Setting aside Hobart’s cryptic warning, we grab the presents designated for this address. On the flight over, Hobart instructed that we had a few tasks once we were inside:
Find the Christmas tree.
Lay out the presents.
Respond to any notes left by children.
Sample the cookies and milk.
Bring up any reindeer feed.
Get back to the sleigh before being caught.
It sounds simple.
It’s not.
One at a time, we float down the chimney chute Mary Poppins–style. A self-moving sack of gifts is right behind.
It’s mystifying, being inside someone else’s home in pitch darkness. We’re traversing a minefield of epic proportions as we decide which way to turn.
“This feels illegal,” I whisper to Patrick, who is already leading the charge toward the Christmas tree. He must be following the weak goldish glow coming from around the corner.
“We’re spreading joy. That’s basically the least illegal thing you can do. Besides, we’re leaving stuff not taking stuff.” He’s got the present-sack slung over his shoulder now, and he carries it with remarkable strength. Would I have been this burly had I put on the cloak?
There are rhythmic snores coming from a nearby dog bed. I panic at first, but then settle on my next step. The dog must be a deep sleeper, or the magic makes it so it can’t see or hear me. Either way, I rush past, not wanting to test my luck. I don’t do dogs. Not one bit.
In our quest, I nearly run into a breakfast nook, too taken by a kitchen ripped straight from a Nancy Meyers movie. It has marble countertops, high-top stools, a fabulous farmhouse sink, and tasteful hanging light pendants. I sigh, inspecting the state-of-the-art oven that probably preheats by proximity, reads your mind, and adjusts for the right temperature.
“I actually mightwantto cook if we had a kitchen like this,” I whisper.
Patrick snorts in response.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
“No, that wasn’t nothing. That was a snort. Why?” I ask, not giving an inch.
“Because, hours ago, you had a breakdown outside our house about how you won’t cook.”
“No, I said Idon’t liketo cook, but I might if we had a nice, working kitchen like this one and it wasn’t thrust upon me or expected of me,” I say.
“Who’s expecting it of you?” he asks, switching the sack of gifts from one shoulder to the other with ease.
I do my best Patrick impression, pretending I’m walking through the front door and setting down my portfolio by the coatrack. “Hey, babe, what’s for dinner?”
“Is that supposed to be me?” he asks, having the nerve to sound offended.
“No, it’s not supposed to be you. Itisyou. Every night. As if I haven’t just had a long, stressful workday, too.” I know what he’s about to say before he says it. “And offering to make sandwiches every blue moon with lunch meat and rolls I went out and bought earlier that week doesn’t count as doing your share.”
Patrick’s eyes bulge. At first, I think it’s because he’s upset, but then I track his gaze lower and to my left. There’s a clanking behind me, the patter of paws, and then a low, menacing growl that causes fear to spring up into my throat.
“Quinn, don’t move.”
14SANTA SAVES THE DAYPATRICK
Behind Quinn, there is an unfriendly-looking rottweiler with its teeth bared and its back arched. We have invaded his territory. He’s making sure we know it.
