“Thanks for saying that. Oh, and here.” I pull a wrapped gift out of the bag and tuck it under their nearby pre-lit tree. “Merry Christmas.”
Feeling lighter, I slip back into the driver’s seat of the sleigh and fly off to make a massive, custom delivery close by before returning home to Quinn.
55HOLDING OUT FOR A HEROQUINN
CHRISTMAS
Bzz. Bzz.
I wake up on Christmas morning to my phone vibrating noisily on the end table. I fell asleep on the couch last night. My neck is stiff. Across the room, the Hallmark Channel is still playing on the TV. It’s another Lacey Chabert movie. How does she have the time? And therange?
My unwashed mug of hot chocolate still sits on the coffee table next to the open bucket of kettle corn. That’s when it hits me:Patrick never showed. The devastation is immediate.
Fighting for energy, I pick up the call without checking the caller ID. “Hello?” I say blearily.
“Quinn? Hi. Sorry to wake you so early.” I recognize Kacey’s voice. “Is Patrick there? I tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail.”
“No, he’s not.” I elbow away my feelings about being stood up. “Is everything okay?”
“Oh, yes. Sorry. Should’ve said that from the get-go.” Her voice brightens. “I just… um. A building appeared in my backyard overnight?”
At first, this doesn’t compute. “Wait, what?”
“Yeah, that was my initial reaction, too,” she says.
Then, it clicks. This could be the Christmas miracle Patrickwas alluding to in his letters. “I’ll be right over,” I say before hanging up.
I scoop Veronica on the way. I call her from the car and give her very little context, which is probably why she gets in with a duffel bag filled to the brim.
“What is that?” I ask, already pulling away from the curb outside of her mom’s house.
“My go-bag.”
“Why do you have that?”
“From your tone, I assumed you committed a crime, and now we’re going on the run together,” she says with far too much seriousness.
I honk out a laugh, thankful I have a friend as ride-or-die as Veronica. “What I’m about to tell you is shocking but notthatshocking.”
When we arrive at Kacey’s house, the place is swarmed with neighbors. They all stand around and talk to one another with wonder and confusion and amazement. “Where did that come from?” one man asks an older woman still in her Christmas pajamas. “Beats me,” she says. “I live next door and I’m a light sleeper. I didn’t see or hear anything last night.”
The entire neighborhood is abuzz. A news van rolls down the street. A pristine-looking woman in a bright red coat pops out with a cameraman in tow. This is a lot.
Kacey spots me in the crowd and tugs me through. “It’s a madhouse.” Everyone else lingers at the curb, but Kacey cuts a path across her driveway, into her garage, and through the house. I’m flabbergasted when we reach her backyard.
The building stands somewhere between a large shed and a quaint cottage. It has a blue exterior, a sloped, tiered roof, and plenty of windows. The inside is spacious, and it’s even decorated with Pride flags and quirky chairs in a complementary color palette. It’s markedly a Patrick Hargrave design.
“Wowza,” Veronica says, walking toward the back and looking out onto the tall, snow-dappled trees that line Kacey’s property.
“It’s everything Patrick and I talked about when I commissioned him for the project,” Kacey says. “You’re sure he’s not around?”
I deliberately avoid Veronica’s questioning gaze. “I’m sure.”
Kacey nods as silent contemplation falls over us. My heart is bursting that Patrick did this. On the other hand, I’m nervous about how I can explain this away. Then, Veronica grabs for a piece of paper thumbtacked to a corkboard over the desk in the corner. “Have you seen this?” she asks, passing it over to Kacey.
“No,” she says. “I saw the building from my bedroom window, ran out here, and then immediately called Quinn. I didn’t exactly look around.”
The note reads:
