Little Wonders

by Kate Rorick

  Then the band started to play, and the dancing began. Quinn danced with Stuart. She danced with Jerome. She danced with someone who’d played for the Red Sox in the nineties.

  It was nice, it was so damn nice to have this night. A night where her past was behind her. Where everyone saw her accomplishments and did not associate it with one bad afternoon in late October. (Because, come on—if anyone knew about bad afternoons in late October, it was the Red Sox.) And one where no one from Little Wonders could come and make her feel small.

  Although, for a quick second, Quinn thought she saw the little blue-haired mom—Daisy?—who was Shanna’s shadow on the Parent Association board. But no—she blinked and saw that her hair wasn’t blue, it was brown. It must have been someone else. And she went back to dancing.

  After all that dancing she needed some refreshments, so set herself off to the bar.

  Out of all the rooms she had done for the ball, the bar was definitely her favorite. It looked like a glamorous speakeasy. The bar was full service, with the requisite teacups and jam jars used for serving the whiskey-heavy mixed drinks. When she wandered in, the bar was fairly empty. There was only one other couple, who was leaving, and a pair of young adults gabbing at the far end of the bar, by the window.

  The boy was white blond and painfully thin, but vivid as he spoke, talking about running track, a concert he attended, and whatnot. The girl was stunning in an Instagram model kind of way—large pouty lips, thin where she was supposed to be, pert where it was pertinent. She had that half-bored, half-interested gaze of someone who was okay with this until something better came along.

  “Vodka martini, top shelf,” Quinn murmured to the barman, still watching the kids. The barman went to the top shelf, but found the fancy frosted vodka bottle to be empty.

  “Looks like I need a fresh bottle. In the back,” he said to her. Did he have an invitational glint in his eye? She glanced up at him again—oh my goodness, he did! As if he wouldn’t mind her coming back to the storeroom with him to find said bottle. He must have been twenty-five. He was decently good looking. And it was all she could do to not preen with delight.

  Instead, she shot him a wry look, and waved her left hand to him, shooing him back into the storeroom with the power of her wedding ring.

  And yet, it was still flattering. Her gaze found its way back to the kids at the other end of the bar. They were now posing into the girl’s phone, held up high to give the best angle, her pout on full display.

  God, had Quinn ever been that young? That totally invested in only herself? That happy and hopeful and stupid?

  “Hey,” said the boy to the girl in a low whisper that unfortunately carried. “Wanna actually enjoy this party?”

  Little Miss Pout turned interested as soon as a thin, rolled joint was produced from the kid’s pocket.

  No, she was definitely never that stupid.

  She marched over to their side of the room, just as a lighter’s flame lit the end of the joint.

  “Hey!” she said, as the girl sucked in her breath and held it. She turned to Quinn, and looked impossibly young—fifteen at most, with the fear of being caught by an adult quickly subsumed by her own bravado.

  “Yeah?” the boy said.

  “You can’t smoke in here. This is nonsmoking.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not really smoking, you know. Not like cigarettes.”

  “Is it smoke that goes into your lungs and then the atmosphere? Because that’s smoking, regardless of the drug being delivered to your bloodstream,” Quinn said.

  “Jeez, mom, calm the eff down,” the girl muttered, and then snorted a giggle. She handed the joint back to the boy.

  “If I were your mother, I might remind you that this is a hospital function. And there are a lot of people here that have rebuilt spines and newly cancer-free lungs they want to keep healthy.”

  “Yeah, and he’s one of them, so back off, dude,” came a voice from the other end of the room. Quinn turned. It was that overgrown manchild who had Sutton all up in a twist, Jaxxon LaRue.

  Up close, Quinn could tell that some of his appeal was his cuteness. Like a St. Bernard—fluffy and muscley and huggable. But beyond that first impression, there was something similar to a scoff on his face, as if his absurd height literally made him better than the people shooting their adoration up at him.

  One of those adorers was the girl, who stood up straight immediately when he walked into the room. “Hey, Jax,” she cooed. “Your brother and I were just talking about you.”

  “No, we weren’t,” the boy muttered, but went over to Jax anyway and gave him that half-handshake, half-manhug thing that bros did.

  “Dude, you don’t think I know you’re talking about me all the time? Telling people about how your SAT scores were better than mine?”

  The boy cracked up. “Hey, I gotta get one up on you whenever I can, man.”

  “It would’ve helped if I took the SATs.”

  The girl started giggling like a stoned, well-groomed hyena. “Like, right? Oh my god, how crazy.”

  “I thought you left already,” the boy said to Jaxxon.

  “Nah, dude, I promised I’d announce the raffle winner—some crazy-rich dude is gonna win a trip to South America.”

  “Sounds amazing,” the girl said, hopefully.

  “Eh. I’ve been. The women are hot, but otherwise, whatevs.”

  Quinn shook her head, trying to clear it of the confusion that was suddenly reigning in her brain. Maybe the fumes had drifted over her way and clouded her mind, but mostly it was just complete shock at the self-involvement on display. And the complete lack of understanding. But it was time to get back to the most life-pressing point.

  “Excuse me—if you’re his brother,” she said to the blond boy, “then that means you had a complete heart and lung transplant, right?” The kid looked to his brother, who raised an eyebrow. The kid turned back to her and did the same. “Yeah, so?”

  “Yeah, so?” echoed Jaxxon LaRue. “Wait, do I know you from something?”

  “Maybe you saw me in the hospital, with my husband, who was one of the surgeons who saved your brother’s life?” Quinn said, indignant. “But I doubt it, because if you did ever come to the hospital, you’d know your brother shouldn’t be smoking pot with a heart and lung transplant!”

  The boy and the girl (who seemed to be a little more cognizant of what was happening) were able to be cowed. But not Jax.

  “Hey, it’s medicinal. It’s like, therapy?”

  “A sixteen-year-old kid with a heart and lung transplant has a prescription for medical marijuana?”

  “Dude, what made you such a tight ass?”

  “Dude, someone has to be a sane adult for your brother’s sake, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be you.”

  Jax finally, finally looked a little sheepish. Unfortunately, sheepish was a good look on him, and he knew it. Likely knew how to use it, too. He looked up at her from underneath blonde bangs in desperate need of a trim, like a puppy dog hoping for forgiveness after chewing a shoe.

  Little did he know that Quinn was immune to puppy dog looks from internet stars.

  “The joint,” she said in her most commanding mom voice, holding out her hand to the boy and girl, but never taking her eyes off Jax. “Now.”

  The girl suddenly realized she still had it in her hand and jumped and gave a little squeak when she saw it there, still smoldering. The joint flew out of her hand and landed in a dark corner.

  A dark corner draped with raw, very flammable canvas.

  “Oh my god, are you crazy?” Quinn hotfooted it over to the corner. She peered into the dark, finding tiny flashes of red ash.

  “You can’t just”—STOMP—“fling things around”—STOMP—“like that!”—STOMP—“Are you freaking insane?” STOMP.

  When she was satisfied, she let out a deep sigh, brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, and, after retrieving the now squished joint, straightened her gown, and turned around. />
  And found Jaxxon LaRue watching her, with a smile on his face.

  The meanest smile she’d ever seen.

  “I do know you!” Jaxxon was saying. “You’re Halloween Mom!”

  Quinn felt every nerve in her body ready itself for the next command: What do you want us to do? Fight? Flight? Freeze?

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, as cool as she was able to be.

  “That doesn’t work on me, dude, I never forget someone who trends higher than me,” Jax said. “Come on, say it.”

  “Say what?” she asked.

  “Say ‘The freaking food trucks!’” Jax replied.

  And that’s when she saw it.

  Jax had been holding up his phone. This entire time.

  From the second he’d entered. Like an easily forgotten shadow.

  He’d been recording.

  “Oh yeah—that was my favorite part!” his brother said. Then, an echoing parody. “‘The freaking food trucks!’”

  “Wait—” she said, her voice coming out raspy, barely a whisper.

  “Mr. LaRue!” The voice came from behind them. It was one of the event organizers, in a subdued gown, holding the all-important clipboard of authority. “It’s time to draw the raffle winner. Could you follow me please?”

  “Sure, no problem. Hey, bro, wanna come draw a raffle winner with me?”

  “On it,” his brother said, bumping his fist.

  “Oh, can I come?” said the girl.

  “Nah, girl, you’re okay where you are.” Then he turned to Quinn. “Halloween Mom—see you on the internet!”

  “Wait!” she said with more voice this time. But, Jaxxon LaRue and his brother were gone. Leaving Quinn alone with a pouting, slightly high Instagram model.

  And an ominous foreboding that something really, really awful was about to happen. And she couldn’t stop it.

  Chapter Ten

  It was when Quinn Barrett came rushing into the ballroom at the Greater New England Children’s Hospital Charity Ball that Daisy McGulch Stone knew her past was coming back to haunt her.

  Up until then, it had been a wonderful evening. Perfect enough that she could forget all the imperfect parts of life for a little bit and enjoy the moment.

  When they arrived at the charity ball, Daisy could not believe the room. It was like walking onto the set of a Jimmy Cagney movie, and she loved it. The extravagance, the attention to detail—it was set design worthy of an Oscar.

  “Oh my god,” she murmured to Rob as they found their table. “This is the fanciest room I’ve ever been in.”

  “Oh come on, you say that like you haven’t been to the Emmys before.”

  “It was the technical awards,” she said, but squeezed his hand. “Where is our table?”

  “Why? You can’t be hungry already,” Rob said, laughing. “You ate half of Carrie’s mac and cheese.”

  “Eating half of Carrie’s mac and cheese is my due as the mac and cheese maker,” she countered. Grandpa Bob had again been happy to babysit one last time before he flew west with Donna for the winter months.

  “Besides,” she said to Rob, “you would want to sit down too if your tux weighed as much as my dress.”

  Daisy was so pleased with the gown she was wearing. She’d dug deep into her boxes of stuff currently freezing into ice blocks in the garage and pulled out an Amazon warrior cosplay costume. Based on the one that (the forever awesome) Robin Wright wore as General Antiope in Wonder Woman. She took the leather corseted bodice and found a bronze silk and tulle prom dress at Goodwill that she used for the skirt. Luckily, she was short, and she could turn the almost foot she had cut off the hem into a short pelisse-type jacket, covering her arms and framing her neckline with a popped collar. She broke out a shimmery glitter palate for makeup, but in neutral tones.

  She used every ounce of sewing skills she had to become this next level of Cosplay Daisy: Fancy Ass Party Cosplay Daisy, now with Battle Bodice.

  The outfit would have looked perfect with a gold spray-painted top hat, but she restrained herself.

  No one had told Daisy to cover up her tattoos, of course. And she wasn’t the only one here with tattoos—it was New England, but it was still the twenty-first century. There were no doubt tiny affirmations written on wrists, bad college decisions peppered among the elite. Even Rob had a hidden Red Sox logo on his shoulder. Famously the Affleck she’d spied in the crowd had a pretty atrocious tattoo on his back. (Wait, or was it the other one?)

  And Rob would never ask her to cover them up—at least not in so many words. But he’d been strangely nervous about the event. So Daisy decided it was best to err on the side of subtlety and covered her arms. Plus—it was darn chilly in Boston at the end of December.

  As they approached a large twelve-top in the center of the space, Daisy felt Rob squeeze her hand. She smiled back at him and found him looking a little green around the gills.

  Rob was usually so calm and centered, to find him nervous was disconcerting. But instead of letting it make her nervous, Daisy decided she would be the support system, holding him up so he could shine . . . not entirely unlike her Battle Bodice.

  And for Rob, she was ready to do sunshiny cheery battle.

  “Hello!” Daisy said, as she approached the completely full table. Heads looked up from their drinks and conversations.

  “Well, hello, friend!” said the man she recognized as Joe Sr., giving his trademark greeting. When his eyes finally fell on Rob, behind Daisy, he realized Daisy wasn’t just a random fan, and a wide smile spread across his face.

  “Young Robert! You made it!” Joe Sr. jumped out of his seat to shake Rob’s hand. His shock of white hair and Teddy Roosevelt mustache only emphasized his genialness. He was such a huge presence on the show, it was hard to believe he wasn’t much taller than Daisy.

  “Yeah, thanks for gracing us with your presence, Robbie,” said the young man next to Joe Sr., who remained in his seat, smirking slightly. Daisy recognized him as Jo-Jo.

  Even seated, she could tell he was a head taller than his dad. But he didn’t wear the same kind of self-ease that his father did. It might have been because he was in a tux and not in a flannel work shirt and boots. It might have been because he was a grown man named Jo-Jo. But regardless, he looked almost as uneasy as Rob did.

  “Completely my fault!” Daisy said. “I had such a time getting our daughter settled, and of course, this dress does not wear itself—hi! I’m Daisy!” she said in a rush, talking a mile a minute over any potential awkwardness. She didn’t know who she was channeling then. Was it Shanna? Quinn Barrett?

  Was it her old self?

  Whatever it was, it did the trick, because Joe Sr. kissed her hand, and said “enchanté” like he was Maurice Chevalier. Which made Joe Sr.’s wife smack his arm playfully, and Jo-Jo crack up laughing at his parents.

  Daisy eased into her chair, her battle bodice wheezing at the laces. If nothing else she would have perfect posture this evening, because any random movement and she was going to have a wardrobe malfunction. Rob found himself quickly in conversation with Joe Sr., so Daisy reached across the table and shook hands with Jo-Jo’s wife, a sweet-looking woman not too much older than herself, who Daisy learned in quick succession had been high school sweethearts with Jo-Jo, was now a mother of four, and a DIY expert with a blog.

  “Wow—you’ll have to teach me some tricks!”

  “Happy to,” she said, smiling. “With four kids and a husband working on the show constantly, you have to know how to fix things on your own.”

  “I mean, I can sew a hem,” she said (and a battle bodice and a jacket, but she kept that to herself), “but anything involving hammers and nails I leave to Robbie.”

  “Maybe that’s what we should do, Robbie,” Jo-Jo said, with a smile on his lips but not in his eyes, “keep you on the hammers and nails of things and leave the show stuff to us.”

  “Don’t mind him,” Jo-Jo’s wife said, when she saw Daisy
’s surprised face. “He’s just grumpy about—well, he’s just grumpy.”

  “I am not grumpy, I’m—”

  “What you are is at a party, and you’re going to dance with me,” she said, brooking no opposition. “Now.”

  She rose from the table, and reluctantly, he did, too. Once she led him to the dance floor, Daisy turned to Rob, who had gone from green at the beginning, to a normal color while he chatted with other people, to now gray.

  “What was that all about?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

  “C’mon,” he said, after a quick glance around the table. “Let’s grab a drink.”

  They made their way to a funky bar in a side room that had been done up to look like a cool hidden speakeasy. Once Rob had ordered a pair of whiskeys from the surprisingly eye-flirty bartender, Daisy turned to him again.

  “Are you trying to get me drunk?”

  “Absolutely,” Rob replied.

  “Okay, but it’s not going to make me forget that weirdness back at the table,” she said. Then, with real concern, “What’s going on?”

  Rob took a swig of the newly arrived whiskey and sighed. “It’s nothing. I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

  “It’s not a bother,” she said, softly.

  “I know, it’s just . . . things are a little tense at work right now.”

  “Why?”

  “We delivered the first episodes to the producers, and they were hoping that it would be a little . . . sexier.”

  “Sexier? It’s PBS. I didn’t think they were allowed to be sexier.”

  “They meant sexier as in slicker. More production value, more segments to engage viewers. So, I pitched the idea that we delve into a sort of reality competition program arena, while the main show is still about building the house.”

  “How so?”

  “In a new segment, we’d show how the home owners chose their contractors, their landscape gardener, their interior designer, and other artisans. We’d have several of each ‘bid’ for the job by designing a small project to woo the homeowner. So, like, the landscape gardeners would each design a planting bed, or an interior designer would design one small room.”