22. A Warm Welcome

22

A WARM WELCOME

PATRICK

364 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

"Rise and shine, Clauses," Hobart shouts cheerfully. A living alarm clock.

The screeching hum of the blackout blinds rising scares me into wakefulness. Hazy sunlight soaks the room all the way to the corners.

I jolt up. Swipe a hand across my crusty face.

Quinn doubles down. He hides his head beneath the pillow we'd been sharing for most of the night. "Ten more minutes," Quinn groans sleepily into the cloud-like mattress. Weekday Quinn is a master of mornings. Never snoozes his alarm. Glugs at least one cup of coffee before leaving for school. Out the door on time, always. Weekend and school holiday Quinn is a sheet creature. He lurks in the darkness of our bedroom for hours after I've started my day.

When he was student teaching and during his first year, we often lazed in bed together on Saturday and Sunday mornings. We'd kiss and cuddle and tease one another until inevitably getting up to shower together and make breakfast together and go on walks together.

Lately, there hasn't been much together for us.

"No can do. A busy day ahead! Up and at 'em!" Hobart has all the makings of an overly chipper sergeant. No wonder he has this job.

Quinn takes longer to get ready than I do, so I make idle small talk with Hobart downstairs in the grand foyer until Quinn appears around the corner of the floating, spiral staircase. I'm mesmerized by the look he's turned out from the disparate parts of a storybook grandma's wardrobe.

He's fashioned one of the smaller Mrs. Claus dresses into a top with a waist-cinching chunky black belt. Miraculously, he's found the one pair of slacks in the closet, and they look like they were custom-made for him. They showcase the gentle curve of his ass with each step he takes. When he reaches us, I have to look up at him, because he's wearing heels. They make his legs appear miles long. I want to rove my hands along the ridges and valleys of them.

I instantly regret skipping sex for sleep last night. A throbbing desire that we have no time to do anything about materializes low in my gut.

"Do I look okay?" Quinn asks, giving a tentative spin.

"Yeah," I utter, struck. I want to say fantastic, sexy, stunning, but Hobart jumps in with: "Yes! No time to change anyway. Out we go!"

In broad daylight, the village at the North Pole is even more picturesque than I originally concluded. It has the hallmarks of a valley town. Nestled, secluded, and yet still at one with the natural elements that surround it. The mountains appear as if they're posing for a panoramic postcard shot. There must be a height ordinance on the buildings here to maintain the stunning vista views.

Elves smile at us as we pass. Some wave. Others come up and introduce themselves like we're royalty. I grab Quinn by the hand. I'm glad when nobody looks at us funny. Maybe it's because they know how much power we hold. Or maybe it's because this is an accepting enclave closed off from the rest of the world. Prejudice has not cast its shadow across this land. Whatever the case, it's freeing.

The buildings we pass have a nineteenth-century New England style mixed with Bavarian influences right down to the half- timbered, exposed wood frames with Christmas-colored exteriors. Behind the large, fully decorated tree in the town square, there is a stone tower with a clock face in the side that chimes a carol on the hour. I know this because it's just hit seven A.M. and Hobart is pushing Quinn and me through the hordes with unwanted urgency. If given the chance, I could wander this place for days and never grow tired of gazing upon these buildings with their interesting shapes and folkloric detailing.

We end up back at the building from two nights ago. Instead of going toward the cathedral room past the portraits, we chart a course into another wing. Hobart opens the door for us to an informal dining room where a feast is taking place. The walls are linenfold paneling over which several mirrors and paintings with gilded frames hang. In the center of the room, a long walnut table is laid out with the most impressive spread of breakfast foods. It's a cornucopia overflowing with sliced fruits, croissants, scones, and various proteins.

"Welcome, welcome," Yvonne says cordially. Her hair is down in long, cascading braids. She wears a flowing crimson dress. The hem sweeps the floor as she passes.

"Finally," Ashley says, harried. She hastily butters a piece of toast and takes a crunchy bite like they weren't allowed to eat until we arrived. Her blond hair is disheveled. As if she spent the entire night tossing and turning over today. Couldn't have been me. I slept like a rock with Quinn in my arms.

"Apologies. These two take terribly long showers," Hobart announces unnecessarily to the room.

"At least they're clean," Nicholas, the white man with white hair, says. Funny that he's the oldest and the most classically Santa with the most fitting name. I'd almost call it cliché. But not to his face. He seems too stern and forbidding to find it funny.

Quinn shoots him a look. Nicholas's wife, Colleen, pipes in. "Our last Santa had—oh, how should I put it— questionable hygiene."

Quinn and I are escorted to our seats at the far head of the table. To my left, heavy, damask curtains are tied back on the windows, which showcase sun-drenched mountains. There's something almost too perfect about the way snow covers them with zero signs of melting. "How did he get the job?" I ask, pulling my attention away from the view. "I assume most Santas don't come to power because of a frying pan."

Laughter rumbles through the room. Samson, with the buzzed hair and the jacked body, says, "That was a first for sure."

"You two are filling a lot of firsts for our storied institution," Yvonne says. Her smile oozes acceptance. I relax, knowing that, even if they haven't said as much, we're safe to be ourselves here. "Speaking of which, Quinn, we apologize for the closet situation. Again, we were unprepared for your arrival."

Quinn smooths down his top. "Oh, it's no problem," he says while accepting a hardboiled egg in a cup from a tray passed down by Jorge.

"Of course, it's a problem," Colleen says. "Our first-ever Merriest Mister should be confident and comfortable in his wardrobe, which is why Yvonne and I would like to take you to the boutique once we're finished here."

"Oh, okay. That would be really nice," Quinn says. He punctuates this by tapping his spoon against the eggshell. He was tired on the walk over. But this seems to have perked him up. So has the rich-smelling coffee. A dark roast. His favorite.

"Don't think we forgot about you, Patrick," says Chris. I bite into a croissant. It's the exact right ratio of buttery to flaky. "You'll be with us today. We'll tour the workshop, show you where we keep the lists—"

"Wait," I say with my mouth full. "There are really Naughty and Nice lists?"

"For the most part, the songs and TV specials are strikingly accurate," says Colleen. Almost gleefully.

"Except for the Rudolph business," Ashley says. She toys with the ends of her maroon cardigan sleeves. "That was purely marketing nonsense."

"We're sure there's a lot you want to know," Emmanuella says. "Now's your chance to ask."

"And remember," says Chris, "there's no such thing as a stupid question."

"I beg to differ," Nicholas says with his whole chest. Colleen shakes her head at him.

Quinn sets down his utensils. Jumps in first. "Are you the only Santas and Mrs. Clauses there have ever been?"

"Not at all. We're the only ones who've chosen to retire here and take part in the council. There have been many, many others who've worked on this mission," says Colleen.

"Where are they now?" I ask.

"Living among the human population. Back in the lives they left to work here," says Yvonne. She holds her patterned, porcelain coffee cup as if she's using it to warm her hands.

"But they remember all of this? And they chose to give it up?" I ask. Slightly stupefied. We've been here less than twenty-four hours, and yet, based upon this croissant alone, I'd never want to leave.

"We don't wipe their memories or anything like that," Samson says. His plate is overflowing with protein. He pops a crispy slice of bacon into his mouth. "What would be the point? Who would believe them if they said they spent the last x number of years in the North Pole?"

"But doesn't this whole place run on belief?" Quinn asks. He's probably thinking of Elf .

Ashley lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. "That's another movie misconception." She's acting like we received a handbook and didn't read it.

"What she means," Colleen says, far more nicely, "is that belief in Santa does not fuel the magic here. Love does. Love among the human population, love between nations, and perhaps most importantly, the love shared between Santa and his wif— I mean, significant other ."

I swallow thickly. Not because of her near slipup. But because Quinn and I are wading through a rough patch. This move doesn't automatically erase that. Could we cause more chaos by being here than we already have?

"A struggle for our last Santa and Mrs. C, that's for sure," says Chris. Which begins a whole other conversation about our predecessors, their marital mishaps, and their disgraceful exit.

"The magic sure got that selection wrong," Jorge jokes.

"I'm keeping that pair of shorts Christa sewed for me at the top of my drawer just in case!" Chris says.

Yvonne playfully rolls her eyes. "I saw more of your thighs over those three days than I have in a decade!"

"Now that they've both returned to their old lives, I wish for a quick and mess-free separation," says Colleen, the only one not smiling. "Some people simply aren't meant for one another and our mission. That's nothing to laugh at."

The group appears chastened, and now it feels rude to ask any follow-up questions about the man and woman who were living in the chalet only a day or so ago.

Quinn must sense this, too, because he instead asks, "Who knows about the North Pole? Aside from you all and the other Santas."

"Everyone who needs to know," Nicholas says. He's clearly the authoritative compass of this group. He reminds me a little too much of my dad. But I'll try to look past it for the sake of my success here. "World leaders, safety organizations, toy manufacturers. For the most part, we're an open secret."

"People chalk our operation up to one of those weird, unexplainable phenomena," says Samson. He's cleaned his plate already. "Oh, there's a fast-moving shiny object soaring through the sky on Christmas Eve? I must've hit the eggnog too hard at the family party."

"Oh, there are presents under the tree for my daughter that I didn't buy for her? My husband must've gotten them, signed them ‘From Santa,' and forgot to tell me," Emmanuella adds.

"It's the kind of thing people have strong inklings about but rarely discuss for fear of sounding ridiculous," Yvonne says.

"Like ghosts or UFOs," adds Ashley.

"Are those things—"

She hits me with a firm stare. "Not our circus. Not our monkeys."

I nod in understanding. Colleen cuts in, "This is all to say that we are a well-oiled, magical machine. A system of checks and balances. By no means will all responsibility fall on the two of you. We just want to get you up to speed as quickly as possible before everyone gets back to work on New Year's Day. We want you to be able to explore, relax, reset, and enjoy your new home for the next year."

I look to Quinn, who is already staring at me. Through only eye contact, we come to an immediate understanding.

If we're going to make it work here, we have to make us work too, stat!