I tuck Mick’s collection into my bag and continue toward the workshop, ready to wind down this chapter of my life. This magical detour has brought me fantastical memories to last a lifetime. I’m motivated to see how I can utilize everything I’ve cultivated here back home.
Patrick and Jorge are in the garage, where I get a firsthand tour of those bells and whistles Patrick was going on about out in the reindeer pasture. There are whole percussion and woodwind sections strapped to the flying beast, like we’ll be conducting a symphony for the skies.
I get buckled in while Jorge discusses the other improvements made by the elves over the last year.
He might as well be speaking the way adults do in old Peanuts cartoons because I don’t understand half of what he’s saying. Patrick, on the other hand, is nodding vigorously, white beard bouncing.
For most of the year, Patrick didn’t need to wear the cloak. Since this is his first test flight in preparation for his second Christmas,they need to replicate as many variables as possible to avoid any hiccups.
The reindeer are harnessed and ready to go.
I am, too. Ready to complete this practice run and be one day closer to returning home.
Honestly, I’m not even sure why Patrick wanted me to come on this practice run. I made the present delivery rounds last year out of necessity. This year, it feels like the council would want Patrick to go alone, as is custom. But I guess me being the first Merriest Mister has thrown custom out the window.
Patrick calls each reindeer by name, and we zoom out of the garage and into the air.
Unlike on Christmas Eve, we don’t have far to go. It’s a puddle-jumper flight. We’re ascending longer than we’re in the air. We circle until we come upon a replica of a suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of the village, which eerily reminds me of bothMonsters, Inc.(a staple on movie days in my classroom) andThe Stepford Wives(a movie Mom loves). The combination of simulation training mixed with movie-set Americana artifice is enough to give me the heebie-jeebies.
I shake them away as best I can, helping Patrick as much as I did last year.
In the first house, a holographic adult putters around in the kitchen for a midnight snack. I hang close to Patrick so the cloak’s circle of protection includes me as we hide in a coat closet until the coast is clear.
The second house doesn’t have a chimney, so Patrick pulls the magical emergency chimney from the sleigh. It’s a four-by-four cube that attaches to the roof, expands to his width, and shoots us waterslide-style inside. I set out the gifts while Patrick samples the peppermint Oreos.
It’s not until we’re coming up on the third house, which is set apart from the rest and much closer to the village, that electric wonder strikes me with full force. My attention piques as I pitchforward in my seat and grab for the binoculars fixed to the dashboard.
From above, I get a bird’s-eye view of a stone-exterior farmhouse with a snow-speckled roof, which is undeniably English-inspired—a tidbit I most definitely picked up from one of Patrick’s prized coffee table books. A porch wraps itself in an L shape around the front of the house. The rockers from the chalet, or replicas of them, sway in the gentle breeze.
I’ve seen this place before in blueprints and 3D digital renderings and as a gingerbread creation. But this is a whole other level of jaw-dropping.
The sleigh slows to a stop atop the dream house.Ourdream house.
Patrick doesn’t act surprised by this place. Instead, he wordlessly slips down the chimney with a mischievous smirk partially hidden by his overgrown beard.
I follow him down into the place he envisioned for us. There’s exposed stone throughout. The furniture choices could be summed up as quirky—none of the upholstery matches. There’s a striped sitting chair, a floral couch, and a polka-dotted ottoman all keeping company in the same cleanly cluttered room.
I recognize this clutter asourclutter, from our first apartment. The organized chaos I grew to love. Our books, our picture frames, some of our New Jersey life has been moved here.
Patrick is tiptoeing toward a tremendous Christmas tree, lit proudly in the living room of my dreams, when I stop him with my voice. “Did you do all this?” I ask, both overwhelmed and perplexed.
The mischievous smirk makes way for a full-blown smile. “I did.”
“Why?” I ask. Then, I’m hit with the fear that I sound ungrateful. This is a stunning display of his love, that’s for certain. My heart doesn’t know whether to glow or go dark.
“For us,” he says, outstretching his hands to me.
I take them, even though uncertainty has inched up into my throat like it did during that first tour of our house in New Jersey. “For us? For three and a half months?” It seems like a waste of resources. I’ve seen the progress reports Hobart delivers over breakfast. Toy production is way down.
“I was hoping for forever,” he says, staring deep into my eyes.
The uncertainty in my throat gets usurped by panic that blocks my airways like dry bits of cookie. “Wh-huh?” I croak. “But we’re leaving. In January. After Christmas.” Each fragment overlaps with the last until I take a deep breath.
“What if we didn’t?” he asks. My nerves get shocked into a state of paralysis. “You said the morning after our anniversary that you wished we could stay here forever and ever, so I built our forever and ever home here to make that happen.”
I look everywhere but at Patrick. That doesn’t prove helpful. I’m noting all the care and craftiness he and the elves poured into this place, into getting it right. Yet I know in my heart this is all wrong. “Figuratively. I meant that figuratively, Pat.”
His expression drops. “I may have Santa magic, Quinn, but I still can’t read your mind.”
