I nod, elated. “Yes. Yes, of course it would.”
“Then…” Patrick says. He takes off his cloak. His hair falls flat in his face and his jacket is flecked with golden glitter, but he still looks heart-stoppingly handsome in a sharp, tailored suit.
As I look him over, I notice a simple silver chain around his neck. On it, two rings clang together. He takes the chain off and undoes the clasp to remove one of the rings. It’s my wedding band. From the nearby sack of gifts, he produces a single, perfect red rose. “Quinn Muller, will you marry me? Again?” He’s kneeling as he says this.
I rush across the room to him, extend my trembling left hand,and let Patrick put the wedding band back where it belongs. I’m whole again. “Yes. I’d marry you a million times over, Patrick Hargrave.”
Smiling, he puts his own ring back on his finger, then stands. “Now let’s put this mistletoe to good use.”
EPILOGUEPATRICK
185 DAYS ’TIL CHRISTMAS
My parents look completely out of place in the North Pole.
They stand in front of my house in the village with their hair sticking up, suitcases by their side, and frazzled looks on their slightly green faces. I sent Hobart, in his last task as head elf before attending special-mission training, to bring them here because there are too many last-minute details to arrange. Quinn’s and my vow renewal ceremony is somehow more stressful than our wedding.
Of course, that’s probably because Mom planned most of the wedding for us on the first go-around. This was Quinn’s baby from the start. Every weekend that he has wrestled himself away from working with Kacey and drinking with Veronica and walking the goldendoodle named Kringle that he surprised me by adopting, he is in the North Pole designing outfits with Christa, setting menus with Colleen and Yvonne, and talking logistics with Hobart.
I add my two cents here and there, but for the most part I sit back and let Quinn do his thing. He’s refined his planning skills in his new post at the Rainbow Connection Coalition.
“Welcome,” I say to my parents, who stand behind the garden gate. “How was the trip?” As part of my changes to the bylaws, biological and chosen family are now allowed to visit the North Pole. My parents, being the people that they are, put off the trip untilnow. But Quinn’s mom has come up a few times to help with ceremony prep, and Bradley has come by, too, for overnights. It’s only served to boost the love inside our little bubble of joy.
“It was very fast,” Mom says.
“And bumpy,” Dad adds.
“Sorry about that,” Hobart says. He rolls their suitcases behind him like a bellboy. “It’s been a while since I’ve driven.”
My parents are immediately enamored with the house. When I tell them I designed it, they go quiet at first. But then they share a big smile that I suspect they think I don’t catch.
I show them upstairs to the guest suite with the big cushy bed and the vintage-style bathroom. It has a mixture of white tile and floral prints in green, white, and light red that Mom will like. Hobart sets their suitcases down in the corner.
“Where’s Quinn?” Mom asks.
“Oh, he’s working today. He’ll fly in tomorrow. He says it’s bad luck to see the husband before the vow renewal ceremony.” The three of us share a laugh over his superstitiousness. “I figured after you freshen up and get settled, I can show you around the village and we can get some lunch.”
They agree, so thirty minutes later, we stroll through town. Elves come up and introduce themselves. My parents glow when people say how much they “love Santa Patrick” and how “lucky they must feel to have such a stellar son.”
“I swear I didn’t bribe anyone to do this,” I say before leading them into the workshop.
I haven’t given a tour of the space since the ribbon cutting last year. I’m rusty yet I still find a rhythm. My dad’s nods and my mom’s small smiles propel me.
We end the tour in my office. The place I feel most at ease.
“That was great, Patrick,” Mom says.
Dad’s eyes are cast down. Like he’s thinking through something. “You manage that whole operation?”
“I do.”
He nods. “That’s quite impressive, son.”
Mom uncharacteristically cups her hands around her mouth to whisper, “I believe he’s trying to say he’s proud of you.” It means a lot, but it doesn’t mean everything to me anymore, and that’s real progress.
We spend the rest of the day eating good food, checking out the venue, and catching up with each other. I didn’t realize how, even when I became an adult, I still considered my parents as sitting on a pedestal above me.
As they talk about new construction going up near their house and health issues and Bradley’s constant travels and Nan’s assisted living community, I’m reminded that my parents are people, not paragons. And we can connect as such. Not as bricks on top of each other in a pyramid, but as branches extending off the same trunk of our family tree. It’s a reassuring thought.
