Three Wishes

by Barbara Delinsky

  Bree found new surprises each time she went to Tom’s house. One day it was the family room with endless shelves filled with books and not a carton in sight. Another day it was cartons gone from the kitchen, their contents now in the cabinets. Another day it was oil paintings hung on the living room walls.

  Most touching were the framed photographs that began appearing. Most were small, many were faded. Each had a story.

  “There’s my oldest brother, Carl,” Tom told her. “And, in descending order, Max, Peter, Dan, and me. This is my sister, Alice, all dressed up for a sixth-grade dance. Notice that her date is nowhere in sight. He was scared of us.”

  “He wasn’t.”

  “Well, only for a little while, and then he came back. He decided that he was more scared of what we’d do to him if he didn’t. He lived right down the road. We’d known him all his life. He was a nice kid. Alice ran circles around him, though.”

  Bree picked up another picture. After checking back to the first and making allowances for the passage of time, she said, “This is Max?”

  “And his wife, Sandra, taken on their wedding day. They’d been childhood sweethearts, but Sandra went off to school and married someone else. When the marriage fell apart, she came back home. Max had been waiting. No way could he have married anyone else. The kids are from her first marriage. They’ve had two of their own since this picture was taken.”

  “They look like a peaceful family.”

  “They are,” Tom said.

  “How many grandchildren are there in all?”

  “A dozen at last count.”

  Bree heard pride. Looking up, she also saw longing. Touched, she set the picture down and lifted a third.

  “That’s my dad,” Tom said, pointing to a large man who stood, shoulders back, with a proprietary hand on the hood of what must have been at the time a brand-new Chevrolet. Scattered over, in front of, and beside the car were Tom, his five siblings, two dogs, and one cat. “He saved for years for that car. It was the first new one he ever bought. We used to crowd around his chair and look at the dealer’s brochure. He’d go back each year for a new brochure, he was that long saving up. He wouldn’t buy it on time, had to have the whole amount saved. He finally bought the car in sixty-five. Carl and Max had their licenses, but it was months before he let either of them drive it. Max had an accident the very first time he took it out.”

  Bree caught her breath. “What did your dad do?”

  “He yelled and screamed until my mother told him to keep still. Max drained his savings to pay for the repairs. Years later, he learned that Dad had paid for the repairs himself and banked Max’s money for him. It paid for his honeymoon with Sandra.”

  That said something about the man, Bree decided. It said that regardless of how hard he looked, he had a soft spot inside. She wondered if any of it was left.

  Studying the picture, she decided that Tom’s brothers took after his father far more than he did. He and Alice were the different ones, resembling each other in coloring and smile. “You and Alice must take after your mom. Why isn’t she in any of these pictures?”

  “She’s taking them.”

  “Do you have one of her?”

  “Upstairs.”

  It was on the dresser that had previously been bare, a simply framed snapshot of a twenty-something Tom with a woman who was an older version of his sister, Alice. Bree looked at the picture for a long time. When she looked up at Tom, his eyes were still on it.

  “My law school graduation,” was all he said.

  “She must have been proud.”

  He nodded and set the picture back on the dresser.

  “Call them, Tom,” Bree whispered.

  Tucking his hands in the pockets of his jeans, he looked off toward the window. “I want to.”

  “Then do it.”

  He looked back at her with something akin to panic. “What if he hangs up?”

  “Call Alice, then. You were closest to her.”

  “What if she hangs up?”

  “What if she doesn’t?”

  Contacting his family was Tom’s decision to make. But Bree knew she had given him something to think about when, after staring at her in amazement, he shook his head, chuckled, and hooked an elbow around her neck. “You’re tough,” he said, dragging her close.

  “Maybe I’ll wish for it, you know?”

  “Don’t you dare,” he scolded. “Those wishes are yours.”

  So he had something of his father, after all, Bree mused. Hard voice, soft heart.

  “What would I wish for?” she asked, filled to overflowing with the moment’s joy. “I’m too happy to want a thing. There’s absolutely nothing I need.”

  “You need a new furnace,” he said. “Wish for that.” She screwed up her face. “I’m not wasting a wish on a furnace.”

  “Yours is on its last leg. Maybe I’ll get you a new one.”

  “Don’t you dare.” She tossed his words right back. She wouldn’t allow him to do it. After all, if things went the way she hoped they would, she wouldn’t be living in the house on South Forest for long.

  That was something to wish for, if she was into wishing.

  Serious snow arrived the first week in December, with the cold air and ice that went along with the season. To say that life in Panama slowed down implied that it couldn’t handle the snow, which wasn’t the case at all. The town handled the snow just fine now that sand barrels were in place and plows were hooked up. What slowed life down was tradition, specifically the East Main Slide.

  “Come again?” Tom asked, when Bree took a break from waitressing and slid into his booth, close beside him, to explain what the diner’s buzz was about.

  “The East Main Slide. It’s a race. It starts at the town green and ends at the bottom of the hill. School lunch trays, cardboard boxes, trash can lids, chairs—anything unconventional can be used. There are prizes for the fastest, the slowest, the most original, the oldest, and the youngest. Actually, anyone who finishes gets a prize.”

  “Everyone wins?” Tom asked. “What fun is that?”

  Bree smiled. Tom Gates might be a world traveler, but he had a lot to learn about Panama, Vermont. Pleased to be his teacher, she said, “You only win if you finish, and you only finish if you go from top to bottom without stopping. You can take a running start off the green at the top of the hill, but then you have to stay on for a single continuous ride. If you tip over, you’re out. If you go off course, you’re out. If anyone gives you a push or any other kind of help, you’re out.”

  She could see Tom’s mind starting to work. He suddenly looked very young.

  “When?” he asked.

  “If the snow stops? Tomorrow at noon. There are heats, six sleds per heat.”

  “One person per sled?”

  “Any number per sled, as long as it stays the same from start to finish.”

  “Can anyone enter?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Do you?”

  “I did once, when I was in high school. Three friends and I took the legs off an old porch bench and waxed the bottom slats. We thought we could steer by shifting our weight around.” She slowly shook her head.

  “Went off the road?”

  “Real quick.”

  “Did that turn you off trying again?”

  “No. But my father kept saying I was crazy to risk getting hurt, and then once I started working for Flash, I was needed here. The diner is halfway down the hill. It’s the only pit stop for spectators. We dole out hot chocolate all afternoon.” At least that was what she had done for the past God-only-knew-how-many years, but it sounded boring as hell to her now. “I wouldn’t be against entering. People don’t usually get hurt.” Certainly not as she had been hurt during an innocent walk home from work.

  Tom was clearly interested. “Are you up for it?” he asked. “Physically?”

  Bree straightened. Physically, she felt great. Emotionally, she felt great. She wasn’t afraid of gettin
g hurt this year. If she’d been meant to die, she would be dead already. And damn it, she wasn’t pouring hot chocolate all afternoon.

  “I’m up for it. Got any ideas?”

  His idea, to which they devoted all that evening and most of the next day, involved cutting a four-foot piece from a wide tree trunk that had fallen in his woods, slicing it in half, hollowing out its insides, sticking a rudimentary rudder through a hole in its rear, waxing its bottom, and canoeing down East Main. They weren’t the fastest or the slowest, weren’t the oldest or the youngest or the most original, but they did finish.

  Bree had never had so much fun in her life.

  The next week, Tom had a glimpse of what winters in Panama were like. A second storm hit, dumping a foot of snow on top of the fourteen inches already fallen and frozen. The roads were quickly cleared and sanded, so he was able to drive Bree to work, but there was something confining about having that much snow on the ground. He was bored.

  Just for the heck of it, he climbed up to the room he called his office. It was the only room in the house that wasn’t unpacked, and he didn’t unpack it now. He simply turned on his computer, plugged it into the phone jack, called up Lexis, and did some legal research.

  Then, just for the heck of it, because Bree had another few hours of work and he had nothing better to do, he typed up some thoughts on the Littles’ case as Liz had outlined it, suggested possible strategies, and, taking those, composed a prototype of the kind of letter that Martin Sprague might want to think of writing to the company president who had rejected the Littles’ plan. He put everything in a five-by-seven envelope and slid it into the book he was reading.

  Then, just for the heck of it, because he knew that Martin ate at the diner every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and this was Wednesday, and because he’d planned to go there anyway and eat with Bree when she finished work, he drove over. If Martin hadn’t been there, he would have left the envelope in his book and disposed of it later. If Martin had had people sitting on either side of him at the counter, he would have done the same thing. But the stool on Martin’s left was wide open.

  “How’re you doin’?” Tom asked, pulling himself onto that wide-open stool. He winked at Bree, who winked right back but instinctively knew to steer clear.

  “Not bad,” Martin said.

  “I have a favor to ask.”

  Martin grew wary. “What’s that?”

  “I was talking with Liz Little about her work, and she mentioned the unfair-competition problem she has. That’s not my field, mind you, but it interested me, so I did some research. I think there might be an easy solution to the problem, especially since Liz and Ben have that tape.” He waved a hand no when LeeAnn arrived with the coffee carafe, and kept his voice low. “The right threats in the right kind of letter might be enough to get that company president to negotiate a settlement with the Littles.” “What kind of threats?” Martin asked.

  Tom shrugged. “Threat of a suit under the Vermont labor laws. Threat of an audit. Threat of an injunction. Any one of those will cost a small business more money than it wants to spend. At least it seems that way to me. But I could be all wrong. Like I said, intellectual property isn’t my field, and anyway, I’m not a member of the local bar. You’d be the person to handle this.” He slid the envelope out of his book and across the counter until it was anchored under Martin’s plate. “Want to take a look? Give me your opinion on whether you think the case has merit? As far as Liz is concerned, I forgot about it right after she mentioned it, so she doesn’t expect anything. But she and Ben are good people. It doesn’t seem fair that they shouldn’t be paid for ideas that are theirs. If a session at a negotiating table can get them some cash, that’s good.” He slapped the counter and pushed off from his stool. “They’re your clients. It’s your call.”

  By the third week in December, the diner was decked out for Christmas. Place mats had been printed with a Santa hat topping the frying pan. Snowflakes hung from the ceiling tiles. A decorated tree stood by the jukebox, which was restocked with holiday songs that Flash kept playing at his own expense. The small black vases on each of the tables held bouquets of red dogwood stems, sprigs of holly berries, and mistletoe. Even The Daily Flash reflected the season. One day it offered “Santa sushi” the next, “Christmas carbonara”; the next, “Niçoise Noël.”

  “Too tacky?” a cautious Bree asked Tom, knowing that he had seen grander and more sophisticated holiday touches.

  “Definitely tacky. But great,” he said, gilding a season that Bree was seeing through new eyes and loving as never before.

  Christmases with her grandparents had been sober affairs. They had viewed the holiday as a day for prayers of gratitude for the Savior’s birth and hadn’t seen any connection between celebrating his birth and giving gifts to each other or to Bree. Her father had given her small toys when she was a child, justifying it to his parents by saying that he didn’t want her to think that Santa didn’t love her, too, but the practice stopped the very first year she had outgrown her belief in Santa.

  Bree hadn’t missed the presents. She had desperately missed the cheer.

  There was that and more this year. The diner’s festiveness was only the start. There was the annual clothing drive at the church, which was as much a Christmas cookie exchange as anything else. There was the annual dance celebrating the winter solstice, at which she learned the joy of slow dancing with Tom. And there was the approach of Christmas itself.

  Tom surprised her on the twenty-third by decorating her house while she was at work, turning the sour-faced Victorian old maid into something surprisingly gay.

  “But I wanted to help,” was her only complaint, half-hearted at best, she was so touched by what he’d done, and even then she got her wish. After Tom dropped her at work the next morning, Flash ushered her right back outside.

  “What are you doing?” she cried, when he wouldn’t let go of her arm.

  “You’re taking the day off,” he said, “and don’t tell me there’s work to do, because we both know you don’t care as much as you used to. You don’t give me lists of things to do anymore. Hell, you’ve even stopped crapping about Stafford, though his milk still goes bad. I don’t want you at work today. I want you out here.”

  She was about to ask Out where? when she faced front and saw a grinning Tom. His truck was idling and warm. He was clearly in on the joke.

  Bree went along without a fight, hiding her delight until there was just too much to contain. Tom took her into his snowy woods to cut a tree for his house, popped popcorn to string, opened packages of tinsel, little hanging doodads, and red velvet bows. When everything was in its place, he hoisted her up to place the glittery star on the top of the tree. That night, they joined the rest of the town for midnight services, and there was something extra special in that, too. Though never before terribly religious, Bree felt blessed. Sitting in church beside Tom, with all the people she knew seated nearby, she experienced the same sense of belonging she had felt with the being of light.

  In other respects, too, she was aware of the being of light. She didn’t know if that being was God, Jesus, Saint Peter, or another figure entirely, but sitting in that church, she felt its warmth, felt its love.

  In the oddest way, Bree felt like a newborn, which was probably why she indulged herself when, returning to Tom’s house after church, she found a pile of gifts for her beneath his tree. With a child’s excitement, she opened every last one.

  “Don’t you want to save a few for morning?” he teased, laughing.

  She merely shook her head and slipped off another ribbon. She had gifts for him at her house. If she had been able to wait, they might have opened their gifts together. But it was out of the question.

  She opened fun gifts—a hand-carved backgammon set, books that were on her list to read, a new Garth Brooks CD. She opened practical gifts—a cashmere sweater set that she would never have splurged on herself, a scarf and mitten set, a waffle maker.
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br />   Tom saved the best for last, and then, like the star at the top of the tree, the present he handed her glittered. It was a pair of earrings that looked suspiciously like diamond studs.

  She swallowed, looked up at him, swallowed again, and even then only managed an awed whisper. “These aren’t . . . they look like . . . are they?”

  He nodded, grinned. “Real.”

  It took a long minute of trying to steady her hands before she fitted the posts into the holes in her ears, a long minute of ogling in the mirror, a long, long minute of hugging Tom in thanks when her throat was too knotted for speech, and a long, long, long time after that before they fell asleep.

  Bree didn’t need any three wishes. She decided that again on Christmas Day, and nothing in the days that followed convinced her otherwise. Tom made the week an unending celebration. He cooked a goose one night, took her to dinner at an inn outside Burlington another. On the weekend between the holidays, he drove her to Boston, where they saw The Nutcracker, slept at the Four Seasons, ate brunch at the Ritz, and browsed through Newbury Street shops.

  Bree had been to Boston before, but never as lavishly, and never in the company of her dream man. During the drive home, she sat back, turned her head to Tom, and grinned. “I’ve died and gone to heaven. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Again?”

  “Still.”

  It did seem that way. Then came New Year’s Eve and, after the champagne, a tiny pop in her bubble.

  Chapter

  9

  “Do you believe in making New Year’s resolutions?” Bree asked Tom. They were on their way home from a party thrown by the Littles. He held her hand but was quieter than usual.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I used to make them when 1 was a kid. I’d resolve not to fight with my brothers, or to clean my room without being asked. By the time I got to high school, I was resolving to get better grades. By the time I got to college, better grades weren’t enough. I was resolving to get A’s.”