I’m about to start back to the chalet when, across the field, Patrick appears. The fading sun dips behind him, turning him into a silhouette outlined by slashes of sherbet light. Beside him, one of the reindeer nuzzles in, tilting its head up as if they’re conversing.
I call out to Patrick, but he doesn’t hear me, so I hop the fence and crunch my way across the field. Bits of his conversation float on the air. “Almost ready,” he says. “The finishing touches are—” A reindeer sneezes beside me. I’m about to say “bless you” when I hear, “I just really hope Quinn likes it.”
“Likes what?” I ask.
Patrick Hargrave turns with the speed and precision of a professional figure skater. “What? Oh, hi. Quinn. Hi.”
“Hi to you, too,” I say. “Hope I like what?”
“Yeah.” He fishes into his satchel for an apple for Blitzen. Patrick loves these reindeer so much that he spoils them. I bet Chris wouldn’t approve of Patrick messing with their diet so much. They’re an elite sleigh-guiding team that needs athletic discipline. Last thing we want is any of them becoming too lethargic to sustain the all-night flight. “The, um, new bells and whistles Jorge has implemented on the sleigh.”
“Oh, cool. What sort of features?”
“Bells… and whistles.”
“Oh, you meant literally.”
Patrick nods. “They’re to deter flocks of nocturnal birds from crossing our flight path.”
“Got it.”
“What are you doing out here?” he asks, as if he wishes I were anywhere else.
“I was just taking a stroll. I’m on my way back to the chalet to talk with Veronica.”
“Veronica?” Patrick wears a new shade of surprise. “I didn’t realize you’d talked to anyone back home since we got here.”
“I haven’t,” I say, uncertainly. “This was the first time. Honestly, this is the longest Veronica and I have gone without talking since we met, and since all the Merriest Mister duties have slowed down as Christmas preparation ramps up, I’ve really started to miss her. A video call is the least I can offer after eight months of silence. Is that a problem?”
“No, of course not.” Though, he sounds as uncertain as I feel about his downward-sliding expression.
I decide not to push it because maybe he’s thinking about how he wouldn’t have someone like Veronica to call if he wanted to. I wouldn’t peg Patrick as antisocial, but when he started at Carver & Associates, he fell out of touch with all our college friends. He tends to stick to himself.
“Will you be home for dinner?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says with a smile. I nod, moving closer to give him a kiss before heading back. “Wait, no. I won’t. I have a few urgent tasks to attend to tonight. I’ll be late.”
“Have Hobart bring you something to eat, okay? Don’t forget.” I think back to my running thoughts only an hour ago, about how if I leave teaching, I may still never find acalling,but in our time here, Patrick morphed into a more self-assured man. TheSanta role suits him. He’s taken his passion for architecture and his natural affinity for leadership and fashioned it into a winning combination.
Next year, in New Jersey, back in our house, I hope he finds a job that lets him shine as much as this one does.
42A HOUSE IS NOT A HOMEPATRICK
A MEMORY
Our Realtor could sell insect repellent to an army of ants.
Keegan Sommers of Nearby Neighborhood Real Estate treats every property like it’s a villa in Versailles. Gesturing grandly and using flowery roundabout speak like, “And here we have one of the many luxurious amenities of the property, a first-floor half-bath perfect for entertaining guests complete with vanity mirror over a porcelain sink and a working commode.”
Quinn asks in a low voice, “Is he suggesting indoor plumbing is anamenity?”
I shush him. Mostly because this man stands between us and homeownership. Which is an important step in getting my parents to regard me as the success I desperately want to be. I got the job. I got the husband. All I need is the house.
“Seems like a fixer-upper,” Quinn says. This time directly to Keegan, so I stifle my shush.
Keegan, without balking, says, “The fun is in the fixing. That’s how you turn someone else’shouseinto yourhome.”
But as we stand in the soupy August air on a crumbling back porch looking out at a backyard overrun with tall stalks of grass and weeds flowering over other weeds, my stomach drops another notch. If we didn’t have a strict budget, maybe this wouldn’t be so torturous. If I wasn’t an architect, maybe I wouldn’t be thinking, “I’d have done it this way or that” in every room we walk into. Andit’s not like we’re sitting on the funds needed to flip a place. We make enough for the basest repairs at best.
