Quinn takes longer to get ready than I do, so I make idle small talk with Hobart downstairs in the grand foyer until Quinn appears around the corner of the floating, spiral staircase. I’m mesmerized by the look he’s turned out from the disparate parts of a storybook grandma’s wardrobe.
He’s fashioned one of the smaller Mrs. Claus dresses into a top with a waist-cinching chunky black belt. Miraculously, he’s found the one pair of slacks in the closet, and they look like they were custom-made for him. They showcase the gentle curve of his ass with each step he takes. When he reaches us, I have to look up at him, because he’s wearing heels. They make his legs appear miles long. I want to rove my hands along the ridges and valleys of them.
I instantly regret skipping sex for sleep last night. A throbbing desire that we have no time to do anything about materializes low in my gut.
“Do I look okay?” Quinn asks, giving a tentative spin.
“Yeah,” I utter, struck. I want to say fantastic, sexy, stunning, but Hobart jumps in with: “Yes! No time to change anyway. Out we go!”
In broad daylight, the village at the North Pole is even more picturesque than I originally concluded. It has the hallmarks of a valley town. Nestled, secluded, and yet still at one with the natural elements that surround it. The mountains appear as if they’re posing for a panoramic postcard shot. There must be a height ordinance on the buildings here to maintain the stunning vista views.
Elves smile at us as we pass. Some wave. Others come up and introduce themselves like we’re royalty. I grab Quinn by the hand. I’m glad when nobody looks at us funny. Maybe it’s because they know how much power we hold. Or maybe it’s because this is an accepting enclave closed off from the rest of the world. Prejudice has not cast its shadow across this land. Whatever the case, it’s freeing.
The buildings we pass have a nineteenth-century New England style mixed with Bavarian influences right down to the half-timbered, exposed wood frames with Christmas-colored exteriors. Behind the large, fully decorated tree in the town square, there is a stone tower with a clock face in the side that chimes a carol on the hour. I know this because it’s just hit sevenA.M.and Hobart is pushing Quinn and me through the hordes with unwanted urgency. If given the chance, I could wander this place for days and never grow tired of gazing upon these buildings with their interesting shapes and folkloric detailing.
We end up back at the building from two nights ago. Instead of going toward the cathedral room past the portraits, we chart a course into another wing. Hobart opens the door for us to an informal dining room where a feast is taking place. The walls are linenfold paneling over which several mirrors and paintings with gilded frames hang. In the center of the room, a long walnut table is laid out with the most impressive spread of breakfast foods. It’s a cornucopia overflowing with sliced fruits, croissants, scones, and various proteins.
“Welcome, welcome,” Yvonne says cordially. Her hair is down in long, cascading braids. She wears a flowing crimson dress. The hem sweeps the floor as she passes.
“Finally,” Ashley says, harried. She hastily butters a piece of toast and takes a crunchy bite like they weren’t allowed to eat until we arrived. Her blond hair is disheveled. As if she spent the entire night tossing and turning over today. Couldn’t have been me. I slept like a rock with Quinn in my arms.
“Apologies. These two take terribly long showers,” Hobart announces unnecessarily to the room.
“At least they’re clean,” Nicholas, the white man with white hair, says. Funny that he’s the oldest and the most classically Santa with the most fitting name. I’d almost call it cliché. But not to his face. He seems too stern and forbidding to find it funny.
Quinn shoots him a look. Nicholas’s wife, Colleen, pipes in. “Our last Santa had—oh, how should I put it—questionablehygiene.”
Quinn and I are escorted to our seats at the far head of the table. To my left, heavy, damask curtains are tied back on the windows, which showcase sun-drenched mountains. There’s something almost too perfect about the way snow covers them with zero signs of melting. “How did he get the job?” I ask, pulling my attention away from the view. “I assume most Santas don’t come to power because of a frying pan.”
Laughter rumbles through the room. Samson, with the buzzed hair and the jacked body, says, “That was a first for sure.”
“You two are filling a lot of firsts for our storied institution,” Yvonne says. Her smile oozes acceptance. I relax, knowing that, even if they haven’t said as much, we’re safe to be ourselves here. “Speaking of which, Quinn, we apologize for the closet situation. Again, we were unprepared for your arrival.”
Quinn smooths down his top. “Oh, it’s no problem,” he says while accepting a hardboiled egg in a cup from a tray passed down by Jorge.
“Of course, it’s a problem,” Colleen says. “Our first-ever Merriest Mister should be confident and comfortable in his wardrobe, which is why Yvonne and I would like to take you to the boutique once we’re finished here.”
“Oh, okay. That would be really nice,” Quinn says. He punctuates this by tapping his spoon against the eggshell. He was tired on the walk over. But this seems to have perked him up. So has the rich-smelling coffee. A dark roast. His favorite.
“Don’t think we forgot about you, Patrick,” says Chris. I bite into a croissant. It’s the exact right ratio of buttery to flaky. “You’ll be with us today. We’ll tour the workshop, show you where we keep the lists—”
“Wait,” I say with my mouth full. “There are really Naughty and Nice lists?”
“For the most part, the songs and TV specials are strikingly accurate,” says Colleen. Almost gleefully.
“Except for the Rudolph business,” Ashley says. She toys withthe ends of her maroon cardigan sleeves. “That was purely marketing nonsense.”
“We’re sure there’s a lot you want to know,” Emmanuella says. “Now’s your chance to ask.”
“And remember,” says Chris, “there’s no such thing as a stupid question.”
“I beg to differ,” Nicholas says with his whole chest. Colleen shakes her head at him.
Quinn sets down his utensils. Jumps in first. “Are you the only Santas and Mrs. Clauses there have ever been?”
“Not at all. We’re the only ones who’ve chosen to retire here and take part in the council. There have been many,manyothers who’ve worked on this mission,” says Colleen.
“Where are they now?” I ask.
