by Kate Rorick
Lawyers were being called everywhere, it seemed. Who knew a Halloween parade would spur such a rush of hourly billing?
“Although I think it is the right decision to take a step back from the Parent Association. So you can focus on Ham, and his reaction to the video.”
“But—he doesn’t even know about the video!” Quinn said, horrified. “I can’t even imagine him seeing it.” Her entire body was revulsed by the idea.
“He knows something is wrong,” Miss Anna said. “Ms. Rosie says that he’s been remarkably subdued for such an energetic boy. And he’s had more accidents than usual.”
She had done an awful lot of laundry this week, Quinn realized.
“Mrs. Barrett, children bounce. They are resilient. We are here to support Hamilton through this and will help you. And personally,” Miss Anna continued, taking Quinn by the shoulder, “I have a grown son. And I’m just glad that my parenting occurred before the rise of YouTube. That’s why I think the video went ‘viral.’ Everyone relates to you. If you saw that on a sitcom, you’d laugh along with the television, yes?”
And it was in that moment she realized that maybe she couldn’t bury it. But maybe she could change the story.
MONDAY MORNING, SHE marched into Little Wonders at the normal time. Sure, some parents whispered, but most were dealing with the hassles of dropping off kids who clung like capuchin monkeys to their legs.
Not Hamilton though. They had one of their patented Perfect goodbyes, with a big hug and kiss (and a hand-off to Ms. Rosie of a new batch of pants and underwear)—then she hit smooth traffic and strolled into the office a full Parcel ahead of her normal schedule.
“Sutton—conference,” she said, not even pausing as she passed her colleague Sutton’s desk.
But instead of scurrying after her, as was usual, Sutton held up a finger, talking into her phone.
“Yes of course, Mrs. Chaffee,” she was saying. “I’ll have those prints brought over for you to look at right away.”
Quinn came up short. Once Sutton extracted herself from the phone, Quinn pounced.
“Mrs. Chaffee?” Mrs. Chaffee was the grand dame owner of the Beacon Hill house. Off Sutton’s surprised nod, Quinn continued, “What prints is she approving?” Quinn was adamant on involving the clients in every step of the design process, but at this point, with mere weeks until it was formally ready, she usually asked them to step back, and let themselves be wowed with the final product.
“Just a couple of family photos we are having blown up and arranged in the children’s bathroom,” Sutton said, rushing to reassure her. “Jeremy approved it all last week, and Mrs. Chaffee wanted to make sure she liked the photos we chose, so . . . I thought it would be okay.”
She took a few days off and her entire project had shifted, she silently harrumphed to herself. But she didn’t have time to be squeamish about alterations to her protocol. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said quickly. “But come with me. We need to conference.”
Sutton stood to follow, but just then, Jeremy stepped out of his office.
“Sutton. Oh, and, Quinn, good, you’re here, too. Step in, please.”
What on earth was Jeremy Crabbe doing at his namesake offices so early? Usually he had barely made it to the pastry counter at Dean & DeLuca by now. But Quinn steadied herself. She was ready. She had a game plan.
But she was not prepared to walk into Jeremy’s office replete with all the Crabbe & Co. project managers, seated around his refurbished Edwardian coffee table.
“What’s this?” she asked, suddenly.
“Quinn,” Jeremy began, rather formally. “We wanted you to know, that we . . . as Sutton here would put it, have your back.”
“We understand that this is an incredibly trying time,” Sutton said. “And you’ve been such a mentor to me.”
“We’re all family here,” Jeremy said, putting an arm around her. The other project managers nodded in agreement. “Everything is going to be fine. We’ll get through it.”
Quinn could not help but feel touched. She leaned into Jeremy’s sideways embrace. He’d been there for every major moment of her career; the fact that he was willing to back her now was . . . well, actually, she expected nothing less, considering everything she’d done for Crabbe & Co., but still, it was very nice to hear.
“I’m so glad to hear that. Because I have decided that the best way to approach the current situation is to ‘lean into it’—and to have your support means worlds to me.”
Jeremy’s arm lifted gently off her shoulders. “Erm, what do you mean, lean into it?”
“Just that,” she replied, forcing a confident smile onto her face. “I am the mom in that video, there’s no denying it. So, I have to own it. Go on the morning shows, on Ellen, laugh it off as a moment every modern parent knows well.”
“Morning shows?” Jeremy asked, weakly.
“Yes— and I know what you’re thinking. That scheduling these appearances and flying out to New York and LA will get in the way of my work—but nothing could be further from the truth. In fact, I am going to go full throttle into all of my projects. The Wellesley Shingle house, the Nantucket retrofit, the Cuban-Thai restaurant, the Greater New England Children’s Hospital Charity Ball, and of course, the Beacon Hill house. Every single project is going to exceed expectations. Perfect Quinn Barrett productions, from start to finish.”
She turned her glowing smile to the room. Open mouths hung like heavy drapes on the faces of every single person. She turned to Sutton, who stared at her, in shock.
Obviously in shock at her brilliance, Quinn thought with bravado. Although even she knew it was a lie.
“Sutton?” Jeremy said over Quinn’s head to her protégé. “Can you . . .”
Quinn turned to Sutton. Surely, if anyone would be able to articulate her plan to Jeremy best, it would be her young, media-savvy colleague.
“I . . . I’m sorry, Quinn,” Sutton began, her eyes shooting from Jeremy to Quinn. “But . . . um, I don’t think ‘leaning in’ will work.
“Why not?” Quinn asked, shocked.
“Well, first of all . . . a week has gone by,” Sutton replied. “The video is old news now. And going on these shows . . . it would just bring it back up. Is that something you’d want? For Stuart? For your family?”
Old news? The video was old news? Quinn had to hold in a hysterical giggle. Not to her it wasn’t. Not to the people in the grocery store who whispered as she walked past. Not to the nail technician who snickered with her coworker in Vietnamese while salt-scrubbing Quinn’s feet.
And definitely not to the other parents in the halls of Little Wonders who completely avoided her eyes since that horror show of a Parent Association meeting.
Although . . . yes, the number of views had slowed. Still racking up a few hundred thousand views a day, so obviously it hadn’t died out, but it was not the top-trending video anymore, thank goodness.
And Sutton had mentioned the one thing that gave her some hesitation about her plan. Her family. Hamilton was still only three. How was he going to feel about this video, where his mother was so mean to him that he pissed himself, when he was thirteen? What about when he discovered a clip of his mother trying to laugh it off with Ellen DeGeneres?
And Stuart . . . Stuart very much wanted her to “fix” this. Somehow, she got the impression that bringing it back to national attention might not do that.
Sutton clocked her hesitation because she took a step forward and lowered her voice—why, Quinn had no idea, because everyone could still hear.
“And . . . I’m pretty sure that the shows you’d want to go on . . . they only like to highlight, um, positive videos. You know, grandmas who can rap really well, and little kids who ate a bunch of sprinkles. Not . . .”
Not yelling at your kid and then destroying his Halloween costume in front of his school and the whole world.
“Ah,” she said. Disappointment hit her like a wave, rocking her back slightly on her heels. “I u
nderstand.” She wasn’t going to get to change the story. She wasn’t going to get to own the narrative and overcome it and be the freaking parenting Oprah.
She had to live with how it was.
“Even better,” she said with a smile. Regrouping. “Now nothing will get in the way of my giving two hundred percent to all of my projects. Making our clients happy will be my sole focus.”
The room was still. Someone coughed.
“Actually,” Jeremy said, and the dread settled over her. “We think it would be better if you took a backseat on the firm’s projects. Just until the whole hullaballoo dies down.”
Not her projects. The firm’s projects.
“But Sutton just said the video is old news now,” she countered. Jesus, she practically had whiplash from this meeting. “Apparently there is no hullaballoo.”
“It might well have died down on the internet,” Jeremy said, glancing uncomfortably around the room. “But it’s still present enough in people’s minds that . . . well, if you were to be recognized from it with a client, or a vendor . . . it’s not the impression Crabbe & Co. wants to make.”
“I see.” She narrowed her eyes, noticed that most of the project managers refused to meet hers. “I thought you said you had my back.”
“We do! Entirely. So, we all sat down, did some reorganizing this past week. Divide and conquer, as it were,” he said. He motioned to those sitting around the table. “Frankie’s got the most commercial experience, so he’s going to take over the restaurant design. Maryann and Josh are taking on the Nantucket retrofit, and Nina’s handling the Wellesley Shingle. Her first solo project!”
“I’m so excited for this opportunity, thanks, Quinn,” Nina said.
“No problem,” Quinn said weakly. “So happy my personal humiliation could give you a leg up in your career.”
Nina’s smile faded.
“What about the Beacon Hill house?” she asked, sharp. The magazine. The Martha freaking Stewart magazine was coming in two weeks to photograph it. She’d already done the preliminary interviews about the process, her design choices.
If this didn’t happen . . . it would be like Quinn had personally let Martha down.
“The Beacon Hill house is yours,” Jeremy said. “You’ve worked so hard on it, it couldn’t be anyone else’s.”
“A Perfect Quinn Barrett production,” Sutton said softly, giving her an encouraging smile.
“Besides, it’s so close to finished. Sutton can handle most of the final details, and I’ll take on Mrs. Chaffee, when needed.”
Quinn’s eyes shot to Sutton, who, for her part, looked alarmed. “We’re just talking about invoices and stuff at this point anyway, right?”
Right. And Sutton did that kind of stuff all the time. But it was still galling. It still felt like Brutus stabbing Caesar. Or at least, she assumed it did—she’d never run an empire that spanned Europe. Or been stabbed.
“So what am I supposed to do in my backseat?” she asked.
“The charity ball, naturally!” Jeremy said. “Arguably the most important project on our books right now!”
And one that Jeremy didn’t dare take away from Quinn—because she was the one who had brought it in.
Via Stuart, of course. A few New Year’s Eves ago they had attended the Greater New England Children’s Hospital Charity Ball, and she had been absolutely appalled at the décor. Basic hotel ballroom lighting, basic hotel ballroom chairs, basic hotel everything. She understood the trust’s desire to be frugal—the money raised was for sick children, after all—but she also ascribed to the philosophy that a dollar spent here would yield ten there, and in this case tens of thousands.
She’d approached the trust, and offered Crabbe & Co.’s services, at cost. Their way of donating to the poor, sick children. Jeremy had been against it, saying they didn’t do event planning. But Quinn had convinced him that it would be a showcase for their design capabilities, to exactly the kind of clientele they wished to reach.
And it had worked.
They’d done the Greater New England Children’s Hospital Charity Ball every year for the last five.
“After the ball . . . after the new year . . . I’m sure everything will have died down enough for you to take on clients again,” Jeremy was saying. “And you’ll be back on track.”
Back on track. Partner track, he meant, no doubt. Because goodness knows he needed someone in the office who could handle everything while he took another six-month shopping trip across Asia.
But not yet. No, she had to earn her way back. Earn her client list back.
And she would, Quinn decided.
She could forgive Jeremy, in time, she thought. No doubt he’d gotten calls from some clients the past week that set him back on his heels. So, she had to eat a little crow. But she would earn back his trust. Show him that the kind of ruthless tenacity, the pursuit of perfection, that the video had showcased . . . well, that was exactly what made her an exceptional designer.
She would show them all what she was made of.
This year’s charity ball was going to be nothing short of stunning. Amazing. Incredible.
Perfect.
“Don’t worry, Jeremy. Everyone,” she said, pulling herself up straight and giving the room her most determined smile. “You can count on me.”
Chapter Six
Shanna sweetie, how much longer on the turkey?”
Daisy looked up from her chopping to see Shanna about to explode. But the taller woman’s calm, cool composure prevailed, and she simply said, “About an hour, Patty.”
“Are you sure I can’t help with anything?” was the hesitant reply from Shanna’s mother-in-law. “I’ve made a pie or two in my time.”
“And you’ve earned the right to relax,” Shanna said, easy but firm. “I’ve got everything covered. Why don’t you sit down, play with your granddaughter? Or have some more wine?”
Just not both at the same time, Daisy thought, pleadingly.
“All right.” Patty sighed. As she drifted away, she turned to Daisy with a pointed look. “Honey, you have a strange girl on your hands. She wouldn’t let me leave the playroom until she’d recited the entire Star Wars. Complete with sound effects.”
“Abridged,” Daisy said, quietly. She didn’t let her three-year-old watch Star Wars, of course. She just told her the plot as a bedtime story. Complete with light saber and TIE fighter sound effects.
Besides, some people’s “strange” was other people’s “delightful.”
“Thanks for helping,” Shanna said, once Patty was gone. “I love Jamie’s parents, but I swear, that woman burns water.”
“No problem,” Daisy said. Although, the traditional Thanksgiving meal wasn’t really her style of cooking. Once she moved to Los Angeles, she shed her white-bread, casserole-heavy upbringing and embraced the city’s culinary eclecticism. But none of it lent itself to a big New England turkey dinner with all the trimmings.
When she suggested to Shanna that she make a zesty gazpacho, it was as if she could feel the hard, cold stare of the Pilgrims, shaming her for adulterating their feast.
Thus, she was relegated to chopping.
And there was always plenty of chopping.
Currently, she was on brussels sprouts, cutting them in half and arranging them on a sheet pan for roasting.
Which was, according to Shanna, enough of a culinary departure for the Stones.
“All right, after the turkey comes out, the pies can go in, and they’ll come out and cool while we are eating the main course. The table’s been set, Patty has wine, Grandpa Bob has beer, the girls have their apple juice spritzers, oh . . . do you need a mandoline? I have one around here somewhere.”
Daisy’s mind reeled at all the details. And she was a Dungeon Master who usually reveled in details.
“Oh no, I’m good,” Daisy replied, setting down her knife. “Honestly, I don’t know how you do it all.”
Shanna threw a quick smile over her shoulder. �
��This is my first year doing it all.”
“Really?”
“Seriously. I was too busy with work before, billing hours so I could take off for the holidays. There was one Thanksgiving I just had catered. Last year Jamie decided he’d do everything. He tried to deep-fry a turkey.” Shanna took a swig of her mineral water. “He is no longer allowed to deep-fry turkeys.”
Daisy looked over the completely alive, messy, working kitchen. The double ovens cooking away, the three pots on the chef’s stovetop, bubbling happily, and the tall, blond, three months’ pregnant glowing woman on top of everything.
Daisy’s eyes fell to her small tray of cut brussels sprouts. It seemed to be all she was capable of.
But Shanna—apparently Shanna could do it all.
“Honestly, after the madness of the Thanksgiving Pageant, I almost gave my caterer a call again. But if I did that, I’d never hear the end of it.” Shanna nodded toward the den, where Rob, Jamie, Jamie’s father, Greg, and Grandpa Bob were sequestered watching the Patriots game. The occasional “Yesssss!” and “Come on!!!” punctuated the low hum of conversation that emanated from that room.
Daisy didn’t get it—Rob was easily a better cook than she was. And she wasn’t a slouch either. And when he came out of the bathroom, she knew Grandpa Bob could make a mean plate of eggs and bacon. But the second they got there, Shanna swept Daisy into the kitchen, and Grandpa Bob and Rob were removed to the den.
Traditional gender roles were not dead on major holidays.
“I am soooo glad that’s over,” Shanna continued.
“The Thanksgiving Pageant?”
“Jamie thinks I’m taking on too much—he keeps saying, ‘I was president, I know how hard it is!’”
“Well, I mean—it wasn’t easy,” Daisy equivocated.
It really hadn’t been easy. At least not from Daisy’s perspective. She’d volunteered to help out as often as possible—which wasn’t as much as Shanna might have liked, because Daisy had gotten a job, at the Cranberry Boutique on Needleton’s Main Street. It specialized in sweater sets. The job was seasonal, with an option for more, but she intended it to just help fill their bank account while she still sought production-related work. However, it got her out of the house and meant she could help Shanna with the pageant only when she didn’t have a shift—which was not as often as Daisy might have liked.