“Mm,” he groaned as I hit a certain spot under his toes. “My sweet chilli dressing brings all the mums to the yard.”
I snorted. “Did you get the list of things your mum wanted?”
He scratched Mr Bojangles under the chin. “I’ll go tomorrow after work. If you need anything, make me a list.”
The cat stood up on his chest and jumped down, sauntering away. Malachi stood up and offered me his hand. “Come on, we’re going to finish this full body massage in bed.”
I went very willingly. “Your wish, my command.”
The third letter was different. It was still technically paper, but the envelope was bigger and it was wrapped with wax paper for protection. This gift was delicate, and I only trusted Cherry with it. The plan was to give it to him with about an hour to go before we finished. That way he couldn’t torture himself all day with it.
Malachi had made some phone calls earlier to the expensive paper suppliers. He’d sent close-up photos of the paper and the envelope, but he’d yet to hear back.
So he was busy with his non-stop supply of carts full of parcels and letters when a call came in from the paper supply store. He was so excited as he ran to his desk, his eyes wide, smiling and nodding as he listened, but it soon faded to disappointment. “Well, thank you anyway. I really appreciate it. I know you’re busy.”
He hung up the call and sighed, defeated. “Dammit.”
“Is everything okay?” I asked. I had a stack of letters in my hand so I looked like I was busy and hadn’t been spying on him.
“She said no to the paper. They don’t stock it. She said it looks Japanese. And very expensive. Like, really expensive.”
Shit.
Well, she was right.
I frowned. “Oh. But the letters weren’t sent from Japan.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Australian postmark.” He sighed again. “I think.”
Cherry made a nervous face behind her cubicle wall, holding today’s letter, and she stood up. “Malachi?” She handed it over. “Does this envelope look familiar? I think it’s the same expensive paper as the others.”
It was A4, so the size was different, yes. But the paper was unmistakably the same.
She then held up the card. “This was in it. I just got to it now. I haven’t looked . . .”
Malachi jumped to his feet and took the card, his eyes wide. “The paper is the same,” he whispered. He laid the card on his desk and gently opened it.
It was a fold-out pop-up multi-layered kirigami piece, Christmas themed, with gold and red trees and origami reindeer. It was the same paper as the other letters, of course, and on the background was big calligraphic writing.
Merry Christmas, my love.
Now and forever.
Malachi looked up at everyone, his expression shock and disbelief. “It’s the same. It’s the . . . how can it all be the same?” He shook his head. “Something’s not right.”
Shit.
“It was opened,” Cherry said quickly. She then held up the envelope. “See? The seal was already unstuck. I don’t know if anything fell out. Maybe yesterday’s letter was also in this envelope, because you couldn’t be sure if it was postmarked or not . . .”
Okay, that was good. Sewing the seed of disbelief, of a number of possibilities. Casting doubt over how these pieces came to be here, all undeliverable.
Malachi sat there, shaking his head. “Why would someone spend so much money on the paper—this card must have cost a fortune—only to not take care of the shipping? If it was that expensive, why weren’t they courier-delivered or hand-delivered? If they had this kind of money, why didn’t they hire someone in a suit and expensive car to personally deliver the letters?”
It hurt to see him so crestfallen. This was supposed to be fun and exciting, not make him sad.
“Maybe the person who sent them is old-fashioned,” I offered with a shrug. “Maybe the person who was supposed to receive them loved getting mail.”
He looked at me for a long moment before conceding a nod. “Maybe.”
“We don’t know anything about them,” I said.
He shook his head again, resigned this time. “There are no clues, no hints, no information outside of the fact that the person who sent them is the most romantic person ever and the person who was supposed to receive them won’t get them. Not before Christmas, maybe not ever. And that’s so sad. It’s two days before Christmas. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and we don’t work Christmas Day, so tomorrow is my last chance to find them. They should have got the best Christmas present ever, and now we can’t deliver it.” He scowled at his computer screen for a second, then obviously had a bright idea because he turned to me, excited again. “Can I call the TV stations? Can I make these public? I’m certain they’d eat up such a feel-good Christmas story right now.”
“Do you know how many crack-pots would come forward?” Paul asked from his cubicle. He didn’t stand up or anything. “You’d be burying yourself in a few thousand dead ends and countless wasted hours.”
Denise came out of the breakroom and cracked a can of Coke. “Every other parcel and envelope that you’re ignoring in your cage right now is just as important. Hate to be the bringer of truth and facts, but . . .” She shrugged.
Malachi stared at her, and I felt bad. She was right, and I’d increased everyone’s workload at the busiest time of the year.
“You’re right,” Malachi mumbled. He got to his feet. “I should get back to it.”
“Malachi,” I began, “I think we should talk—”
Cherry jumped up and grabbed Malachi’s arm. “You can talk at home,” she said. “We have mail to sort.” She gave me a pointed glare as she dragged him toward his abandoned cart. “Come on, I’ll help you.”
I watched them disappear down an aisle and sighed. Denise was suddenly beside me. “I didn’t really mean that. It was just a distraction. I mean, the other mail is important, but I could see you teetering on the brink of collapse there. You were about to tell him, so I had to say something.”
Paul clapped my shoulder. “Hold your course, son. You’re almost home and hosed. Just one more day to go.”
I nodded but didn’t really feel any better. “One more day.”
“Tomorrow’s the big one,” Theo whispered.
Yes, it was.
“Oh, don’t forget to dress up,” Denise added. “Got your costume’s ready?”
I’d almost forgotten about that. “Malachi’s been planning mine for six months, so yes.”
Then a high-pitched scream cut the air. We all spun to the sound. There was only one person who could scream that high.
“Malachi.” I ran down the aisle, everyone else right behind me, to find Malachi backed against a shelf and Cherry peering into an open box on the ground.
Malachi was pale, his hand to his heart. Cherry reached into the box and pulled out a hand. A mannequin’s hand, no less. And then another.
As it turned out, it was a box full of hands.
Malachi made a sound that was half gag, half whimper, and he shuddered from head to foot. Instinctively I went to him, pulling him against me. “It’s okay.”