiar panic of returning to her lonely house on Elm Street. She had a purpose beyond lists and banners, and a small boy in Cranberry Cove was waiting for an answer.

Vivian let out a long, contented sigh as she watched her four friends. “Then the Cranberry Cove Santa workshop is officially open for the season. Five thousand lights on the tree, four private wishes in motion, and six weeks before the new year arrives.”

BEN

Ben Foster pressed his palm flat against the cool zinc of the kitchen sink, watching the low gray light of Saturday morning spread across the timber frame of his house on Harbor Lane. Out beyond the glass, Cranberry Harbor looked like brushed steel under the winter sky, the dark tide pulling quietly past the dock pilings.

It was ten minutes past seven, and the house held the heavy, persistent cold that always settled in before the cast-iron wood stove in the corner gathered enough heat to warm the wooden floorboards.

Since Ruth’s passing in January, mornings hadn’t gotten easier. They’d simply turned into a sequence of mechanical steps he forced himself to complete. Ruth had moved through this kitchen with an effortless grace that Ben had taken for granted for thirty-two years. She’d known exactly when the water was about to boil, how many minutes the thick-cut oats needed, and where the butter dish was kept without searching the shelves. Now, every small routine felt like trying to navigate a narrow channel in dense fog.

Behind him, the scrape of wooden chair legs against the floor announced his grandson’s arrival. Theo climbed onto his seat at the pine table, his dark flannel pajamas two sizes too big, the sleeves rolled twice at his wrists. His dark hair stood up in a messy cowlick at the crown, but his hazel eyes, so remarkably like Ruth’s, were wide and alert.

“Oatmeal’s on the stove,” Ben said, his voice gravelly from sleep and long hours of silence. He turned from the sink, grabbed a blue cotton dish towel from the rack, and lifted the heavy iron saucepan off the burner.

“Did you put the raisins in while it was hot?” Theo asked, leaning his chin on his hands as he watched Ben spoon the steaming oats into a blue stoneware bowl.

“Swelled them right up,” Ben replied, setting the bowl on the table alongside a small cup of milk and a spoon. “Eat up before it gets cold. We’ve got work waiting down at the shop before the tide comes in.”

Theo picked up his spoon, stirring the oats with a sharp focus that reminded Ben so fiercely of his late wife. His throat tightened.

Laura, Theo’s mother and Ben’s only child, had left Theo in his grandfather’s care in August so she could spend four months completing an intensive pediatric nursing contract down in Boston.

During the last three months, Theo hadn’t complained once about the almost too silent house or the lack of music playing in the morning. He simply adjusted, accommodating his grandfather’s simple habits with a patience no seven-year-old child ought to possess. That was the thought that kept Ben awake at night, the worry that his own heavy grief was casting a shadow over the boy’s childhood.

Ben turned back to the counter and took two slices of thick sourdough bread from the loaf he’d bought at the bakery on Wednesday. He slid them into the slot of the chrome four-slice toaster sitting near the bread box. It was mid-century steel with a mechanical lever that had belonged to his mother. He pressed the lever down, watching the thin heating coils glow orange behind the metal grate.

He cracked three eggs into a hot skillet, the butter sizzling sharply as he stirred them with a wooden spatula. Cooking for two wasn’t difficult in theory, but making sure the food was hot and served at the same time felt like coordinating a crew on a sixty-foot schooner.