The last of the lights lead like bread crumbs up the steps and through the doors, which are still propped open. Through them, I can see my exhibit swaying in all its fantastic glory. I get choked up for the millionth time since coming here.
“It’s better than I could’ve imagined.”
The crew, including Hector, all cheer with approval.
Right on cue, a honk rings out. Noelle hangs out the passenger-side window of the Moon Beans truck, waving her hands and smiling as it rolls up the drive. The owner, a man who may or may not have played Santa at the Lights of Wonder Spectacular the other night, puts the truck in park. Two back flaps fly open.
“Get it while it’s hot!” Noelle calls. She begins pouring steaming cups of hot chocolate for the workers.
“My treat!” I shout. Everyone charges over to form a line. Noelle can barely keep up with the demand.
“You did this?” Hector asks.
“Of course,” I say, beaming. “I texted Noelle this afternoon, and she said they could swing by after they closed for the day. It’s just a gallon or two of hot chocolate.” He gives me a worrisome look. “Don’t sweat it. I cross-referenced the budget sheet to make sure we had the money for it. They worked out here in the cold all day, while I was inside. They deserve it.”
“Cross-referenced the budget sheet? I love it when you talk responsible event-planning to me.” Hector puts a proud hand on my waist.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, toying with the drawstrings on his fur-lined hoodie. “Then you’re going to love it even more when I say, ‘We’ve got projections to set up.’”
He knocks my elbow with a funny growl. “Of course. Hey, uh”—he glances over at the truck, stalling for a second—“grab us two hot chocolates and meet me in there?”
“Sure.”
The line has dissipated, everyone broken off into groups to drink and start to clean up, so Noelle is chatting with Wendy when I step over to place my order. She doesn’t miss a conversational beat as she whips up two overflowing cups with extra marshmallows and candy cane bits.
“Don’t dawdle too long out here,” Noelle says. “I’ve heard tell there’s something special waiting for you inside.”
I squint back at her. “More work?”
“All work and no play makes for a very sad day,” says Noelle. Wendy chuckles. I shake my head and slip the agreed-upon amount from my pocket to pay for her services.
“Your money’s no good here,” Noelle tells me.
“What are you talking about? When I called—”
“Consider it a present from Father Christmas,” she says, winking back at her boss. “It was the powdered stuff anyway, so I may have overshot the price. Now, get those cups inside before they get cold!”
Wendy pats my shoulder. “We’ll be heading out in ten. I’ll send a few people by tomorrow to make sure the finer details get done.”
“Perfect. Thank you again,” I say. She offers a hug, and I take it.
When I walk in from the cold, the hallway has been transformed. Hector has set up blue lights in the hallway that make my exhibit look like a winter wonderland. A small wind machine makes the snowflakes dance even more. I’m almost tempted to stick out my tongue and try to catch a memory, let it melt there and sink in.
The leather-bound guest book I secured has found its way to the podium next to the door.
Just past those doors, the tables, all covered in lovely vermilion linen, are in a circle around the monumental tree that presides over the place. Fully decorated, it’s dazzling. Awe ripples through my abdomen at everything laid out.
I do a lap around the perimeter, looking for Hector. In one corner, the plastic snowmen, refurbished with new smiles, sit up against the white draped backdrop where we will project the snowfall and Santa flying overhead created by Bentley’s brother, which I have saved on a flash drive tucked into my pocket.
Down comes an overhead screen, probably used for guest lectures and the likes, to my right. Hector appears around the side of the tree holding a remote. The projector takes a moment to turn on, but when it does, the home menu for the DVD version ofHome Alone 2comes on the screen.
“Figured you could use a little reminder of Manhattan since you can’t be there,” he says. Then, I notice that on the far side of the tree he’s repurposed one of the tablecloths as a picnic blanket. A wicker basket sits half-open. Inside is a collection of cookies.
“This is super sweet,” I coo. I can’t think of anything more escapist than watching some kid brutally beat up two crooks trying to track him down in the greatest city in the world. I never quite understood the Christmas component, but I enjoy it nonetheless. “But weren’t you the one complaining we had so much still to do the other day? I still have to align the projections.”
He holds up a hand. “Hard work feeds the soul, but rest fuels the body.” He wheels a cart out from behind one of the tables. On it are rolls of wrapping paper and stacks of card stock. Each page has script names and table numbers on them. “I figured we could multitask. We still have place cards to fold and decorative boxes to wrap.”
I set down the hot chocolates while he starts up the movie. The gala may be the literal project, but getting to know him feels like the real race to the finish line. This sweet gesture tells me a lot about his romantic side. Hints at what he might plan for a big anniversary or Valentine’s Day.
