26. It’s All Uphill From Here

26

IT'S ALL UPHILL FROM HERE

QUINN

363 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

The chalet, like Patrick's cloak, is enchanted.

By the time we traipse downstairs—up with the sun and rested more than ever despite the hour—the coffee is brewed, the toast is made and buttered, and The North Pole Gazette is laid out on the table, ready to be read.

"Did Hobart do this?" Patrick asks.

"I don't think so," I say, nodding toward a cabinet to the left of the ginormous sink. It opens itself. Down float two mugs. The coffeepot up and pours itself. Somehow, the chalet even knows how we take our coffee—oat milk creamer for me, just two spoonfuls of sugar for Pat.

"I could get used to this," I say, despite the goose bumps appearing on my arms, as my plate fills itself. Patrick laughs, eyes trained on the candles spotted across the half-circle, light-wood island that hides the stovetop. "What are you doing?"

"Waiting for the candlestick to start singing." He hums the tune of "Be Our Guest" as our plates land on the table and we sit down to eat.

A whole day stretches out before us, and after a meal and a bit of exploring, I find a gear room full of skis and snowboards. There are cubbies with waterproof boots, helmets, and goggles of varying sizes and colors. Three walls have a fold-down bench. The last wall is a painted map of the North Pole. We can go skiing right from here if we want to.

When Patrick pokes his head in, he smiles. "It's not Switzerland, but…" He's referencing our set-aside plans for a wintery honeymoon at the end of a swampy New Jersey summer. I couldn't be happier with how this is turning out. Without showering, we gear up and glide out.

The day is cold but not cutting, especially through our many layers of brand-new ski apparel. Intermittent flurries of snow trickle down from a light gray sky.

If I squint, between the charcoal clouds that look like eraser smudges, the shimmery edge of this pocket universe can be seen. It's probably some force field that protects the North Pole and contains its magic.

For a moment, claustrophobia weasels around in my chest—Patrick signed a scroll, there's no leaving here until the year is up—but then Patrick takes my gloved hand as we wait for the chairlift to stop at our location and take us the rest of the way up to the start of the slopes.

There are some early-riser elves already whizzing down the corduroy snow. They swoop by as we take our seats and latch ourselves in for the slow ascent. I grow antsy as we climb. Heights still are not my favorite, but Patrick's arm around me and this ever-present cloud of golden glitter reassures me.

I reach out and poke one of the particles. It bobs and sways as if doing a choreographed dance alongside the sprinkling of snowflakes. "Are you worried at all about what the council said about the magic during our first breakfast?" I ask, thinking back on what I almost told Colleen and Yvonne.

"Which part?" Patrick asks.

"About the magic being powered by love, especially ours ." As I say it, it's almost like the magic responds. It moves faster, more frenzied.

"Should I be? I think our love is pretty pure." He runs his chin along my head, making my hat bunch a bit and create static against my locks.

"Pure, sure. But strong?" I knock our knees together, so my question doesn't sound as weighty as it might've otherwise. "Ever since we got engaged, I feel like our life glitched and we got stuck on fast-forward."

A November engagement, a June wedding, and by the dog days of summer we were homeowners. I barely had time to catch my breath.

"How do you mean?" Patrick wears his thinking face—eyes squinted and unblinking, chin cocked back. It's the same expression he wears when he's primed in front of his drafting table.

"I mean, I can't remember the last time we weren't planning an event or touring a house or working nonstop." I zip my lips after that last one. It sounded accusatory when I didn't mean it to be. It's not like I don't grade papers while we catch up on reality TV shows. It's not like I haven't canceled my fair share of dates because of last-minute meetings.

"You definitely don't need to be worried about that last one once we leave here." Patrick closes his eyes, tilts his head back, and lets out a low, frustrated exhale through his nose.

"Are you ready to tell me what happened?" I ask, wishing I didn't still feel hurt over him withholding this. But hurt doesn't play by my rules. It never has.

"I messed up big-time." He rips off his beanie and runs a hand through his hair. A few uncooperative strands fall back down over his face, obscuring his eyes, making him look wounded and boyish. "I took on a project outside of work for the money. Kacey needed a new cutting-edge space for her nonprofit. I accidentally made copies of Kacey's project for that meeting about bathrooms and toilet partitions. Moonlighting is, shall we say, frowned upon at Carver they have a newfound rosiness to them. "I'm sorry if I've let my focus wander. I just want to provide for you the best I can."

I pat his knee. "I don't need you to provide for me. I just need you to be with me, okay?"

Ever since the clothing boutique, I've been thinking a lot about what Yvonne and Colleen spoke about, how the North Pole served to smooth over a potential rift on the horizon of their relationships.

While Patrick and I haven't suffered through anything as unbelievably difficult as the death of a child or a near heart attack, I could see our mountainous mortgage, the fast-tracking of our life, being akin to what Ashley shared with me over tea: how Samson was an overnight manager at a warehouse before all this, which meant they always worked opposing shifts. He was sleeping while she was working and vice versa. Two ships, and all that.

"Okay. I'm with you, Quinn," Patrick says, tugging me back to the moment.

"Good, because I'm going to need you to be with me as we embark down this mountain," I say, noticing our chairlift is about to arrive at the station. "It's been a hot minute since I've skied."

After the bar lifts away in front of us, Patrick helps me down with a promise. "Don't worry. I got you."

For hours, we forget about our real life, which feels more like a dream than this does. The more times I fly down the slope, wind cresting across the exposed parts of my face, the more tension jettisons away like the snow off the blades of my skis.

The poles in my hands give me power. Patrick beside me, even at this speed, gives me reassurance.

Emmanuella and Jorge appear around midday with hugs and skis of their own. Jorge asks if we want to try a bigger slope—the North Pole's version of a black diamond. I pass. This ride is already winding me. Emmanuella offers to stay behind with me.

"How's the chalet treating you?" Emmanuella asks, a hint of knowingness tinged in her voice.

"Those enchanted appliances. They're something," I say as we wait our turn.

"Right? Us Priors go back to the mortal life after we step down, but you never forget that taste of magic."

I consider this for a second. "Can you tell me more about the magic?"

Her eyes take on an otherworldly sparkle. "You've come to the right Prior. I live for the history of this place. The lore of the land is that there was once a man named Nicholas—not our Nicholas, a different one, but a similar look." She lets out a light, airy laugh. "This Nicholas was benevolent and rich and gave secret gifts to those in need. He believed in the good of humanity and his love for humanity was so strong that it manifested into abundant magical powers. He didn't know how to use those powers, though, so he went in search of someone who did. That's how he found the elves, a magical, immortal people living at the top of the world who accepted him, taught him, and believed in his mission."

"The elves have magic, too?" I ask.

"They do. It's smaller and more practical magic. The kind that makes everyday tasks easier. Not the kind that can deliver presents all over the world in a single night. They had never seen magic like Nicholas's before."

"Makes sense."

"At some point in Nicholas's long life, he fell in love with a woman. That new love in his life made the powers he possessed grow even stronger. Toward the end of his life, he knew he needed to put this immeasurable magic somewhere, so it didn't die alongside him, and his mission could continue after he was gone."

"The enchanted cloak," I say.

She nods. "It started with the cloak. But there was still magic left, so he made a house on the mountainside. But there was still magic left, so he cast a protective spell around the elves' village. But there was still magic left… Do you see where I'm going with this?" she asks as we inch closer to the edge of the mountain.

"I think so."

"Before he died, he went in search of a couple just like him and his beloved. A couple that had made the ultimate commitment of marriage and had a love so strong that it could power the world if need be. He moved them to the village, bonded them with the magic, and had them work alongside the elves. They wrote up bylaws and made provisions and this place has been operating ever since," she says, ending our history lesson by pulling down her ski goggles. "You and Patrick are the next chapter in a long evolution of age-old magic."

"That sounds intense."

"It is," she says with a throwaway laugh before speeding off down the mountain.

When we've had enough, we return to the chalet and strip out of our clothes. We both had a few embarrassing falls at the start, so there are maps of bluish bruises connecting like vines up our sides. We decide to soak our aching bodies in the hot tub.

In search of a swimsuit, I find my closet has been overhauled. Gone are most of the antique red velvet pieces, and in their place hang chic suits, pointy-toed boots with low, sensible heels, and a colorful assortment of shirts. There's a pair of five-inch-seam trunks in candy-apple red folded neatly on a shelf in the back.

Champagne is already uncorked and sitting on the counter when we enter the kitchen. Bubbles swim to the top of two glistening flutes. We take them out back where two plush towels lie over a heated rack. Steam billows off the top of the tub, which has lights inside it that shine, pink and lovely.

Submerging, I let out a relaxed sigh. "Now this place is really giving The Bachelor ."

"The coveted hot-tub date," Patrick says with a chortle.

We sit on opposite sides of the sizable tub. Water gurgles between us but we can still hear each other. Our eyes meet over the spray. "In an alternate universe, where we hadn't met at Penderton, and you're the hotshot architect chosen as the season lead and I'm just Quinn Muller, elementary school teacher from New Jersey, would I make it to the final rose ceremony?"

I surprise even myself with the question. Not that I haven't been pondering it for some months now. There was something off about the way our engagement shook out, how quickly we wed afterward, as if we were racing against a clock I couldn't see.

"Without a doubt," he says, slipping off his seat and wading through the water toward me. His wide chest is gleaming with droplets of pink-tinted water. The shimmer effect catches in his eyes, making them even more stunning. "No matter the universe, I'd pick you."

"Good answer," I say as the space diminishes between us.

"It's the only answer," he says, the tips of our noses now touching. "Because it's the truth."

If I weren't so entrapped by his eyes, I might see that, around us, it's begun to snow. Instead, I only feel the flakes as they land gently on the exposed crests of my shoulders, stick, and melt into my damp hair. Even so, those sensations are quickly usurped by Patrick kissing me, the decadent press of his lips into mine.

It's not until I pull away to steal a shaky breath that I notice, intermingled with the large, fluffy snowflakes, golden orbs skitter around as if the magic is cheering us on.

Patrick's knees bracket my hips until our chests are flush and our heartbeats are knocking back and forth on each other's sternums, like a game of tag. My hands dome around Patrick's precious and perfect face. I hold it with reverence. I kiss him with the same.

Rivulets of water sluice down the insides of my forearms. It's like we're washing away any negative emotions, any worries at all.

We make out like we did when we first met, like we're starved for each other. Patrick grinds against my lap and reminds me how desperate I am to be satiated. To be as close to him as possible.

The water ripples around us as Patrick removes his arms from around my neck. "Shall I grab the towels?"

"No," I say firmly. Aware that my voice is not the only firm thing between us. "No time. I need you. I need you so badly and I need you now."

"Take me, Quinn," he says, his arms returning to my neck, his mouth returning to my ear. "Have me."