55. Holding Out for a Hero

55

HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO

QUINN

CHRISTMAS

Bzz. Bzz.

I wake up on Christmas morning to my phone vibrating noisily on the end table. I fell asleep on the couch last night. My neck is stiff. Across the room, the Hallmark Channel is still playing on the TV. It's another Lacey Chabert movie. How does she have the time? And the range ?

My unwashed mug of hot chocolate still sits on the coffee table next to the open bucket of kettle corn. That's when it hits me: Patrick never showed . The devastation is immediate.

Fighting for energy, I pick up the call without checking the caller ID. "Hello?" I say blearily.

"Quinn? Hi. Sorry to wake you so early." I recognize Kacey's voice. "Is Patrick there? I tried calling him, but it went straight to voicemail."

"No, he's not." I elbow away my feelings about being stood up. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry. Should've said that from the get-go." Her voice brightens. "I just… um. A building appeared in my backyard overnight?"

At first, this doesn't compute. "Wait, what?"

"Yeah, that was my initial reaction, too," she says.

Then, it clicks. This could be the Christmas miracle Patrick was alluding to in his letters. "I'll be right over," I say before hanging up.

I scoop Veronica on the way. I call her from the car and give her very little context, which is probably why she gets in with a duffel bag filled to the brim.

"What is that?" I ask, already pulling away from the curb outside of her mom's house.

"My go-bag."

"Why do you have that?"

"From your tone, I assumed you committed a crime, and now we're going on the run together," she says with far too much seriousness.

I honk out a laugh, thankful I have a friend as ride-or-die as Veronica. "What I'm about to tell you is shocking but not that shocking."

When we arrive at Kacey's house, the place is swarmed with neighbors. They all stand around and talk to one another with wonder and confusion and amazement. "Where did that come from?" one man asks an older woman still in her Christmas pajamas. "Beats me," she says. "I live next door and I'm a light sleeper. I didn't see or hear anything last night."

The entire neighborhood is abuzz. A news van rolls down the street. A pristine-looking woman in a bright red coat pops out with a cameraman in tow. This is a lot.

Kacey spots me in the crowd and tugs me through. "It's a madhouse." Everyone else lingers at the curb, but Kacey cuts a path across her driveway, into her garage, and through the house. I'm flabbergasted when we reach her backyard.

The building stands somewhere between a large shed and a quaint cottage. It has a blue exterior, a sloped, tiered roof, and plenty of windows. The inside is spacious, and it's even decorated with Pride flags and quirky chairs in a complementary color palette. It's markedly a Patrick Hargrave design.

"Wowza," Veronica says, walking toward the back and looking out onto the tall, snow-dappled trees that line Kacey's property.

"It's everything Patrick and I talked about when I commissioned him for the project," Kacey says. "You're sure he's not around?"

I deliberately avoid Veronica's questioning gaze. "I'm sure."

Kacey nods as silent contemplation falls over us. My heart is bursting that Patrick did this. On the other hand, I'm nervous about how I can explain this away. Then, Veronica grabs for a piece of paper thumbtacked to a corkboard over the desk in the corner. "Have you seen this?" she asks, passing it over to Kacey.

"No," she says. "I saw the building from my bedroom window, ran out here, and then immediately called Quinn. I didn't exactly look around."

The note reads:

Dear Kacey,

Your organization makes a world of difference to the many lives you touch. I hope this new headquarters helps expand and strengthen your mission.

With love,

Mr. C

Kacey's puzzlement gradually shifts to understanding. Tears speckle the edges of her chestnut-colored eyes.

"I, um—" I stammer.

Kacey stops me with an upturned hand. "I was raised not to question the gifts of angels. Weirder things have happened, right?"

"Right," Veronica and I say in unison.

Back on the street, the news reporter runs up to us.

"Miss Ortega, Miss Ortega, what can you tell us about this mysterious building?" the eager journalist asks. She pushes a microphone into Kacey's face.

Kacey stops for a second, looks straight into the camera, and says, "I can tell you that today of all days, I firmly believe in miracles."

The house isn't as quiet as I left it.

After I hang up my coat and slip off my boots, a rustling coming from our living room makes my heart skip several beats. That's where the Christmas tree I put up is, so I'm not totally surprised when I find Santa Patrick standing there, waiting for me.

No matter the anger I felt last night or the disappointment I felt this morning, I'm lit up with delight to see him. "I thought maybe you'd forgotten." My voice is meek, but my stomach flutters.

"I could never," he says certainly. "Sorry I'm late. I was just saving the best stop for last."

I beam, sensing my center of gravity lurch toward him. "Kacey's workshop looks incredible."

"Oh good," he says, almost bashfully. "We assembled it quickly in the cover of night. I'm glad it's nice in broad daylight."

I inch farther into the room. "So, what's the verdict? Have I been naughty or nice this year?"

He chuckles, eyes roaming up to the ceiling. "Nice. Very nice. In fact, so nice that I have a special present for you."

I'm expecting a kiss. Not an envelope. "More letters?" I ask, only a smidge disappointed as I accept it.

"Open it and find out."

What I find is way more than a letter. I think it's a decree from the Council of Priors.

Addendums to North Pole bylaws Article 25, Subsections 11 and 12.

Subsection 11. Santa's wife spouse automatically fulfills the role of Mrs. Claus Merriest Mister/Missus/any such moniker they so choose and all the duties that come with that role.

Subsection 12. The present Mrs. Claus must reside alongside the present Santa in the North Pole for the present Santa's tenure. spouse may reside wherever they choose so long as they spread love and Christmas cheer to every soul their life shall touch.

*Addendums effective immediately as ruled by the Council of Priors and Santa Patrick

"What does this mean?" I ask, still jumbled from all the commotion this morning.

"It means that the magic in the North Pole didn't need us to be married and in one place," Patrick explains, "it needed us to love each other fully and without expectation."

An overjoyed sigh saws out of me. "That's wonderful, so for us that means…?"

"It means I'll send the sleigh for you on weekends. I'll start delineating responsibilities better so that I can take time off to come visit you in the less busy months at the workshop," Patrick says. "And from the twenty-sixth to January first, I'll come here, and you and I will laze and love and rest and just be Patrick and Quinn. Simple. You always said you didn't want a traditional marriage. Would this arrangement bring our magic back?"

I nod, elated. "Yes. Yes, of course it would."

"Then…" Patrick says. He takes off his cloak. His hair falls flat in his face and his jacket is flecked with golden glitter, but he still looks heart-stoppingly handsome in a sharp, tailored suit.

As I look him over, I notice a simple silver chain around his neck. On it, two rings clang together. He takes the chain off and undoes the clasp to remove one of the rings. It's my wedding band. From the nearby sack of gifts, he produces a single, perfect red rose. "Quinn Muller, will you marry me? Again?" He's kneeling as he says this.

I rush across the room to him, extend my trembling left hand, and let Patrick put the wedding band back where it belongs. I'm whole again. "Yes. I'd marry you a million times over, Patrick Hargrave."

Smiling, he puts his own ring back on his finger, then stands. "Now let's put this mistletoe to good use."