13. The First Stop

13

THE FIRST STOP

QUINN

I will not look over the side. I will not puke. I will not look over the side. I will not puke.

We are soaring sky-high (I'm trying hard not to think about just how high we are), and the turbulence and Patrick's jerky control have me reaching for the barf bag, which Hobart hands to me, just in case. I am not built for this kind of accelerated excitement.

Patrick is trying his best to steer this reindeer-led flying machine but it seems set on defying his every command.

"Why does it drift right when I turn left?" Patrick asks, sounding annoyed. A new fear clips up into my head: What if we capsize? Would we fall out and back to Earth? Are there parachutes on this thing?

"The magic is still fritzing. It has to get used to you."

"Can you tell it to behave?" he asks.

"Not how it works," Hobart says.

Patrick huffs, drawing my attention away from the vast, inky sky and toward him.

It's still disorienting to peer at Patrick and see a jolly-looking elderly gentleman.

Hobart has assured us as soon as he removes the cloak, the spell will break and I'll once again see his twenty-six-year-old self—blond hair and wiry frame and no-need-for-a-shave cheeks.

Strangely, there is something sort of attractive about the way he looks right now. Not that I ever found myself pining after Santa in Coca-Cola ads or in those old stop-motion specials, but I do find myself appreciating a more wizened man every now and then. Admiring their laugh lines and their distinguished streaks of gray. Daddy issues notwithstanding, it's allowing me to see Patrick from a new perspective. The cloak shrouds him in a different light.

"Coming in for our first stop," Hobart announces.

Apparently, the previous Santa had hit all of New Jersey already, so we sprang off to a New York suburb. We land bumpily on a random roof in a quiet neighborhood.

"Ready for your first drop-off?" Hobart asks.

Patrick rubs his hands together. "Ready! What do I do?"

"What do we do?" I ask, standing. I've come all this way, somewhat conquered my fear of heights, and nearly thrown up a couple times. There's no way I'm letting him go do this alone.

Hobart crinkles his brow. "It's customary for Santa to go by himself."

"Yeah, well, I'm sure it's customary for Santa not to quit in the middle of his once-a-year shift, too, but I'm here."

"Fine, but stay close," Hobart says. "The enchanted cloak's magic can only extend so far. It's a bit like Wi-Fi. If you step out of signal range, you're on your own. So, let's get started!"

Setting aside Hobart's cryptic warning, we grab the presents designated for this address. On the flight over, Hobart instructed that we had a few tasks once we were inside:

Find the Christmas tree.

Lay out the presents.

Respond to any notes left by children.

Sample the cookies and milk.

Bring up any reindeer feed.

Get back to the sleigh before being caught.

It sounds simple.

It's not.

One at a time, we float down the chimney chute Mary Poppins–style. A self-moving sack of gifts is right behind.

It's mystifying, being inside someone else's home in pitch darkness. We're traversing a minefield of epic proportions as we decide which way to turn.

"This feels illegal," I whisper to Patrick, who is already leading the charge toward the Christmas tree. He must be following the weak goldish glow coming from around the corner.

"We're spreading joy. That's basically the least illegal thing you can do. Besides, we're leaving stuff not taking stuff." He's got the present-sack slung over his shoulder now, and he carries it with remarkable strength. Would I have been this burly had I put on the cloak?

There are rhythmic snores coming from a nearby dog bed. I panic at first, but then settle on my next step. The dog must be a deep sleeper, or the magic makes it so it can't see or hear me. Either way, I rush past, not wanting to test my luck. I don't do dogs. Not one bit.

In our quest, I nearly run into a breakfast nook, too taken by a kitchen ripped straight from a Nancy Meyers movie. It has marble countertops, high-top stools, a fabulous farmhouse sink, and tasteful hanging light pendants. I sigh, inspecting the state-of-the-art oven that probably preheats by proximity, reads your mind, and adjusts for the right temperature.

"I actually might want to cook if we had a kitchen like this," I whisper.

Patrick snorts in response.

"What was that?"

"Nothing."

"No, that wasn't nothing. That was a snort. Why?" I ask, not giving an inch.

"Because, hours ago, you had a breakdown outside our house about how you won't cook."

"No, I said I don't like to cook, but I might if we had a nice, working kitchen like this one and it wasn't thrust upon me or expected of me," I say.

"Who's expecting it of you?" he asks, switching the sack of gifts from one shoulder to the other with ease.

I do my best Patrick impression, pretending I'm walking through the front door and setting down my portfolio by the coatrack. "Hey, babe, what's for dinner?"

"Is that supposed to be me?" he asks, having the nerve to sound offended.

"No, it's not supposed to be you. It is you. Every night. As if I haven't just had a long, stressful workday, too." I know what he's about to say before he says it. "And offering to make sandwiches every blue moon with lunch meat and rolls I went out and bought earlier that week doesn't count as doing your share."

Patrick's eyes bulge. At first, I think it's because he's upset, but then I track his gaze lower and to my left. There's a clanking behind me, the patter of paws, and then a low, menacing growl that causes fear to spring up into my throat.

"Quinn, don't move."