“Isn’t this stunning?” Keegan asks. He plants himself between me and Quinn. Not that that’s hard to do. Quinn’s left a full foot of space between us as we stare blankly into the expanse. “This is a great way to do your part in going green. Maintaining a manicured rear lawn is an environmental nightmare. Look at how you can celebrate biodiversity with all these natural wonders right on your own property.”
When he’s not looking, I roll my eyes. But as he goes on about the acreage and the many possibilities for home gardening, I find myself starting to agree with him. And then when we go back inside, I convince Quinn to take another lap, alone with me.
“This could be a home office,” I say to Quinn on the far side of the upstairs. In what’s considered the “den” but is really more of a walk-in closet without the shelving. “Can’t you imagine us getting ready for work here?” We’re standing at the sink in the bathroom just off the main bedroom. It’s roomy enough for us both, sitting beside a tub that’s decidedly not claw-foot like I dreamed up for us but at least isn’t a walk-in shower. “You could soak in here and read on Friday nights. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
I borrow Keegan’s inflections as if I’m the one about to make a commission and not a massive capital investment.
“I don’t know, Pat,” he says, wringing his hands. “This all seems so—I just think we shouldn’t rush this.”
“Of course. But you know how the market is. Houses get snatched up like that. What if the place we’re meant to be in is for sale now like this one and we let it pass us by?”
“But what about your design? Building our own house?”
“That’s”—I wave my hands in the air—“for the future. This is now. A starter house.”
Quinn’s mouth reminds me of a guppy. I half imagine little bubbles of unsaid thoughts pouring out and popping at the surface of his tank.
I hold out my hands for Quinn to take. “I know you had your heart set on a honeymoon skiing in Switzerland, but right now, I’m glad we have that money because I think this could be the house for us. It’s got two floors like you wanted. There’s room in the main bedroom for a desk of your own. Plus, a dining room for when we host holidays.”
“When do we ever host holidays?” he asks, skeptical.
“Never, because we can’t in the apartment, but here we can. Here we can do anything. We can deck the halls completely,” I say. Knowing I sound like some animated character but meaning it still.
Despite my cheesiness, his nod grows faster. I lead us back downstairs and into the kitchen. His eyes flick to the fridge.
It’s an old, yellowing thing with brown handles but it buzzes with enough life to keep kicking. “Here, we’ll use magnets to hang all the Christmas cards from family and friends and our new neighbors, and over there”—I point to a space in the family room beside the fireplace—“we’ll put up a full-sized Christmas tree. No more miniature, plastic ones. We’ll go to the nearby farm and cut down a ten-footer.”
“The ceilings are eight and a half feet,” Keegan interrupts.
“We’ll go to the farm and cut down an eight-footer.” I beam at Quinn. Growing weirdly excited about a future I just now decided for us. “What do you say?”
43THE WALLS CLOSE INQUINN
100 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
Mick intercepts me on my way to the workshop in mid-September. The day is fading fast. The school-aged elves pile out of a steepled building, books tucked under their arms. Mick, however, has a knapsack slung over one shoulder and their hands are hidden behind their back.
“What have you got there?” I ask.
“I made something,” they say, feet shuffling. “My parents helped me. It’s a first draft. I was waiting until it was ready to show you. I got it printed, bound, and… look.” Mick produces a collection of papers held together by stark blue spiral binding. The title page reads:A FLURRY OF POEMS BY BLIZZARD.
I beam as I hold the flimsy book they’ve handed me. A familiar feeling coils up inside my chest. It’s the same one I’d get when a struggling student aced an exam or a shy student delivered a stellar book report to the class. I flip to the first page and the dedication reads:For the first-ever Merriest Mister. Thanks a bunch!“This is incredible. What do you plan to do with them?”
Elation dances over Mick’s features. “After the Elf Extravaganza, a bunch of people came up to me asking where they could read my other poems. I typed up the ones I performed and polished up some others and made this. Once I feel like it’s perfect, I’m going to print a bazillion and do a reading at Hand over Hearth and pass these out.”
“That’s amazing! When are you planning it for?”
“Oh, my mom says not until January, at least.” They shrug. “Gotta make it through Christmas before. But I hope you’ll come!”
My enthusiasm dims. “I—I won’t be here anymore. This was a one-year post. I go back to the human world after Christmas.”
Mick nods glumly. “Oh. Okay. Yeah. That makes sense. I get it.”
“You’re going to do great things, Mick Flurry,” I say, harnessing the remnants of my excitement over Mick’s flourishing craft. Aside from turning out looks and judging gingerbread competitions, I’m glad I made a small difference here in one young person’s life.
“Hey, Mick! You coming to the cocoa bar with us?” yells an elf with pigtails wearing a fire engine–red dress and clogs across the plaza.
“Be right there! See ya around.” Mick flashes me the biggest smile before racing off to join their friends.
