“Yes.”
“I’m on it,” she said, determined.
It was heavy and thick for a letter. The paper and envelope were expensive and high quality. I’d been practising calligraphy, and while I was nowhere near good, it certainly didn’t look like my normal handwriting. I’d even chosen the postage stamp just for this. The label on the front had gotten ‘water damage’ which was really Cherry using paper towel just damp enough to make it unreadable.
Paul had a postmark stamper, with the date and location, the kind that post offices used. I didn’t ask where he got it from. I didn’t want to know. But he’d very skilfully stamped the top corner so we could see it had been “processed.” We just couldn’t read any details.
Paul was very good at it. Probably too good at it, but I could hardly ask questions when he was doing me a favour. We had exactly ten seconds to get it done, and we were trying to keep it a secret from Malachi.
As it was, Malachi had spotted Paul leaving my office. It was a close call. But Paul had grinned, clapped his hands together. “Thanks for approving the use of the collection of mannequins and spare body parts in the storage room as a Christmas nativity scene.”
Malachi went pale and wide-eyed, and he needed to sit down. “No, no no no no. No mannequins, no body parts.” He put his hand to his forehead. “I feel ill. Julian, how could you do this to me?”
I was standing in my doorway, not sure how I was in trouble for any of this. Paul just smirked as he pushed his cart down aisle F-G. But it worked, because Malachi was so derailed by the mere horrific mention of a mannequin and fake body display, he’d forgotten all about Paul coming out of my office.
Malachi and Paul had an unusual relationship. They joked with one another all the time and they were mostly friendly, though sometimes the barbs were a little sharp. But they each gave as good as they got, and I think they both liked pushing each other’s buttons every so often.
“There will be no spare body parts as a nativity scene,” I said, patting Malachi’s shoulder as I walked past. On my way to collect a full cart of parcels and letters, I smiled when I saw Malachi’s cart with tinsel draped along the outside.
His letter was sitting on top, near the side, with all the other envelopes. Not super obvious, but the sight of it made my belly all tight with knots.
I began processing my cart while keeping one eye on Malachi and where he was and if he’d got to the letter yet, all without trying to be too obvious.
I was just about done with my first cart when Theo pushed his cart past me. “He’s reading it,” he whispered as he went by.
With my heart in my throat, I pushed my cart back up the long aisle toward the front. I stopped a fair distance from the end, but I could see Malachi sitting at his desk in his cubicle. He was holding the letter in one hand, his other hand pressed to his heart. His eyes were wide and, oh god, was he teary?
My heart banged against my ribs, trying to escape out my mouth. I felt a little queasy.
Then Malachi hugged the letter, and I must have laughed or made some kind of thankful/relieved sound because Malachi spun to look at me.
Shit.
“What are you doing?” I asked, trying to cover up why I was watching him. “Do you hug all the mail?”
He stood up and held out the letter. “Julian . . . Julian, come and read this,” he said.
I walked toward him, my chest tight. I tried to smile. “What is it?”
“You have to read this. No, let me read it to you.” He sat back down, patted down his hair, and let out a long breath. “It’s beautiful.”
My heart stammered in my chest. “So read it.”
Malachi shook himself and inhaled deeply. “Okay, are you ready?”
“Yes.”
“It reminds me of the Dearest Milton James letters.”
I almost laughed. “Okay.”
He let out a slow breath. “There’s no name, but it’s written in calligraphy. The ink is a pretty blue.” He made a face. “It’s not as neat as the Milton James letters though.”
I tried not to be offended. “Fair enough.”
“But it’s a valiant attempt.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said. “Malachi, please.”
“Right. Okay.” He took another breath in and began to read.
“Merry Christmas, my love. I wish I could give you the world, for it feels like that’s what you’ve gifted me. A love so pure, so complete. I wish for nothing when I’m with you.
May this Christmas bring you all you could ask for, may all your wishes come true.
Forever yours.”
Malachi stood up and turned the paper around so I could see the writing. “Isn’t it just the most precious thing ever?”
“It’s very sweet,” I whispered, not trusting my voice for much more.
“I need to find who sent it,” he declared, turning back to his desk. “I have to. So we can find who they sent it to. They need to get this before Christmas.”
I tried not to smile. “Okay.”
He sat down and pulled the envelope over, inspecting it with his nose almost touching it. “I might have to stay late,” he said, still studying the envelope.
I worried for a second that he might see something we’d missed. “Okay.”
He shot me a look. “It’s very important, Julian,” he said, annoyed now. “Someone has gone to the trouble of writing this beautiful letter for Christmas and it’s been ruined. I have to find them.”
I smiled at him then. “Okay.”
He sat upright. “I need a black light. Paul has one. I think he uses it to search hotel rooms for fun.” He stood up. “Paul?” he called out, taking both the letter and the envelope with him as he went down aisle J-K. “Paul, I need your creepy torch.”
He disappeared and I turned back to find Cherry watching me.
“No, you’re not putting fentanyl on it,” Malachi said from somewhere down a far aisle.
Cherry smiled and I grinned. The first letter was done.
Four days, four letters to go.
Chapter Three
“There’s nothing,” Malachi mumbled, his forehead pressed to his desk. “I can’t find anything. The address is completely water damaged. The postmark isn’t legible at all.”
“It’s how it goes sometimes,” I offered gently.
Everyone had left twenty minutes ago; the night shift was arriving but giving us a wide berth. Malachi’s pitiful whining was worthy of an Oscar.
I had to wonder how he’d handle the next four letters. Probably not very well.
He looked up at me. “Who writes this kind of love letter without a return address? Do they not care? How can they put such thought and effort into the purchase of the expensive paper, the ink, to sit and write such beautiful words from the heart, then take the time to post it and not write a bloody return address? Who does that?”
I sighed. “Someone who thought—”
“An idiot,” he said sharply. “That’s who.”
I held out my hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
He pouted, cutely, of course, and reluctantly took my hand. “I’m going to need carbs to get through this.”