Yes. That explains the Golden Ticket.
Mr.Nutcracker looks at me expectantly.
“Oh no,” I say. I can just imagine the horror on the elf’s face upon seeing all the thrift store cardigans and holey jeans stuffed inside my suitcase. I’m certainly not the steam-my-pashminas-and-be-sure-to-color-coordinate-my-cashmere-neutrals material. “I can unpack myself. Thank you though.”
To prove my point further, I reach for my suitcases, but when I turn around, Ian is no longer Charming Mystery Train Man turned Getaway Partner. No, now he’s Helpful Elf, standing at attention with both of my suitcases, no coffee in sight.
“Ian?” I begin, and then the pieces begin to click together. “Ohhh... Ian. You’re—”
“Assistant Head Elf Perkins, at your service.” The heels of his elf shoes click together as he says so and my brow furrows, ever so slightly, as I hear the new pitch in his voice. Gone is the rich baritone, and in its place is a squeaky, childish tone a full octave higher.
“Right...” I say slowly, taking this in. “But we were just—”
“Taking a short break between stations.” There’s that familiar twinkle in his eye as his voice lowers. “Even elves have to have their coffee.”
A group is gathering behind us in the aisle. I realize I’m starting to clog it up. “Oh of course. Right. That makes . . .sense.” I turn back toward my guide and muster up my voice to a cheery note, all the while trying to process the sudden shift in situation. “Terrific. I’ll follow you then.”
As I walk through the aisles in our little entourage, I take in the train. The aisle is lined with carpet in an intricately detailed weave of forest green. Rich red velvet chairs face one another in groups of four, each seat back embellished with a bell in golden thread. The air is thick with the smell of mulled cider and hot chocolate, which isn’t surprising as nearly every one of the thirty or so couples I pass seems to be grinning childishly at one another while clutching a porcelain mug. An orchestra plays a resounding rendition of “Do You Hear What I Hear?” through the speakers. The hum of excitement and anticipation is impossible to ignore.
We pass aisle after aisle, and car after car, until just before walking through yet another velvet curtain, Jenkins stops.
He turns toward a door. Gives the knob such a subtle yet refined twist I realize I’ve been doing it all wrong before. The door glides open, and Jenkins puts out a hand. “Your suite, MissFairbanks.”
I step inside. And gape.
Suite is an understatement; it’s more like an empire. Whereas everyone else on the train is coupled in groups of four facing one another with just enough legroom to recline, this—this—is something entirely different.
To the right is a fire—an actual fire—with flames licking the glass of the small woodstove, whose black pipe drifts upward and through the ceiling. Two mason green-stripedwingback chairs face it, a small, needlepoint ottoman of Santa on his sleigh on each side. The walls are of deep-maroon damask wallpaper, and as I turn, my knees nearly buckle at the sight of a Christmas tree standing beside a mahogany four-poster bed. Wall-to-wall windows spread across the length of the bed, with a red-and-green plaid couch laden with throw pillows and a stack of sheets, quilts, and soft wool blankets on the other side. Two butter-soft-looking robes hang from a closet door, with another door cracked open to what appears to be a bathroom beyond. At the foot of the door sits a basket overflowing with peppermint bath bombs, candles, and a card.
I walk to the tree, and both Jenkins and Ian, I’m vaguely aware, follow in identical formation.
“Are you quite sure this is mine?” I take in the scent of pine as I touch the string of cranberries. Sure enough they compress slightly at my squeeze. The real thing. All of this.
It’s too good to be true.
“Quite, MissFairbanks,” Jenkins says. “We arranged everything according to Mr.Yates’s wishes. Even”—he nods to the couch—“with regard to the surplus bedding.”
And blinking in the words, I realize. This wasn’t the standard Jonas upgrade. This wasn’t just the typical “Let’s upgrade to first class” situation.
Here, this is when Jonas would’ve proposed. He’d love the pictures. He’d love the background of the wingback chairs and the crackling of the woodstove fire. Perhaps he had already enlisted Jenkins to videotape it.
I’m as certain I’m standing in the exact spot where I would’ve gone from girlfriend to fiancée as I know my own life.
Ah.
Well.
I purse my lips and pluck a pine needle from the Christmas tree. All the better.
All.
The.
Better.
Now I have a gorgeous suite to enjoy all to myself, and—I glance over to Ian, who at the moment is grinning a little too brightly—anda nice guy to sit next to beside that cozy fire. When he’s off duty. And a human again.
Is he currently overworking his smile to force dimples in his cheeks like a true elf?
