Ever since moving here and opening up to Quinn about my shitty work environment, I’ve been thinking a lot about what elements of Carver & Associates served me least. Everything from my desk placement to my ability to speak in meetings to my ideas not being taken seriously all served to shrink me professionally. I was made to believe I was a minor unit in a big machine. I served only to make the most senior members look good. I want to do the exact opposite here. A win for one is a win for all.
“I obviously need to get approval from the council before I enact any of this.” I check the ornate cuckoo clock mounted to the wall across the room. In ten minutes, it’ll chime the hour and a wooden Santa figurine will pop out of the doors and do a little jig. It scared me the first few times, but now, the silliness is a small spark of joy. This time, it will signal a lunch break.
“True. You should share it with them and explain your vision once you’re finished. Most of them will be enthused to have someone with your experience willing to reinvigorate our mission. Others will be more resistant.” Hobart’s eyes pointedly scan to the other side of the room.
“You mean Nicholas.”
He continues to avoid my gaze. “You’re welcome to make your own conclusions. If you don’t need anything else before lunch, I’ll take my break now.”
My office door is a magician’s trick box. One being leaves and another appears. This time, it’s Quinn. His arms are weighed downby two heavy-looking brown paper bags. They hang by twine handles. “I brought lunch.”
I stand to brush my pants free of eraser shavings. “What’s on the menu?”
“Meat pies!”Popgo the lids off two mini pastries. Utensils get separated. “Which I helped make! Don’t be too surprised when I tell you that I had a lot of fun baking these. Kitchen work can be peaceful when your mind isn’t elsewhere.”
“And there’s magic involved,” I point out.
He rolls his eyes at me and takes a bite.
For the past couple of months, Quinn’s been spending his time meeting the elves and learning about their trades. A true Mister of, by, and for the people. Except those people aren’t people at all; they’re elves. Complex, passionate, immortal, and awesome elves.
“I feel very Meghan Markle,” Quinn mused one night. We were splitting a Hawaiian pizza from the enchanted oven in the least tropical place on the planet.
Resting in the chair beside the fire and across from Quinn, I pick a pie and poke around with my fork. “What’s the meat in these meat pies? I’m assuming it’s not ham.”
Quinn scrunches up his mouth before bobbling his head. “I’m actually not sure. I didn’t ask.”
“You’re a regular Mrs. Lovett.”
Quinn’s singing Sondheim in a bad cockney accent when Hobart pokes his head back into the office again. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, obligingly. His attitude toward us has thawed significantly since that first ultra-stressful night we met. His real personality has unmasked itself.
“What brings you back, Bart?”
“I came to say that I was thinking more about your plans for a redesign.”
“Plans for a redesign?” Quinn asks, confused.
“I was keeping them under lock and key until they were finished, but I guess the cat’s out of the bag.” I gesture him over to my drafting table, lunch untouched. My stomach gurgles. Not from the lack of food but from showing this to Quinn.
We assume our usual positions with me on my stool and Quinn looking over my shoulder. I don’t glance up at him. I simply intuit his reaction by how his body clings ever closer. As he takes in the product of my creative, mathematical mind.
“Far cry from bathroom partitions, huh?” I joke because he hasn’t said a word yet.
After a breath, Quinn says, “It’s inspired.” He jostles my shoulder encouragingly. Pride overrides my worry. Every new drawing is a chance. Every new project is a risk. I already took a major one by coming out here. Can I take another by putting this plan into action?
Hobart clears his throat. “I know you said they’re not finished yet, but I think you should show them to the council this week. Tomorrow, actually, if possible. The sooner the better! While we’re still in our slow season, we can allocate the resources and elf power to make it happen with minimal disruption to our toy timeline if the council approves.”
The back of my neck is suddenly slick with sweat. “I—” My mouth is both overrun with saliva and yet dry as a desert.
“Do you love your design?” Quinn asks with needed gentleness.
“I do.”
“Do you believe this design will make a difference?”
I hesitate, but ultimately nod. “I do.”
Quinn rubs the width of my back. “Then, Mr. Claus”—he crouches down so he’s level with my ear—“I think we’ve got a presentation for the council to put together.”
