Little Wonders

by Kate Rorick

  That Guy spent hours online railing against The Last Jedi because he didn’t like how the Rey and Kylo Ren pairing was centered in his movie about blowing things up in space . . . It went without saying that, to That Guy, the all-female Ghostbusters was sacrilege.

  That Guy would go through Reddit threads and correct misspellings on a woman’s post and get pissed off if she didn’t “acknowledge his contribution.”

  And That Guy never believed a woman like Daisy could read, let alone read a comic.

  Her eyes narrowed. She wasn’t about to let That Guy get through his holiday season without a visit from the ghost of Christmas Reality Check. “That book in the window—the Dungeons and Dragons one.”

  He looked up again. “Yes. D&D, you mean.”

  “Uh-huh. Shadowplague is volume one. Do you have further volumes or just the one?”

  He blinked at her. Daisy liked to think he was mildly impressed. “Looking for a gift for someone?”

  “No—why?”

  “If you are looking for a gift, we have all of our new releases and graphic novels up front.”

  “Up front,” she repeated, trying to follow. Yes, one would think they kept gifts stocked up front in the holiday season. “Not the back?” she said as she attempted patient sarcasm.

  “Yeah—the back is where we store all the collections we acquire, thumb through trying to find a piece of gold among the dross. But trust me, if you’re looking for something for your boyfriend or whoever, up front is your best bet.” He was looking at her now, seeming to remember that a sale was a good thing. “We can order most anything, too. If they gave you the name or title—or publisher, if possible.”

  “Boyfriend?” she said. She could feel the tips of her ears burning.

  “Oh, sorry—” he said, glancing at her hand. “Husband.”

  A disbelieving guffaw left her lips. Daisy had met That Guys before. But usually, all she had to do was lift an eyebrow and drop a word or two about her latest module into conversation and That Guy dissipated into a puddle of his own prejudices before he could even mouth the words “fake geek girl.”

  Daisy could have thrown down against him. She could have leaned against the counter and told him that his Bart Simpsons were out of order (she had absolutely no idea if that was true, but it would annoy him). She could have commented on the cover art on the cover of his Infidel comic, and how it was reminiscent of seventies horror movies. She could have given him a dissertation-length monologue on how the Society for Creative Anachronism in Berkeley in the sixties led to Gary Gygax’s Chainmail game then his true masterpiece Dungeons & Dragons, and or how John Rogers pulled on that connective tissue when he wrote Shadowplague, which was currently in the shop window.

  She could have rolled up her sleeves and showed off her d20 tattoo, next to her galaxy, far far away tattoo. And then harrumphed out of the store, refusing to buy a single thing.

  She had named her daughter after Carrie Fisher, for Christ’s sake!!

  But then—she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflection of the glass counter.

  She couldn’t say any of that stuff. Because she wasn’t Daisy right now.

  She was still Cosplay Daisy.

  Dull, boring, blah.

  She looked like her sister. Like her mother.

  Not like Daisy.

  It was as she was struck dumb by her own reflection that the dinky bell rang again, signaling a new arrival.

  “Hey—I thought that was you,” Rob said, stamping his feet as he came in. There was a light dusting of snow in his hair. A glance to the window told her that it had started snowing in the intervening minutes. The snow made Rob’s dark hair take on a salt-and-pepper quality, and she suddenly realized what he would look like in five, ten years.

  “Hey, man,” said That Guy behind the counter, quickly acknowledging the newcomer in a way he hadn’t for Daisy.

  “Hey—cool place,” Rob replied. “Love the Barts.”

  That Guy smirked and nodded and left Rob to Daisy as he took her by the waist and gave her a big kiss.

  “I’m still getting used to this. I did a double take when I saw you from the window,” he whispered as he fingered a piece of (dull, awful) brown hair. But judging by the kiss he gave her, in his eyes it was a good change.

  “You shopping for something?” he said, looking around the store.

  “Not really,” she said with a grimace. But Rob didn’t see that because he was obviously bursting with some news.

  “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”

  “I was wondering if you would like to go to a ball with me.”

  “A ball?” she asked, incredulous. “Like a for real, ‘lords and ladies dancing the waltz’ type ball?”

  “Not quite. It’s the New Year’s Eve charity ball for the Greater New England Children’s Hospital,” Rob replied with a laugh. “Jo-Jo, on the show? He and his dad, Joe Sr., are big supporters of the hospital, and they bought a table. Gave me a pair of tickets.”

  Wow, she knew the stars of the show made a decent chunk of change in secondary endeavors like their home improvement businesses (PBS not paying too much) but enough to buy a table at a fancy charity dinner? Who knew public television fame was so potent.

  “Oooo, do I need a costume?” she said, lifting her eyebrows. Visions of a General Holdo lavender draped gown flitted through her mind.

  “You . . . need a dress?” he grinned at her, hopeful. “It’s a kind of swanky thing.”

  There was a hint of warning in his voice. Right. So, no costume.

  “So what do you say? Wanna swank it up with me?”

  Rob was so excited, so obviously proud of his budding friendship with Jo-Jo, brandishing this proof of it like a shiny new toy. How could she possibly say no?

  Over her shoulder she saw That Guy at the counter, somehow both bored and eavesdropping at the same time.

  “Sure,” she said, with a smile. “Sounds like fun.”

  “Great,” Rob said, then checked his watch. “So . . . are you ready?”

  “For what?” she asked.

  “For what,” he scoffed. “Dinner? Movie? The most ecstatic experience of your life?”

  That Guy smirked into his comic, obviously not understanding what the ecstatic part of her evening would be.

  She was suddenly so disgusted that she was in here, sullying her evening with That Guy.

  “Yeah, I’m more than ready to get out of here,” she said, taking his arm and walking to the door.

  “Have a good night—have fun at your . . . charity ball,” That Guy said, not even lifting his eyes from his comic.

  Yeah—that’s who she was to him. Suburban mom, having her date night in the city. Fancy charity ball on the horizon. Utterly clueless.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him they were going to see Star Wars—and would have definitely seen it last night at midnight if she hadn’t been second in command at the Snowflake Breakfast—but why bother? Why give him any more of her time?

  Then, That Guy called out after them. Or rather, after Rob. “Hey, man—just so you know, we got the complete set of the D&D graphic novels that you see in the window. Volumes one through three, or as the Fell’s Five compendium.”

  Rob looked at him for a second, blinked. Then glanced at Daisy. “Cool, man. Thanks.”

  And they were out the door.

  By the time they got through dinner, Daisy told herself, she would have forgotten That Guy’s looks. By the time they were getting their after-dinner popcorn, she would have completely forgotten his sneers, his tone. And by the time the trumpet blare of John Williams’s score thrust her to the back of her seat, she would be entirely in another world, away from all the That Guys, Snowflake Breakfasts, and Needletons.

  That’s what she told herself, at least.

  But even as the words solidified in her mind, they turned to dust. Even she knew she was lying.

  Chapter Nine

  The Greater New England Chi
ldren’s Hospital New Year’s Charity Ball would go down in history as the most memorable event of the season for the Boston social scene. At least, it would for Quinn Barrett—but she hoped for everyone else, it would fade into a distant memory.

  Of course, that hadn’t been her aspiration. No, that only became her aspiration at 11:58 PM the night of the ball. She knew the exact time because of the large art deco clock that had been behind her in the video.

  Not the Halloween video.

  A new video.

  A completely new and different way to destroy her life.

  The night had started gloriously.

  Quinn Barrett was justifiably proud of herself. The charity ball was beyond beautiful. She managed to deliver a grand, upgraded scheme at no (extreme) additional cost. And she did it during the holidays.

  And the holidays. Did. Not. Stop. They were a mad race of gift shopping, holiday cooking, wrapping, decorating, planning, and that was before she even got to work in the morning.

  But Quinn handled it all with her usual trademark perfection. She was determined that the charity ball planning would have no impact on her other responsibilities.

  She still worked at getting Gina up to speed to help around the house.

  She still had her daily Parcels devoted to potty training.

  She still managed all her lunch dates with Stuart—but he was as busy as she was, work presumably preoccupying him. But they did manage twice weekly sex sessions, which was a miracle of planning, considering their individual schedules. (One or the other of them might have been asleep during the activity, but honestly, that was just optimal time management.)

  And she still delivered a stunning Christmas Day. The likes on her Instagram were proof of that.

  The tree was twelve feet of white and silver decorations—with a few of Ham’s preschool decorations studded throughout. Ham had been a ball of three-year-old joy, and Stuart was gloriously rumpled—it was practically a holiday luxury car commercial.

  The only thing missing from the photos was a golden retriever puppy with a ribbon around its neck for Ham. But she knew it was a nonstarter and didn’t even broach it with Stuart.

  The one little reprieve she gave herself was skipping the Snowflake Breakfast. She conspicuously decided to schedule a doctor’s appointment for Ham to get his flu shot that morning.

  Stuart’s parents were back from their Riviera trip, just long enough to indulge in a Christmas Day breakfast and give Hamilton his present of a pure silver baby rattle (how old did they think their grandson was?) before they headed out to get some “well-deserved rest” on St. Lucia. It was the perfect length of time to be judged by them, found wanting, and then they left.

  Ham had dived into his gifts like an Olympic swimmer: headfirst, no hesitation. Stuart gave her Cartier earrings to match her watch. They were gorgeous, but strangely, felt like an afterthought to her. Her gift to Stuart was a weekend in New York City, just the two of them—to be used when Gina was ready to assume overnight care.

  Yeah, she killed it this Christmas. A perfect Quinn Barrett production, from start to finish.

  And when she walked into the Wharf Room at the Boston Harbor Hotel, she knew that it had all been worth it.

  Quinn Barrett—the indomitable, unyielding bitch on wheels who never settled for less than perfection—was back, and better than ever.

  She had taken a nondescript hotel ballroom and completely transformed it into a winter wonderland, circa 1920s jazz club.

  Quinn had pushed herself, the bounds of her imagination, her organizational prowess, her design skills, and the capacities of the hotel crew, until the final product looked more like one of the Great Gatsby’s opulent bacchanalias had encountered a freak ice storm.

  The trust’s event coordinator had wanted to kill her.

  The result was magical.

  Quinn had no control over the music. She had no control over the food. But damn if it wasn’t the most perfect 1920s ballroom anyone had ever seen.

  And that was what everyone said.

  “Darling, it’s exceptional,” Jerome said, as he entered the glittering, pulsating party, his eyes drawn up along the column lines to the ceiling. Beyond the firm taking on the decorations at cost, he had always donated generously to the hospital—at least since Quinn introduced him to Stuart and the benefits of cultivating connections in that circle. “It was a risk going so far; you know these old Bostonians.”

  Yes, she did know those old Bostonians. Ostentatious displays of their wealth were not de rigueur, as her mother-in-law might say.

  But at the moment, those old Bostonians were living it up, utterly enraptured by the party and the festive mood.

  “I know you’ve been under stress—and yet, you deliver this masterpiece. Well done, my girl. Well done.”

  Quinn felt the glow of her mentor’s praise as keenly as she did when he’d first hired her all those years ago.

  Stuart, at her side, put his arm around her shoulders. “Of course she did—I expect no less than perfection from my wife.”

  A kiss landed on her temple. She turned to Stuart and winked at him.

  “Quinn!” Sutton’s voice squealed over the jazz band playing from the other side of the room. “It looks amazing in here!”

  “Thank you—so do you,” Quinn replied. Sutton did a spin in a knee-length beaded-fringe gown that Quinn was certain was vintage. Quinn worked out hard—Pilates had brought her body back from pregnancy with zeal, but it still would never again be the body of a twenty-seven-year-old spin class enthusiast.

  “Hi, Sutton,” Stuart said, leaning forward to give Sutton a friendly peck on the cheek. “You missed spin class on Friday.”

  “I was with my parents,” she said. “They’re not really into the whole six AM athleticism thing.”

  “Wait . . . you are in the same spin class?” Quinn asked, surprised. “That’s quite the coincidence.”

  “Not really—there’s only one spin studio in the city worth your time,” Stuart said, brightly. “Remember when I switched from the seven AM class to the six AM class? Well, who should be there in the front row making us all look bad but your protégé here!”

  “Listen, just because you can’t keep up—”

  “I can’t! No one can! I’m going to have you investigated for blood doping.”

  Quinn relaxed into a smile as they continued to rib each other like bratty siblings. Sutton then turned back to Quinn. “How did you do this all—I could never have pulled this off! I barely pulled off a kids’ bathroom in the Beacon Hill house.”

  “Now, now, I saw the photos, that bathroom is delightful—perfect for kids,” Jeremy said.

  “Oooo . . . did you see the photos from the spread? The magazine just sent them over to the office.”

  “The Martha Stewart magazine?” Quinn practically danced with anticipation. “Not yet—did you get to read the article?”

  “No, they only sent over the photos, but my god, Quinn, it’s glorious. You are going to be so proud when you see it.”

  Quinn couldn’t help beaming. Here it was, true validation. Standing in the middle of that ballroom, being feted for a job well done on two fronts, and a night of gaiety in front of her. It really couldn’t get better than this.

  Sutton suddenly grabbed her arm. “Oh my god—is that JAXXON LARUE?”

  She was staring into the sea of people—Quinn had absolutely no idea which one had captured her attention, but she would have bet on the tall, dopey-haired blond one in the middle of a pack of younger women, taking selfies.

  “Who on earth is Jaxxon LaRue?”

  “I’ve told you about him!” Sutton replied. “He’s a YouTube star—he does all of these crazy things, like BASE jumping with Tom Cruise and eating super-hot chicken wings with Chrissy Teigen.”

  “I understood about three words in that sentence,” Quinn said, bemused. “How about you, Stuart?”

  “I understood about two, but I do know he’s here because he endowed a cha
ir after we did a heart and lung transplant on his little brother.”

  Quinn was about to marvel at the fact that someone who was merely internet famous could have the kind of money required to endow a chair at the hospital, when Sutton’s grip transferred from her arm to Stuart’s.

  “You saved his little brother’s life?”

  Stuart shrugged, nonchalant. “I was on the surgical team.”

  “Can you introduce me?” Sutton squealed.

  Stuart glanced at Quinn. “If I can be spared from living in your opulent shadow for just a moment?”

  She gave him permission with a look. Stuart offered Sutton his arm and guided her into the throng of people surrounding this YouTube star and his camera phone. Quinn snorted a laugh as she saw Stuart maneuver Sutton with a hand on the small of her back face-to-face with Jaxxon LaRue.

  Really, it wasn’t as if there weren’t *actual* celebrities here. She’d spied an Affleck brother somewhere around and more than one Red Sox player. A few Patriots were in the crowd too, not to mention people with names older than Boston itself. The idea that a goofy blond YouTube star reduced someone as confident and poised as Sutton to a puddle of squeals was a little alarming.

  She would have to have a talk with her about the best way to present herself to clients, Quinn thought. Especially if she was going to be graduating to her own accounts in the new year. It wouldn’t do for the protégé of Quinn Barrett, partner at Crabbe, Barrett, & Co., to be completely cow-eyed around someone mildly famous.

  And that was how most of the evening went. Quinn moved around the room, talking to acquaintances, people Stuart worked with, people who commented on the amazing décor. People asked for her card. She demurred at least twice before giving it to them, pretending she didn’t bring business cards to a charity event, but oh look! She found one in the side pocket of her clutch!

  Speeches were given—by the chief of pediatric surgery, the Affleck brother, the banal comedian they had hired to MC the event. The head of the trust—a pearl-encrusted grande dame who no doubt arrived in Boston on the back of Paul Revere’s horse—came up and announced the grand total raised by the ball, more than any other previous year. Raffle tickets were still being sold, and the winners would be announced just before midnight.