“Living among the human population. Back in the lives they left to work here,” says Yvonne. She holds her patterned, porcelain coffee cup as if she’s using it to warm her hands.
“But they remember all of this? And they chose to give it up?” I ask. Slightly stupefied. We’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and yet, based upon this croissant alone, I’d never want to leave.
“We don’t wipe their memories or anything like that,” Samson says. His plate is overflowing with protein. He pops a crispy slice of bacon into his mouth. “What would be the point? Who would believe them if they said they spent the last x number of years in the North Pole?”
“But doesn’t this whole place run on belief?” Quinn asks. He’s probably thinking ofElf.
Ashley lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. “That’s another movie misconception.” She’s acting like we received a handbook and didn’t read it.
“What she means,” Colleen says, far more nicely, “is that belief in Santa does not fuel the magic here. Love does. Love among the human population, love between nations, and perhaps mostimportantly, the love shared between Santa and his wif— I mean,significant other.”
I swallow thickly. Not because of her near slipup. But because Quinn and I are wading through a rough patch. This move doesn’t automatically erase that. Could we cause more chaos by being here than we already have?
“A struggle for our last Santa and Mrs. C, that’s for sure,” says Chris. Which begins a whole other conversation about our predecessors, their marital mishaps, and their disgraceful exit.
“The magic sure got that selection wrong,” Jorge jokes.
“I’m keeping that pair of shorts Christa sewed for me at the top of my drawer just in case!” Chris says.
Yvonne playfully rolls her eyes. “I saw more of your thighs over those three days than I have in a decade!”
“Now that they’ve both returned to their old lives, I wish for a quick and mess-free separation,” says Colleen, the only one not smiling. “Some people simply aren’t meant for one another and our mission. That’s nothing to laugh at.”
The group appears chastened, and now it feels rude to ask any follow-up questions about the man and woman who were living in the chalet only a day or so ago.
Quinn must sense this, too, because he instead asks, “Who knows about the North Pole? Aside from you all and the other Santas.”
“Everyone who needs to know,” Nicholas says. He’s clearly the authoritative compass of this group. He reminds me a little too much of my dad. But I’ll try to look past it for the sake of my success here. “World leaders, safety organizations, toy manufacturers. For the most part, we’re an open secret.”
“People chalk our operation up to one of those weird, unexplainable phenomena,” says Samson. He’s cleaned his plate already. “Oh, there’s a fast-moving shiny object soaring through the sky on Christmas Eve? I must’ve hit the eggnog too hard at the family party.”
“Oh, there are presents under the tree for my daughter that I didn’t buy for her? My husband must’ve gotten them, signed them ‘From Santa,’ and forgot to tell me,” Emmanuella adds.
“It’s the kind of thing people have strong inklings about but rarely discuss for fear of sounding ridiculous,” Yvonne says.
“Like ghosts or UFOs,” adds Ashley.
“Are those things—”
She hits me with a firm stare. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
I nod in understanding. Colleen cuts in, “This is all to say that we are a well-oiled, magical machine. A system of checks and balances. By no means will all responsibility fall on the two of you. We just want to get you up to speed as quickly as possible before everyone gets back to work on New Year’s Day. We want you to be able to explore, relax, reset, and enjoy your new home for the next year.”
I look to Quinn, who is already staring at me. Through only eye contact, we come to an immediate understanding.
If we’re going to make it work here, we have to makeuswork too, stat!
23A VERY MERRY MAKEOVERQUINN
“How does this fit?” asks a kindly elf named Christa with long black hair and bubbly cheeks. She finishes adjusting a pair of red suspenders attached to fleece-lined jeans over an off-white Henley, the top two buttons undone. I’ve been fitted into a pair of weatherproof snow boots with little pompoms hanging off the laces. The whole ensemble is giving Lands’ End but make it gay.
I pivot in the mirror. “Fits well. Comfortable but practical.” I know this style. Half my days were spent covered in chalk dust or Elmer’s glue, so I dressed for efficiency, not fashion. Palatability, not self-expression. A staggering shift from the fun patterns, bright colors, and genderless articles I donned in college.
When Colleen brought up this shopping trip, I didn’t feel comfortable, in front of the whole table, saying that I actually felt bold and confident in the outfit I cobbled together from the old closet. It was upcycled but still cute. However, Pat and I are here to be together, not for me to rock the boat like Mrs. Hargrave suggested at Mr. Hargrave’s birthday party some years ago, so I’m taking all of Christa’s designs and suggestions with a nod and a gracious smile.
We’ve been at this boutique for over an hour now. It’s a small shop with a Parisian sensibility, almost like I’ve stepped onto the set of a period drama. The clothes are decidedly modern, and the speakers play Ariana Grande’s Christmas album at a dull roar. I’ll have to get used to year-round Christmas music. Because here it’s not “Christmas” music. It’s just “music.”
Yvonne and Colleen sit on a semicircular velvet couch behind me, chiming in with their two cents. It’s all very bride-to-be in a wedding dress shop, and I don’t mind it. I welcome it, even.
