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Little Wonders

Page 15

by Kate Rorick


  “That sounds like a good idea,” she said. “It would allow you to feature a lot of local craftspeople, and show what it’s really like when you build a house from scratch. You have to go through a long process to find the people you like.”

  “That’s what I thought—and about half of the staff thought. But Jo-Jo . . . it’s his first show all by himself, out of his father’s shadow. He doesn’t want to share the spotlight.”

  “So he killed the idea?”

  “No. While Jo-Jo is the star, Joe Sr. is still the executive producer. He’s still weighing the idea.”

  “Ah,” Daisy said, nodding.

  “Yeah. It’s made things a little tense with Jo-Jo at work,” Rob said, taking another swallow of his drink. “Like freezing-me-out-of-meetings tense.”

  “Wow,” Daisy said. “But still—it can’t be that bad if you got invited to this fancy ball?”

  “We got invited before I made the pitch,” Rob said, ruefully. “And our names were on the tickets, nontransferable.”

  “So . . . what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, giving a slight chuckle. “But I’ve got my fantasy ‘I Quit!’ speech all prepared.”

  “What?” she practically screeched. Her heart began to thud excitedly. “Quit?”

  “Winter slows down construction; we’re lucky we already had the foundation poured—so there’s plenty of time to create this segment,” Rob was saying, talking faster and being more animated than he had about anything in ages. “Even if it doesn’t work in the main show, it would be great for online.”

  “Rob, honey—back up a sec,” Daisy said, taking him by the arm. “You want to quit? Is quitting . . . something you can do?”

  “No,” Rob said, after a moment. “I guess it isn’t. Not with a house down payment to save up for and all. But it’s fun to dream a little.”

  “Right,” said Daisy, letting herself lean into the little kiss he gave her on the end of her nose, the corner of her eye. But somewhere in the back of her mind, an insidious little thought began to repeat over and over and over:

  He isn’t happy. He wants to quit. Maybe we can move back home.

  “Come on,” Daisy said, trying to quiet the thought. “Let’s go dance.”

  And so they did. They danced the night away. Daisy danced with Rob. She danced with Joe Sr.—as politely as she could manage. She talked with Jo-Jo’s wife some more and found her really delightful and shockingly energetic for having four kids. She bought a couple of raffle tickets (a trip to South America!) and shot whiskey out her nose when she saw the crazy items in the silent auction. She people-watched—mostly the Affleck, trying to figure out if he was the one with the tattoo, but also, she saw a few sports types, some very old-money types, some doctor types, and someone who looked like that internet idiot Jaxxon LaRue.

  And still, that insidious little thought persisted.

  He isn’t happy. He wants to quit. Maybe we can move back home.

  Stop it, she told herself. This is too nice an evening to be thinking like that.

  And it was—it was a glorious evening. In spite of Rob’s tenuous situation at work with Jo-Jo, he was having a marvelous time, dancing with her, drinking a second whiskey like a man who knew he was Ubering home, and cutting loose in a way he hadn’t since their daughter was born. And she was having a great time, too—forgetting all the harder parts of their life, the transitions they had gone through, and rocking out to big-band standards and eating rubber chicken.

  It was as if she were completely new. Shiny and fresh as spring. And come midnight, the year would be new, too—full of new possibilities. No matter the little thoughts that tried to creep in and take this (whiskey-fueled) joy away from her. She would forget them. She would forget everything except Rob’s arms around her Battle Bodice waist, and the way he smiled at her.

  A quick frisson went around the room, like a family of meerkats had been alerted to some sound from far away. Everyone’s heads went up, looking around.

  “What’s going on?” Daisy asked.

  Rob’s brow furrowed, then he checked his watch. “It’s five minutes to midnight.”

  Ah, so that was the commotion. And Daisy saw it—the people up on the small dais, in front of the band, conferring.

  “Everyone! Everyone!” An official-looking woman holding a clipboard came to the front. The crowd murmured their way to settling. “The countdown is going to begin in just a few minutes, and it will be a new year! But before we say goodbye to the old and hello to the new, we want to draw our big raffle winner!”

  That certainly had everyone’s attention.

  “And to pull the winner, we have asked a very special friend to the Greater New England Children’s Hospital to come up here. We are all very excited to bring you the youngest premiere donor to the trust we’ve ever had, Mr. Jaxxon LaRue!”

  “Seriously?” Daisy’s eyebrows shot up. “Jaxxon LaRue? Does anyone here even know who he is?”

  Judging by the crowd’s lukewarm reaction . . . no, no, they did not.

  “I think I remember reading something about his brother being sick,” Rob whispered while dutifully clapping. “I guess he donated a lot of money to the hospital.”

  “Huh, maybe he’s not a completely self-absorbed internet bro,” she whispered back.

  Jaxxon LaRue bounded on the stage like an overgrown sheep dog, taking the mic from a surprised clipboard lady, holding his phone out over the crowd with the other.

  “WHADUPPPPPPPPPP GREATER NEW ENGLAND CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL!!!”

  The crowd cheered with polite, somewhat bewildered enthusiasm. But most of these people were not of the era to know that they were currently on camera and to go nuts accordingly. Daisy shot a look to Rob, and he rolled his eyes back at her. “YouTube stars and camera phones everywhere—it’s like we’re back home.”

  Back home.

  There it was, that little pitch of hope, running though her blood. But she didn’t let those words infiltrate her. Couldn’t let them. And her attention was drawn back to Jaxxon LaRue soon enough, when he brought his brother—a thinner, babyfaced version of Jaxxon—up on the stage.

  “Without you good people, without this hospital, my brother would not be standing here right now. And my mom was like, you need to show your appreciation. So for once, I listened to my mom, and gave you all a bunch of money.”

  Nervous titters through the crowd. Even though this event was entirely about money, these were not the type of people to mention money.

  “I mean, it’s internet money, but it still spends—right, Affleck?”

  The Affleck in the audience raised his glass slightly, but didn’t want the focus on him. And that was fine with Jaxxon LaRue because he preferred the attention exactly where it was.

  “Although I do have a bone to pick with you people,” he said, addressing the audience. “I thought I was the only internet celebrity you guys had on the payroll. But who did we see out in the bar?”

  He paused, and held his mic up to his brother.

  And then, things started to feel like they were happening in slow motion. Daisy saw out of the corner of her eye . . .

  Someone rushing in from the back bar area. A familiar stride, an alert frame.

  And then she turned her head.

  “Quinn . . . ,” she breathed.

  What was Quinn Barrett doing here?

  Rob looked down at Daisy, caught her gaze. Looked over.

  And then Jaxxon and his brother said into the mic, after the longest pause ever . . .

  “HALLOWEEN MOM!”

  Quinn froze, like a scared rabbit. Then, Daisy saw her melt. From the spine down. As if what was going to happen was going to happen and she just had to absorb whatever tsunami was about to hit.

  “Seriously, she’s here. You know her, right?” Jaxxon said to the bewildered crowd. “Bro, do the thing.”

  His brother pulled himself up, snickering. “The freaking!”—STOMP!—“Food trucks!�
�—STOMP!

  The two LaRue brothers dissolved in a fit of giggles. The crowd was mostly perplexed, with a few people chuckling.

  “Dude, what the hell, right? Why was she here?” his brother said.

  “She said she was married to one of your surgeons. Like, that guy whoever he is, must live like, in complete fear of his life,” Jaxxon replied.

  “Right, oh my God!” his brother snickered. “Like, You didn’t”—STOMP!—“take out”—STOMP!—“the trash!”—STOMP!

  “You didn’t”—STOMP!—“give me”—STOMP!—“an orgasm!” Jaxxon chimed in.

  “All righty then!” said the woman with the clipboard, who made a grab for the mic. “We’re coming up on midnight, let’s pull that raffle winner for the big-prize trip to Argentina!”

  As the clipboard woman guided Jaxxon over to the raffle bowl, the winner was chosen, and started screaming delightedly from somewhere in the crowd, the countdown for the New Year began.

  But as everyone gave voice to their own “Happy New Year!” and gold and black confetti fell across the room, Daisy could only watch Quinn Barrett. Still standing there, alone in the crowd.

  And having endured her entire life being broken into pieces all over again.

  Little Wonders Preschool January Newsletter

  Hello, WONDER-ful Parents!

  And welcome to the new year! We hope you survived your kids had a wonderful holiday with your loved ones! We at the Parent Association are so excited for what the new year is going to bring!

  We were so happy to provide a wonderful Snowflake Breakfast, that we are doing it again! We will be celebrating MLK Day with a Build Your Own Pizza Party! What Martin Luther King has to do with pizza, I don’t know. Maybe the teachers can do his portrait in pepperoni. Positive associations will help teach our kids our amazing history!

  Sign-up sheets for volunteer hours will be posted in the lobby, and on the Parent Association website, and on the Facebook group, and on the PA’s Slack. God, no one uses the Slack—why do we still have it? And of course any donations of supplies and ingredients are appreciated. We want money.

  Don’t forget the Parent Association meeting on the first Wednesday of the month—we will start ramping up for our biggest event of the entire year—the FAMILY FUN FEST in the spring! The Parent Association is immensely excited about the new and innovative plans we have, oh god, what is Shanna going to make us do? and with your help and your volunteer hours and money we will make this the best #FFF ever!

  In other news, theme day this month will be HOMETOWN HEROES! On January 25th, have your kids dress up as their favorite service officer—policeman, fireman, etc! Really there are only those two, unless your kid wants to dress up as an IRS agent. And who doesn’t?

  Lest we forget (and don’t forget because otherwise you’re a bad parent) the new year is a great time to change the batteries in your smoke detectors and double-check your fire extinguisher—thus we will be having our EMERGENCY PREPAREDNESS WEEK! Don’t forget to update your child’s comfort kits, your contact information for the emergency alert system (you know, that thing that every couple of months sends out an alert and gives you a heart attack), and a representative from the fire department will be coming to talk to the kids! FIRE TRUCK. There will be a fire truck at the school. Do not miss this day or else your child will never forgive you.

  Together in Parenting!

  Suzy Breakman-Kang

  Parent Association Secretary

  Addendum: To those of you Terry, AGAIN who inquired about the chicken coop, I REMIND YOU that our little flock has been moved indoors to the barn until the spring—so those children worried about their demise need not be concerned. We will welcome back Cherry, Jelly Bean, and Candy Corn in just a few short months! Cherry is now a different color though. Don’t worry when they reemerge in April—no one will remember.

  Second Addemdum: Holy shit, did you guys see there was another video? Really, I can only feel sorry for Quinn now . . . I mean, if she hadn’t been such a demanding president. Although, Shanna’s walking close to the line too—I don’t know if we got the better deal there, guys.

  Chapter Eleven

  On Friday, January first, Quinn cleaned out her closets. All of her closets. Her clothes closet, her linen closet, her cleaning supplies closet, her kitchen pantry. She went through all of Ham’s clothes, removing anything too small that was still somehow in rotation, and integrated all the clothes he got for Christmas.

  She went through the mudroom, and scraped and sprayed all the mud and dirt off the boots and galoshes that had been accumulating there. She moved everything off the counters in her perfect gray-and-white kitchen, and proceeded to ruthlessly rid it of every crumb that had fallen into every corner and cranny.

  What she did not do was go online.

  She didn’t need to, of course. She knew without looking that a new video featuring her was online, posted by one of the most popular internet stars, with millions and millions and millions of followers.

  She knew she would have to suspend her Instagram and her Facebook accounts again. But she would have to clean that house later. Right now, she was cleaning this one.

  When Ham woke up, she made him a big beautiful breakfast, from all the organic whole foods they had in their fridge. An amazing spinach frittata with lemon zest was well within her repertoire.

  Once he went into his playroom, she cleaned the kitchen (again) and got to work rearranging the living room furniture. The weight of the tufted gray couch was far off balance against the vintage William Morris spindly chairs by the fireplace; she absolutely could not stand it anymore.

  Hopefully her lawyers were not somewhere in the Caribbean without cell phone reception. She’d called and left a message last night when she and Stuart arrived home, knowing that waiting was “not conducive to their goal of limiting damage.”

  Her phone was turned off but it was no doubt fielding massive calls, texts, and notifications from the looky-loos, the concern trolls, and the occasional interview request. But in truth, she knew there was not one real person in the bunch to call and ask after her. To ask how she was doing. No friends at all.

  Because she didn’t really have any. And at that moment, she missed it. Craved it. That mythical f-word: friends.

  Where did they go? She’d had friends in the past. Yvonne from elementary school; they used to run around with braids in their hair, biking through the Ohio woods and pretending to be Brontë heroines defeating evil. Frances, Rachel, and Erica were her minions in high school, thriving on imaginary drama and gossip. Friendships from college that at the time felt like the kind of passionate relationships that would be sustained, roots wedging themselves down into the very center of a person, becoming the foundation of the adult.

  But now? No one was there.

  Everyone had gone quiet, invested in their own lives.

  And . . . it was probably her fault.

  Her life had gone in a decidedly “up” direction, while others stayed unimpressively level. When she’d announced her marriage to Stuart on Facebook, replete with professional engagement photos—that she’d arranged an entire weekend in Nantucket around, doing her best to look casual and perfect at the same time—she was met with congratulations from all corners. But had she invited those corners to the wedding? Mostly no. Mostly, she kept it to the people in her new life. The people she wanted to be like. Her mother had balked when she told her that she wasn’t inviting any of her old high school crowd.

  She’d argued at the time that they wouldn’t be able to come anyway, seeing that they mostly all stayed in Ohio. But really, deep down, had she been worried about how they would have fit in? How they would have reflected on her?

  Deep down, probably yes.

  And now, she was left with phone notifications from people who gleefully wanted that high school drama and gossip, and wanted to see someone who got too big for their britches fall.

  Once the living room was rearranged to her satisfaction, s
he started going through her office, and began to Marie Kondo the hell out of her desk drawers.

  Hamilton wandered in once asking for a snack. She made him a plate with olives and several different types of cheeses, of which he ate only the American square cheese slice she’d wrapped around a small piece of salami. She’d settled him into the couch in the playroom, and turned the TV to the Rose Bowl parade.

  She made to leave, to tackle those drawers. . . .

  “Is Daddy awake yet?” Hamilton asked her suddenly.

  She paused, turned at the door. “No, honey. He’s not here.”

  Hamilton nodded. Then he turned back to the television, his attention caught by the high school marching band from Oregon, playing the theme song to Jurassic Park.

  Hamilton was used to his father not being there when he woke up, she told herself. Stuart stayed late in the city so often when he was on call, sleeping in the doctors’ quarters—a fancy name for a spare room with an empty bed—at the hospital. So, there was no reason to suspect that anything was different this time.

  Except everything was different this time.

  Because this time, she didn’t know if Stuart was ever coming back.

  They had managed to not have the fight until they got home. But at first, Quinn had been shocked that there was a fight to be had at all. She had just been humiliated. Again.

  Stuart had found her quickly in the crowd. He’d had her wrap and purse from their table in his hands. They’d gotten their coats and were out the door to the valet before the last refrain of “Auld Lang Syne” was sung.

  Anyone they saw on their way out the door was greeted with a patented romance hero smile, and an easy excuse about having to go home and relieve the babysitter. He’d kept his arm across her shoulder, either bracing her from falling, or keeping her from running away, she wasn’t sure. But once they got into the car, his stony voice issued just one edict.

  “Tell me what the fuck just happened.”

  She did. As best she could, keeping her voice even.

 

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