32. Time for a Change

32

TIME FOR A CHANGE

PATRICK

294 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

From my desk in the office above the workshop, which I've come to love, I'm humming along to the soundtrack of cheery tunes the elves play while they work.

At Carver they're elves. Complex, passionate, immortal, and awesome elves.

"I feel very Meghan Markle," Quinn mused one night. We were splitting a Hawaiian pizza from the enchanted oven in the least tropical place on the planet.

Resting in the chair beside the fire and across from Quinn, I pick a pie and poke around with my fork. "What's the meat in these meat pies? I'm assuming it's not ham."

Quinn scrunches up his mouth before bobbling his head. "I'm actually not sure. I didn't ask."

"You're a regular Mrs. Lovett."

Quinn's singing Sondheim in a bad cockney accent when Hobart pokes his head back into the office again. "Sorry to interrupt," he says, obligingly. His attitude toward us has thawed significantly since that first ultra-stressful night we met. His real personality has unmasked itself.

"What brings you back, Bart?"

"I came to say that I was thinking more about your plans for a redesign."

"Plans for a redesign?" Quinn asks, confused.

"I was keeping them under lock and key until they were finished, but I guess the cat's out of the bag." I gesture him over to my drafting table, lunch untouched. My stomach gurgles. Not from the lack of food but from showing this to Quinn.

We assume our usual positions with me on my stool and Quinn looking over my shoulder. I don't glance up at him. I simply intuit his reaction by how his body clings ever closer. As he takes in the product of my creative, mathematical mind.

"Far cry from bathroom partitions, huh?" I joke because he hasn't said a word yet.

After a breath, Quinn says, "It's inspired." He jostles my shoulder encouragingly. Pride overrides my worry. Every new drawing is a chance. Every new project is a risk. I already took a major one by coming out here. Can I take another by putting this plan into action?

Hobart clears his throat. "I know you said they're not finished yet, but I think you should show them to the council this week. Tomorrow, actually, if possible. The sooner the better! While we're still in our slow season, we can allocate the resources and elf power to make it happen with minimal disruption to our toy timeline if the council approves."

The back of my neck is suddenly slick with sweat. "I—" My mouth is both overrun with saliva and yet dry as a desert.

"Do you love your design?" Quinn asks with needed gentleness.

"I do."

"Do you believe this design will make a difference?"

I hesitate, but ultimately nod. "I do."

Quinn rubs the width of my back. "Then, Mr. Claus"—he crouches down so he's level with my ear—"I think we've got a presentation for the council to put together."

My chin rebounds. "You want to help?"

"Of course," he says, like this should've been obvious. He plants a kiss on my cheek.

I think about all those nights I locked myself away in my office in the house. Embarrassed that I didn't finish my work at the office. Worried I was one slipup away from foreclosure. One broken date away from divorce.

Maybe I should've leaned on Quinn a little more. Maybe relationships aren't always a perfect 50–50 split. Sometimes they're 70–30 or 60–40. You have to trust that the other person is ready to pick up the slack, and you have to be willing to do the same when the inevitable time comes.

Hobart looks excited out of his mind to be involved in such a massive undertaking. "I'm here to help, too! Whatever you gentlemen need, I'm your elf!"

I let loose a loud exhale as I inspect my work. "There's still a lot to get done. If we're going to do this tomorrow, we might need to pull an all-nighter."

"Who needs sleep anyway?" Quinn asks.

"Not me!" Hobart says, nearly jumping out of his boots. "But I will need food! I'm heading into town to grab us another round of caribou pies!" He's out the door in a flash.

Quinn and I look at one another with surprised disgust.

"Caribou? Really? " I warily glance over at the table where we've left the remnants of our first, and definitely last, North Pole meat pies. "How am I ever going to look the reindeer in the eyes again?"

We share a rueful, uncomfortable laugh and then get down to work.

Night falls like curtains on a stage. One at a time, hour by hour, I switch on the lamps around the room. I light the fire. I stifle a yawn.

No matter how late it gets, we continue to work. I'm too in the zone to stop. I'm nursing an espresso while Quinn collates some data. He's sitting cross-legged on the area rug, using the coffee table as his workspace. The tip of his pink tongue pokes out the left corner of his mouth. His nostrils flare. His focus flags. Until his eyes land on one of my sketches. Suddenly, he's taking a small break by picking up a pencil and replicating my work.

I don't say anything. I don't even think I breathe. I just observe.

He's so consumed by his tangent that he doesn't react when I get up, round my desk, and stand behind him. "Don't worry so much about if your lines are straight," I say. He snaps out of his daze. "Confident strokes that overlap are more important than perfectly straight lines. Sketches are ideas, not finished products."

"What are these?" he asks of the small, hyphen-like markings on my drawing.

"Directional hash marks. They're for texture. They show a surface like a roof." I use the eraser end of my pencil to point at lighter lines that I've slashed through the boxy sides of the workshop. "These are construction lines. They give depth, dimension. Sketching is all about layering."

He tries for himself, but his hand is too heavy. I squat down behind him. Lightly, I wrap my calloused hand around Quinn's fist, which is holding the pencil. I guide him in feathering the page. Goose bumps chase each other up the outside of my arms. "You try now," I whisper. Like I'm letting go of the handlebars on someone's first bicycle.

Quinn's mouth droops in frustration when he doesn't get it right. "God, my students could do better. Why am I so bad at this?"

"You're not bad at it," I say quickly. "You just need practice. And patience."

"Not my strong suit," he admits.

"That's not true. You teach second graders. Your whole career is an exercise in patience."

"Very true. I guess I just use up my limited well of it on my students." He shrugs. His eyes have glazed. "And the administration."

"Save some for yourself."

"Huh?"

"You always give one hundred and ten percent of yourself," I say. "It's okay to sometimes just give one hundred or ninety-five percent. You're allowed to save some for yourself." I plant a kiss on the crown of his head before returning to work.