Patrick
I hug the letter to my chest, even if I still have doubts floating around in my head.
“I didn’t know smiles could be that big,” Veronica says, poking her head out the door.
“I can’t have one moment to myself, can I?” I ask with an over-it laugh.
“Nope. We’re starting rehearsal. Get in here, Mr. Director.”
11 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
At the dog shelter, I expect to be jittery, but the clank of collars and the pitter-patter of paws doesn’t spark fear like it usually does. When we’re escorted through the hallways, past the cages, where furry friends bark and wag their tails, I feel light.
They’ve set aside a special pen for Milo with a water bowl and some squeaky toys. “Say hello,” the friendly volunteer instructs Veronica, who goes in without hesitation. I, however, hang back, gripped by an old habit.
“He’s very friendly,” says the volunteer reassuringly.
“He looks it,” I say, shakily, remembering the time my dad forced me to go up and pet the Morgans’ rottweiler at a summer barbecue, so I didn’t look like a scaredy-cat in front of all the other boys. I think back on the dog that lunged at me and Patrick on our joyride around the world last year.
But then Milo, after receiving plenty of loving pets from atrusting Veronica, sees me, trots over to a squeaky toy in the shape of a candy cane, picks it up in his snout, and walks cautiously up to the edge of the pen he’s in. With big brown eyes on me, he sets it down like a peace offering.
“He likes you,” Veronica says.
“Would you like to go in now?” the volunteer asks.
Hesitantly, I nod. Milo backs up as the gate opens. He’s clearly been trained enough to know not to be rough or bolt out. He waits for the gate to close, for me to crouch down and then hold out a hand for him to smell. It takes him one sniff and two seconds to trust me enough to let me pet him.
I decide to take a cue from Milo, who is leaning into me as I scratch behind his ears. I have to have faith and trust that Patrick—the man I’ve always felt safest with—will figure this one out for us.
52AN AHA! MOMENTPATRICK
9 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
Quinn’s letter is the most adorable one to date. He documents, in great detail, the thrill of meeting Milo.
I think I might actually be a dog person,he writes. I smile to myself. Quinn’s growth is my favorite thing to witness. I only wish I’d been there. Though, this seems like maybe something he needed to do by himself.
Just like how he fixed up the New Jersey house, as I saw in the memories and heard about in his letters.
It’s interesting that I made a home for us here, and then he made a home for us there. But the longer we’re apart, and the longer our letters get, the more I’m beginning to believe that home is not four walls and a roof.
Home is love.
And my love for Quinn can’t be contained by a house or a ring or a place or a time. It’s magic.
Speaking of magic, I have handwritten reports from Hobart on productivity, happiness, and love that span from when we arrived at the North Pole, when the redesign launched, and then when Quinn left. Somehow, the magic is working better than ever before. Way past peak performance.
That doesn’t make sense.
We’re almost a week out from Christmas. Despite our best efforts, we are still ridiculously behind on our production schedule.Time is of the essence. In one short hour, I’m supposed to present my plan for increased productivity before the council, but with everything so topsy-turvy, I haven’t come up with a solid proposal.
I jot all my findings down in my leather-bound notebook, sling on a coat, and walk to the stables. Blitzen comes trotting over from across the field with his head slung low. “I forgot your apples today. Sorry. Scatterbrained.” He harrumphs at me, but still accepts apologetic pets on his groomed hide. “I’m in a rush to figure something out and I could really use my best sounding board right now.” He playfully kicks up some snow.
“Something isn’t right…” I almost wish he could read so I could show him my notebook. As I put these data points side by side, I’m reminded of the viewfinder I had as a child. Images of beaches or world wonders gradually moving from grainy into vivid focus with the twist of a knob. “Productivity was up when we arrived, down when the redesign happened due to changes, but then up again around the time of the Elf Extravaganza and the anniversary ball. Then, when I started building the dream house, morale lowered. Productivity did, too.” My thoughts grow crisper by the second. “The magic only righted itself and then surpassed itself when…” I take out Quinn’s first letter to me at the North Pole and, sure enough, the dates match. “We revisited our connection.”
Blitzen lets out three quick grunts that sound likedoi, doi, doi.
At the meeting, Nicholas asks me what’s to be done to meet our wish quota. All I do is hold up the letters. There are farcical looks on all their faces. As if they were aware of these letters all along. I proceed with my spiel anyway, showing them the missives and the rings around my neck.
