I wrap my arms around his shoulders, kiss the crown of his head, and watch as he sends our first-ever Christmas cards off to the printer.
26IT’S ALL UPHILL FROM HEREQUINN
363 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
The chalet, like Patrick’s cloak, is enchanted.
By the time we traipse downstairs—up with the sun and rested more than ever despite the hour—the coffee is brewed, the toast is made and buttered, andThe North Pole Gazetteis laid out on the table, ready to be read.
“Did Hobart do this?” Patrick asks.
“I don’t think so,” I say, nodding toward a cabinet to the left of the ginormous sink. It opens itself. Down float two mugs. The coffeepot up and pours itself. Somehow, the chalet even knows how we take our coffee—oat milk creamer for me, just two spoonfuls of sugar for Pat.
“I could get used to this,” I say, despite the goose bumps appearing on my arms, as my plate fills itself. Patrick laughs, eyes trained on the candles spotted across the half-circle, light-wood island that hides the stovetop. “What are you doing?”
“Waiting for the candlestick to start singing.” He hums the tune of “Be Our Guest” as our plates land on the table and we sit down to eat.
A whole day stretches out before us, and after a meal and a bit of exploring, I find a gear room full of skis and snowboards. There are cubbies with waterproof boots, helmets, and goggles of varying sizes and colors. Three walls have a fold-down bench.The last wall is a painted map of the North Pole. We can go skiing right from here if we want to.
When Patrick pokes his head in, he smiles. “It’s not Switzerland, but…” He’s referencing our set-aside plans for a wintery honeymoon at the end of a swampy New Jersey summer. I couldn’t be happier with how this is turning out. Without showering, we gear up and glide out.
The day is cold but not cutting, especially through our many layers of brand-new ski apparel. Intermittent flurries of snow trickle down from a light gray sky.
If I squint, between the charcoal clouds that look like eraser smudges, the shimmery edge of this pocket universe can be seen. It’s probably some force field that protects the North Pole and contains its magic.
For a moment, claustrophobia weasels around in my chest—Patricksigneda scroll, there’s no leaving here until the year is up—but then Patrick takes my gloved hand as we wait for the chairlift to stop at our location and take us the rest of the way up to the start of the slopes.
There are some early-riser elves already whizzing down the corduroy snow. They swoop by as we take our seats and latch ourselves in for the slow ascent. I grow antsy as we climb. Heights still are not my favorite, but Patrick’s arm around me and this ever-present cloud of golden glitter reassures me.
I reach out and poke one of the particles. It bobs and sways as if doing a choreographed dance alongside the sprinkling of snowflakes. “Are you worried at all about what the council said about the magic during our first breakfast?” I ask, thinking back on what I almost told Colleen and Yvonne.
“Which part?” Patrick asks.
“About the magic being powered by love, especiallyours.” As I say it, it’s almost like the magic responds. It moves faster, more frenzied.
“Should I be? I think our love is pretty pure.” He runs his chin along my head, making my hat bunch a bit and create static against my locks.
“Pure, sure. But strong?” I knock our knees together, so my question doesn’t sound as weighty as it might’ve otherwise. “Ever since we got engaged, I feel like our life glitched and we got stuck on fast-forward.”
A November engagement, a June wedding, and by the dog days of summer we were homeowners. I barely had time to catch my breath.
“How do you mean?” Patrick wears his thinking face—eyes squinted and unblinking, chin cocked back. It’s the same expression he wears when he’s primed in front of his drafting table.
“I mean, I can’t remember the last time we weren’t planning an event or touring a house or working nonstop.” I zip my lips after that last one. It sounded accusatory when I didn’t mean it to be. It’s not like I don’t grade papers while we catch up on reality TV shows. It’s not like I haven’t canceled my fair share of dates because of last-minute meetings.
“You definitely don’t need to be worried about that last one once we leave here.” Patrick closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and lets out a low, frustrated exhale through his nose.
“Are you ready to tell me what happened?” I ask, wishing I didn’t still feel hurt over him withholding this. But hurt doesn’t play by my rules. It never has.
“I messed up big-time.” He rips off his beanie and runs a hand through his hair. A few uncooperative strands fall back down over his face, obscuring his eyes, making him look wounded and boyish. “I took on a project outside of work for the money. Kacey needed a new cutting-edge space for her nonprofit. I accidentally made copies of Kacey’s project for that meeting about bathrooms and toilet partitions. Moonlighting is, shall we say, frowned upon at Carver & Associates.”
“You didn’t tell me about Kacey.” It comes out as redundant. I close some of the gap between us on the bench.
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Patrick,” I say, voice taking on a breathless quality. My heart is ramping up like a freight train gaining speed. “I’m your husband. It’s my job to worry about you.”
“I know,” he says. “I know. I meant needlessly worry. I thought I could keep it under wraps. We needed that extra money to turn that house you hate into some semblance of a home.”
