My chin rebounds. “You want to help?”
“Of course,” he says, like this should’ve been obvious. He plants a kiss on my cheek.
I think about all those nights I locked myself away in my office in the house. Embarrassed that I didn’t finish my work at the office. Worried I was one slipup away from foreclosure. One broken date away from divorce.
Maybe I should’ve leaned on Quinn a little more. Maybe relationships aren’t always a perfect 50–50 split. Sometimes they’re 70–30 or 60–40. You have to trust that the other person is ready to pick up the slack, and you have to be willing to do the same when the inevitable time comes.
Hobart looks excited out of his mind to be involved in such a massive undertaking. “I’m here to help, too! Whatever you gentlemen need, I’m your elf!”
I let loose a loud exhale as I inspect my work. “There’s still a lot to get done. If we’re going to do this tomorrow, we might need to pull an all-nighter.”
“Who needs sleep anyway?” Quinn asks.
“Not me!” Hobart says, nearly jumping out of his boots. “But I will need food! I’m heading into town to grab us another round of caribou pies!” He’s out the door in a flash.
Quinn and I look at one another with surprised disgust.
“Caribou?Really?” I warily glance over at the table where we’ve left the remnants of our first, and definitely last, North Pole meat pies. “How am I ever going to look the reindeer in the eyes again?”
We share a rueful, uncomfortable laugh and then get down to work.
Night falls like curtains on a stage. One at a time, hour by hour, I switch on the lamps around the room. I light the fire. I stifle a yawn.
No matter how late it gets, we continue to work. I’m too in the zone to stop. I’m nursing an espresso while Quinn collates some data. He’s sitting cross-legged on the area rug, using the coffee table as his workspace. The tip of his pink tongue pokes out the left corner of his mouth. His nostrils flare. His focus flags. Until his eyes land on one of my sketches. Suddenly, he’s taking a small break by picking up a pencil and replicating my work.
I don’t say anything. I don’t even think I breathe. I just observe.
He’s so consumed by his tangent that he doesn’t react when I get up, round my desk, and stand behind him. “Don’t worry so much about if your lines are straight,” I say. He snaps out of his daze. “Confident strokes that overlap are more important than perfectly straight lines. Sketches are ideas, not finished products.”
“What are these?” he asks of the small, hyphen-like markings on my drawing.
“Directional hash marks. They’re for texture. They show a surface like a roof.” I use the eraser end of my pencil to point at lighter lines that I’ve slashed through the boxy sides of the workshop. “These are construction lines. They give depth, dimension. Sketching is all about layering.”
He tries for himself, but his hand is too heavy. I squat down behind him. Lightly, I wrap my calloused hand around Quinn’s fist, which is holding the pencil. I guide him in feathering the page. Goose bumps chase each other up the outside of my arms. “You try now,” I whisper. Like I’m letting go of the handlebars on someone’s first bicycle.
Quinn’s mouth droops in frustration when he doesn’t get it right. “God, my students could do better. Why am I so bad at this?”
“You’re not bad at it,” I say quickly. “You just need practice. And patience.”
“Not my strong suit,” he admits.
“That’s not true. You teach second graders. Your whole career is an exercise in patience.”
“Very true. I guess I just use up my limited well of it on my students.” He shrugs. His eyes have glazed. “And the administration.”
“Save some for yourself.”
“Huh?”
“You always give one hundred and ten percent of yourself,” I say. “It’s okay to sometimes just give one hundred or ninety-five percent. You’re allowed to save some for yourself.” I plant a kiss on the crown of his head before returning to work.
33THERE’S SNOW BUSINESS LIKE SHOW BUSINESSQUINN
256 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
On my way to the theater in town, I pass the elves working hard on the workshop redesign. My satchel bounces at my side as I wave to the friendly faces. They whistle while they work, a happy tune that underscores the click of my boots on the cobblestone pathways that has become synonymous with freedom.
Up ahead, Patrick is decked out in red, holding a clipboard and pointing authoritatively into the distance. Even from far away, even without hearing him, I know he’s giving an impassioned speech, his hands moving frenetically. They paint the picture in his mind for the others. From the way the elves and council members around him nod and smile, donning hard hats and tool belts, it’s obvious his vision is well received.
