34. From Workshop To Werk-Shop

34

FROM WORKSHOP TO WERK-SHOP

PATRICK

229 DAYS 'TIL CHRISTMAS

It takes a village has never been truer to me than it is today.

After months of intense planning, the full workshop is reopening.

I look out upon the collected crowd for the ribbon-cutting ceremony to usher in a whole new era at the North Pole. I take in the faces of the many, many elves who made my vision possible. Their belief in me causes pride to swell in my chest.

By the time I finished the sketches, the redesign shaped up to be a massive undertaking. An all-hands-on-deck operation. While the chalet may be magical, the workshop required hard, manual labor.

Since it was early in the season, toy production hadn't revved into full gear quite yet. We're still gathering wish lists from around the world and testing prototypes. As such, we were able to collect a legion of elves who were willing and ready to roll up their sleeves and get to work.

New walls. New windows. Strategic paint jobs. Division relocations. Even new technology! All in the name of Christmas and a simple yet important mission.

There's a chunky, velvety strand of red ribbon behind me. It's pulled taut across the threshold to the workshop. I nervously toy with the bow on it with one hand while I hold a pair of comically large scissors in the other. Quinn and the council approach from around the side. They join me up on the steps.

I've been here all morning doing last-minute walk-throughs. I needed to make sure everything was perfect. With Quinn by my side, now it is.

"How do you feel?" Quinn asks after a hello kiss.

"I feel like my blood is hot chocolate and my bones are marshmallows," I say. My eyes stay glued to the crowd. Everyone is clutching steaming paper cups of hot chocolate to keep warm, so my mind is stuck on it. My heart smacks on the walls of my rib cage faster than ever before.

I'm afraid they won't like it. And if they don't like it, they'll turn on me. And if they turn on me, the council sends me back to New Jersey with my tail between my legs.

"Hey," Quinn whispers, swiping his hand along my upper back. Even through the several layers I'm wearing, the touch is soothing. Even before North Pole magic, Quinn's palms possessed a calming spell meant especially for me. "Everyone is going to love what you've done. Trust yourself."

I want to trust myself. But out of the corner of my eye I spot Nicholas whispering to Colleen. His eyes are laser beams of apathy. It's obvious he believes all this hubbub is a waste of time and resources.

It's ridiculous how much I want to impress this man who has barely said more than two dozen words to me since I landed here four and a half months ago.

"What if they hate it?" I ask.

I'm thrust back to my elementary school classroom. Spencer Haven's beady eyes stare at me over that stack of dream homes I made for him.

Spencer then morphs into Mr. Carver tsk -ing at me. Little droplets of spit fly out from between his thin, dry lips.

Mr. Carver becomes Dad. He's praising Bradley without even acknowledging my presence. In my own damn head.

My self-doubt lingers over this event like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon. I wish a strong gust would roll through the valley and blow it to hell.

Quinn's second touch brings me back to earth. "Pat, every elf I've talked to who worked on the remodel has said how amazing it's going to be, and every elf who didn't work on it is shaking in their boots to see it. You did good work, and I'm not just saying that because I'm your husband. I'm saying that because I'm your biggest fan."

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. If Quinn believes in me, I can, too. "Thanks. You're right. I did good work."

Quinn steps up to the podium first. He calls the crowd to attention through a microphone. His words echo off every nearby building. Shopkeepers poke their heads out of doors. Children rush over from the direction of the schoolhouse with teachers close behind. Nobody wants to miss a single second of what I hope is a momentous occasion.

Our work was a never-ending montage of sawdust, wooden planks, and perseverance.

Even if people hate it. Even if Nicholas despises it or the elves get mad. I have a sense of accomplishment by seeing it through to completion. That's a solid consolation prize if everything goes south here in the North Pole.

"And now, a few words from the big man himself, an ingenious architect and my husband, your beloved Santa Patrick!" Quinn starts a slow clap for me that rolls out through the crowd.

As I stand at the podium, prickling tears pester me once more. I clear my throat to compose myself. "Thank you all for coming out today. Ever since I was a child, I've been obsessed with buildings. Their shapes, their functions, their ability to tell a story both inside and out. When I arrived here, I learned how rich and beautiful the story of the North Pole is. I also learned how far that story goes back. Stories evolve over time, which is why, after a lot of research, I wanted to bring a modern sensibility to this storied workplace. Without further ado, I give you the brand-new North Pole Toy Workshop."

I angle myself so the poised cameras can catch me cutting our way into a new tomorrow with cold, metal scissors.

Nobody waits for the stairs to clear. The crowd of elves rush inside. Members of the council, who lent their hands and time to the project, are ready to take the public on tours.

For the next several hours, I lead my own tour groups as well. I get a rush of excitement every time a detail or a change evokes an ooh or an ahh from the listeners. They love the expansiveness and the various light controls that allow workers to switch the brightness, tone, and saturation of their personal workspaces. We've implemented collaboration rooms with fidget toys and table games, so our designers and our makers don't feel like two separate teams. Community calendars are displayed everywhere possible to promote socialization.

"Using color psychology," I explain as we head around the catwalk above, "we've made the production and brainstorming areas red since that color is conducive to physical labor, which needs a more elevated heart rate. It's also good for getting the creative juices flowing. Greens were reserved for outdoor and relaxation spaces that promote balance and health. Your happiness was paramount to my designs."

I get a great response to the glossy snack bars stocked with candies and healthier options like granola mixes. We conclude the tour in our renovated, temperature-controlled atrium complete with rippling water features, plenty of thriving greenery, and ample places to sit.

Nicholas, who had been hovering at the back of the group this whole time, sports the faintest of smiles. Unlike his wife, he did not pitch in, so this is his first time seeing the new space. He lingers when the group dissipates, which leaves me with a resounding uneasiness.

"I wanted to hear about the changes from the horse's mouth," Nicholas says gruffly.

"In this case, I'm the horse?" I wish my voice wasn't so shaky.

He nods like that isn't a little insulting. "I have to say…" I brace for the crushing weight of his disapproval. For a replay of my firing from Carver & Associates. "I'm impressed."

"If you just give it a chance, I think—" My words roll out automatically. Then, I replay what he said in my head. And I nearly flop onto the ground from surprise. "Oh, sorry. I wasn't expecting that."

Nicholas laughs. It's a booming thing. I don't think I've ever heard this man give off more than a grunt or a groan. "I know I project toughness, but in fairness, as the oldest member of the council and the person with the most experience, I have to. The last guy in your position nearly crashed our entire operation. Forgive me for my bluntness and coldness. Blame my generation or my age or my sentimentality, but at some point, I got stuck in my ways. Not all shake-ups are bad. I see that now."

Those words stick with me after he offers his congratulations. He even invites me and Quinn by for dinner in a few weeks before he goes to find Colleen.

Not all shake-ups are bad .

While getting fired from Carver & Associates seemed like the end of the world, maybe it was one of those good shake-ups. I needed it to forge a new beginning. For my career. For me and Quinn.

I can't help but think that the North Pole is the home Quinn and I have been chasing after ever since we met. Santa and the Merriest Mister might be the roles we were born to play.

"What was that all about?" Quinn asks. His eyes are trained on Nicholas, who is sampling from the snack station beside his wife. Quinn sounds about ready to go to battle for me and my designs. Mr. I-Don't-Fight-the-Power might be growing a set of claws out here.

"I think he apologized. Or, close to it anyway." I'm still stupefied.

Quinn's jaw drops. "Nicholas? Did he get a brain transplant? Every morning over breakfast, the eggs are too runny, or the toast is too dry, or the jam is too sweet. He didn't have any critiques?"

"None," I say. I'm still not sure there wasn't a backhanded remark embedded in what he said to me. I run it back again in my head and don't find one. I shrug with my palms up. "I think he really approves."

"Wow." Quinn shakes his head slowly. "Look at you. Your designs turn even your greatest critics into fans. I'm glad you were able to make this happen, and so quickly, too! You barely lost any necessary production days. You'll be up and running again at full speed by Monday."

"Speaking of, let's go up to my office," I say.

When we arrive, Quinn purrs, "What are we here for, Mr. Claus?" He's draped himself in the doorway like a starlet in a black-and-white movie.

I huff out a laugh. "While I wish it was for what you're thinking, I wanted to check this." I push a button and out pops a mechanism that looks like the wheelhouse of a ship. There along the dashboard of it are three meters: Love-o-Meter (which tracks the love among the human population), Nice-o-Meter (which gives a relative overview of how good people are being), and lastly, the Happiness-o-Meter (which monitors the quality of life in the village). On the third, the needle has moved exponentially closer to the big red heart on the right side.

"Where was it before?" Quinn asks, stepping in close beside me. He smells like the homemade, organic peppermint soap he keeps stocked in the shower at the chalet.

I point somewhere a little past the halfway mark. My finger shakes with pleasure. "We're really making a positive difference here," I utter. The tingle I now identify as purpose gathers force in my fingertips.

It prompts me to reach out for Quinn's waist, pull his pelvis flush to mine, and kiss him with all the heady passion that's been swirling inside me. "I'm so lucky to love you," I say. "Thank you for coming on this adventure with me."

Quinn blinks at me. His face reddens as he smiles. "Any adventure with you is an adventure worth taking."