Marcel heaved a big sigh in front of the elevator. “I do not wish to disassemble my masterpiece,” he said with a forlorn expression. “I have just now put it together. It is exactly right. If I were to take it apart once again, it will never be so perfect.”
“Can’t we just carry it up?”
“Are you insane?” he asked. “Do you know how much this must weigh?” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “It would take the strength of six men to carry this up the stairs, and my assistants are not capable of such heavy lifting. Not only that, but if they were to tilt it to any extreme, the walls would crack and my masterpiece would be ruined.” He looked ready to cry. “Do you hear me? Ruined!”
I blew out a breath. Marcel had been executive pastry chef for a long time. I couldn’t imagine how he’d forgotten the limitations there were on transportation. Of course, when one is in the throes of creativity, sound reasoning often flies out the window. That’s probably what happened in this case. Scope creep. A little flourish here, a little detail there, and pretty soon you’ve created a big monster.
I took another look at the grand cookie White House. I had to admit again it was gorgeous. Every window had icy corners, as though Jack Frost had decorated the panes himself. The Truman Balcony was not only perfectly represented, but it was dressed with snow, miniature evergreen roping, and wreaths decked with red bows. I couldn’t see inside, but I knew Marcel had outfitted the piece with inner lights. I couldn’t wait to see it lit.
Marcel paced as Yi-im fiddled with different sections of the structure. I asked him about the poles at each of the corners. He shrugged and did that nonsmile thing again but said nothing.
There was no way this creation would fit in any of the elevators. Not even close. I shook my head as I pondered our next move.
“You agree it is hopeless, no?”
“Nothing is hopeless,” I said, walking slowly around it. Six men, Marcel had said. Personally, I thought it could be handled by four. “Who’s available to help us?”
Marcel gave me a wary look. “What do you have in mind?”
“If we can get four sturdy men to each take one corner of the plywood, and if they go up those stairs”-I pointed-“very, very carefully, I think there’s a good chance of moving this in one piece.”
Skeptical, Marcel pressed me for reasons why I believed a bunch of burly men wouldn’t be clumsy with his masterpiece. After a ten-minute discussion, he agreed to give it a try. “But if the men cannot lift this easily-immediately-we will call off the experiment,” he said, the corners of his mouth curling downward. “And I will return to my kitchen to take my beautiful building apart.”
“Don’t get defeated. We haven’t even attempted this yet,” I said.
Marcel nodded and spoke to Yi-im. “Can you find us several men to help?”
With a nod, he was off.
“What about the gingerbread men?” I asked, looking around the wheeled cart. “I don’t see them here.”
“They will come later,” Marcel answered, still a bit more distracted than he usually was. “Yi-im will arrange those when the house itself is in place.”
I glanced at my watch. Marcel noticed.
“I know. I know.” He paced the corridor. “What was I thinking? Why did I not ensure the house was in place yesterday?” Turning to face me, he continued his one-sided conversation. “I will tell you why. Because I have had nothing but trouble with my assistants. Do they not know how important it is that we have our work of art in place when it is to be unveiled? Does that not follow? Do they have no sense?”
I glanced in the direction his assistant had gone and I gestured for Marcel to lower his voice. “I thought you said Yi-im was working out very well.”
Marcel rolled bugged-out eyes. “He is, what you say… the harbor during the hurricane.”
“Any port in a storm?”
He waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. That. While he is willing to put in many hours, he is not trained in methods nor in kitchen procedure. He has much to learn.”
Conversation from behind caused me to turn. Yi-im had drawn out the electrical staff. Curly, Manny, and Vince were following the small man; Curly looking ever unpleasant, and Manny and Vince sharing a joke.
Yi-im nodded, gesturing the other men forward. He’d snagged only three. We clearly needed four. Marcel, I knew, had no intention of helping carry the house, and Yi-im was just too small. I chewed the inside of my lip. I was strong for my size, but I had doubts about my ability to hold up my end of the structure. The last thing we needed was for the house to crash to the ground. And the very last thing I wanted was for it to be my fault.
Before I could step forward to lend assistance, however, Yi-im grabbed the corner nearest me. He grunted some imperative and the three other men took corresponding positions at each end. Marcel covered his eyes. “I cannot bear to watch.”
The four men, with set expressions, wrapped their fingers around the curved ends of the platform, and as one, lifted the board into the air.
Marcel moaned, turning his back now. “Ollie, you must oversee this. Tell me when I may look.” Hands covering his eyes like horse blinders, he started back to the kitchen.
“Marcel,” I called.
He turned, but only enough to face me. “Take the cart in the elevator,” I said. “We’ll need this as soon as we get up there.”
With pain twisting his aristocratic features into a horrified frown, Marcel quickly stepped forward, grabbed both handles, and maneuvered the cart out from beneath the men’s pole positions.
Within moments, Manny and Vince were four steps up the staircase, Curly and Yi-im still on the floor, raising their end high to keep the house level. Marcel chanced a look back, let loose another groan of total despair, and practically ran the cart to the nearest elevator.
I hated accompanying the four men on their painstaking crawl up the stairs, but I sensed they hated my presence even more. They had all obviously carried cumbersome, heavy items up staircases before, because they used minimal conversation to guide the collective group effort. Although I had faith in the strength of these men, I sweated out my position, low on the steps as they climbed up. If, heaven forbid, the house did topple, I could just see myself now, crushed below it, my feet sticking out like those of the Wicked Witch of the East.
I scampered up past them and breathed a little easier.
Curly, Manny, and Vince labored against the project’s weight, grunting as they inched up each individual step. Yi-im’s face showed no such strain. All four were careful to keep the board level. Too late, I thought about borrowing an actual level from the carpenter’s department; I could have monitored the progress up the stairs.
One look at the contorted expressions on these guys’ faces, however, and I realized my coaching and calling out levelness might have tempted them to dump the house smack on top of my head.
Marcel met me at the top of the stairs, cart ready.
Several long, sweaty minutes later, Manny and Vince cleared the top landing, holding their ends low until Curly and Yi-im were able to join them. Relief washed over every one of their faces when the board was settled softly atop the cart. We wheeled the house into the center of the Entrance Hall.
“Merci, er, thank you,” Marcel said to the men, but he clearly didn’t care whether anyone heard him. Walking around the giant confection, Marcel slowly examined his masterpiece, inspecting every inch. If I would have had a magnifying glass on me, I would have offered it to him.
Curly was just starting back toward the steps when Paul Vasquez called out to him to wait. Our chief usher hurried across the hall, his shiny black shoes clipping in sharp measure. “I just left a message for you. I didn’t realize you’d be up here.”
Curly scowled, looking at me with contempt. The fact that he was helping us out instead of doing his own work needled him and I could tell he blamed me. I smiled innocently.