Little Wonders

by Kate Rorick

  On the other side of the pillow wall, Stuart grumbled, “C’mon . . . stoppit.”

  She wasn’t going to be able to toss and turn, so she might as well use these predawn hours for something.

  Usually, Quinn wasn’t very good at introspection. In her previous incarnation, whenever she had the downtime necessary for self-reflection, she would instead parlay that into completing another task, or adding a Parcel to her day. She could have tried therapy, but . . . according to her in-laws, that was just for people who liked to talk about themselves. But ever since New Year’s—hell, really, ever since Halloween, self-reflection popped up uninvited—so if she couldn’t stop it, she might as well multitask and get something done at the same time.

  She made herself a cup of coffee (she was NOT frothing milk in fear of the noise waking up the house), checked on Hamilton—who was snuggled in bed with Pluto—and settled in at her desk in her office. Her drafting table, where she played with her designs at home, had been untouched since the fiasco at the charity ball. What was she going to do with all of her ideas, anyway, now that she didn’t have Crabbe & Co. to make them real? But . . . she wasn’t able to forgo her designs entirely. Like self-reflection, they kept creeping in at the worst time. She’d find herself doodling a dresser shape or a lamp on the edge of a paper, or walking into a room and immediately redoing the color scheme or the layout in her mind.

  So, when Daisy had told her about the basement being made into a grandfather suite, she finally had an outlet for some of her ideas—and she might have gone overboard. She had filled an entire notebook with sketches. She’d surreptitiously gotten the measurements from Daisy. And then double-checked them that one time they went over to her house for a playdate. (And she also took the measurements for that kitchen, because my god.)

  She played with her sketch for a little while, sipping her coffee and enjoying the silence. Right now, she could pretend that everything was okay. That everything was like it was before.

  But which before? Before Stuart left . . . or before Stuart came back?

  It was strange, because Quinn was used to being alone—Stuart had an odd schedule, so she was often alone. So why had it felt so lonely when he left?

  And why did she feel even lonelier now that he was back?

  Maybe because she still had so many questions.

  He’d given her answers—in their long conversations (which tended to get cut off by sex). But she didn’t know how much she believed him.

  She wanted to know where he’d been staying.

  Answer: friend’s sublet apartment for a couple of months, and pretty much working all the time.

  She wanted to know what he did for Valentine’s Day.

  Answer: three spin classes around a ten-hour workday.

  She wanted to know what she’d done that was so horrible he felt that leaving was his only option.

  Answer: . . .

  Yeah. She still didn’t have a lot of answers.

  She pulled out a couple of fabric swatches, and was matching them to colors in her sketch, when she heard the soft swing of the door behind her.

  “Hey,” Stuart said, groggy, in the doorway. “I was wondering where you were.”

  “Couldn’t sleep,” she replied. “Do you want some coffee?”

  “I want you to come back to bed,” Stuart growled, turning his romance novel face on. Although, since he was squinting against the light of her desk lamp, it was not at its usual potency.

  “I’m not gonna sleep.”

  “I wasn’t talking about sleeping,” he replied, coming over to kiss the back of her neck. He settled into the chair next to hers, and let his eyes fall to her drafting table.

  “What’s all this?”

  “It’s a basement redesign,” she replied, shuffling the papers so he couldn’t look at them. It felt . . . invasive for some reason.

  “I thought you weren’t doing design anymore.”

  “I . . . I left Crabbe & Co. I couldn’t work there after the magazine article. But that doesn’t mean I’m not designing.”

  Stuart let out a long sigh. “I read the article, you know. And you worked magic on that place.”

  “You read the article?” she asked, surprisingly touched.

  “Yes. When you think about the way it looked before . . .”

  “Did I show you pictures of before?” she asked, her brow furrowing. Normally, she didn’t show Stuart the before pictures. He always wrinkled his nose at things that were a complete mess—writing them off as unsaveable. So she eventually just stopped showing him.

  “You must have. Or they were in the article,” he said, then cleared his throat. “The point is . . . you’re really good at what you do. And what Jeremy did was absolutely wrong. But maybe . . . it was actually the best thing for you.”

  “How so?”

  “You don’t need to work. You married a Barrett—and a surgeon to boot. Yes, you can absolutely design and decorate as a hobby, but working . . . it took up so much of your life you could devote to other things.”

  “Such as?” she asked.

  “You could get involved at the school again,” he suggested. “And this time have the ability to devote yourself to it. You could give back, work with the hospital trust. Or you could just take extra Pilates classes and plan our summer vacation. I just want you to be happy.”

  Quinn looked at her drawings, snorted. “I haven’t been to a Pilates class in a while.”

  “Well, you should,” he said. “You need to take care of your body.”

  “The Pilates studio was convenient to work.”

  “So find something here. A healthy body is a healthy mind.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” she said, letting the sarcasm drip. “What if designing makes me happy?”

  “Does it? Now? It’s so public.”

  “Public,” she said, letting the word hit the floor like a lead brick.

  He obviously keyed to the dryness of her voice because he sighed, and then bit his lip. “You’re different.”

  Her arms came across her body. “Yeah, I am.”

  “I didn’t expect you to be different. You didn’t used to . . . never mind.”

  “I like being different,” she said, defiant.

  “I like that you are, too,” he replied instantly. “But I think I need some time to get to know this new Quinn.”

  His hand came out, and gently uncrossed her arms. Held them in his own. “I have a proposal for you. Week after next, I can free up my schedule. Take a couple days off, and you and I can just hang out. Get to know each other again. How does that sound?”

  Quinn looked at his hands on hers. Those hands. On the one hand, taking a week off to spend time working on their marriage seemed like a massive weight he was putting on her shoulders. On the other, she knew she had to give him a chance.

  Because he was her husband.

  And she loved him.

  And maybe she could finally get some of those answers.

  “Yes,” she said. “That sounds like a great idea.”

  “Wonderful,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. Then he glanced out the window. “Sun’s coming up—might as well be awake. Let’s go have some breakfast. I’m starving . . . could you make me a green smoothie?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Daisy knocked on Quinn’s door, she was walking on air. She was having an A+ mega awesome supercalifragilisticexpialidocious day, and she could not wait to tell her best mom friend about it.

  She could not believe the score she’d just made. It was epic. In the annals of geekdom, it was akin to Mario finding an unknown question mark box with a fire flower right before fighting Bowser in his castle.

  It started when she’d gone into the city to run some errands. Well, one errand specifically.

  “I’d like to return these.”

  The D&D Fell’s Five graphic novel compendium hit the counter, still wrapped in its cellophane. That Guy barely looked up from the comic he was leaf
ing through. (He licked his fingers as he turned the pages! Licked them! She hoped that was a personal copy, he had better not try to sell it.)

  Then his eyes fell to Daisy. She’d thought that her purple hair and wearing a shirt that showed the edges of her tattoos would have had him standing a little straighter, realizing he was in the company of his brethren . . . but that was wishful thinking.

  That Guy sighed, put down the comic, and slid the book toward himself.

  “D&D not your cup of tea?” he said.

  She subtly pushed the sleeve of her jacket up, exposing her forearm and the d20 tattoo.

  “I already have a copy,” she said. “Signed. By the author.”

  That Guy merely turned back to the register. “You have a receipt?”

  It had taken her until after their fight for her to get up the courage to ask Robbie for the receipt. He’d been so proud of himself when she’d opened the gift at Christmas that she didn’t have the heart to tell him that she already had Fell’s Five.

  “I thought you wanted it . . . that’s why the comic book guy told me about it as we were leaving the store?” Robbie had said, his brow crinkling adorably.

  “Not exactly.” She’d smiled at her husband, remembering That Guy’s condescension. “But it is the perfect gift for me—as proven by the fact that I already have it.”

  Now, That Guy’s condescension was on full display again as he examined the receipt.

  “Hold on,” That Guy said. “This was purchased back in December?”

  “Yes, it was a Christmas gift.”

  “We can’t do returns after thirty days—store policy.”

  “Seriously?” That was such bullshit. “It hasn’t been touched—the cellophane is still on it.”

  “Store policy.”

  “I don’t get into town a lot—this was my first chance to come in.”

  Maybe her pleas made some headway. Maybe he finally looked at her and saw a comrade in nerd arms. Maybe he only saw a foolish woman who needed a break, but either way, he relented a bit.

  “Best I can do is store credit.”

  Daisy forced herself to not roll her eyes. She didn’t want to leave her money with That Guy. She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. But . . . she was behind on the brilliant comic Saga, and surely there was something or other that could pique her curiosity.

  “Let me look around.”

  “Sure. And if you find anything for you or your husband, let me know.”

  Yeah—now she really didn’t want to leave her money with him. But she didn’t have much of a choice.

  She’d gone through the shelves, perusing, nothing really sparking her interest. She grabbed the latest Saga trade, but still had plenty of store credit left over.

  Then . . . she wandered to the back.

  “You’re not going to find anything back there!” That Guy called out, not looking up from his finger-lickin’ book. “That’s just where we keep the overstock from our acquisitions.”

  Long boxes, short boxes, file boxes piled to the ceiling, defying the will of gravity to stay vertical. She knew that comic book stores often acquired whole collections from people who have decided to clean out their garage, but to see it in front of her was a little daunting. Usually, 97 percent of what was in those boxes wasn’t worth the paper it was printed on anymore, but sometimes, you ran across a mint condition Action Comics #1 and could send your kids—and their kids—to college from its proceeds.

  She’d moved over to a long box on the top of a pile marked “Reviewed.” She guessed that meant they’d already gone through it and picked the needles out of the haystack. But as she thumbed through a bunch of musty Bronze Age comics, she stopped short.

  Was that what she thought it was?

  Was that . . . a copy of Chainmail? Gary Gygax’s early foray into creating a fantasy role-playing game? It was in shockingly good shape. Except for the smudge on the corner.

  Then, she peered closer.

  That was no smudge. That was a signature—one, as a D&D devotee, she knew pretty well.

  She glanced over her shoulder. That Guy wasn’t paying her any attention, still behind the counter reading. Her heart pounding a mile a minute, she hauled the box up (nearly upsetting the delicate structural balance) and marched to the front.

  “How about this?” she said to That Guy. “Can I have this?”

  “You want one of the overstock boxes?” Well, it seemed like she finally had his full attention.

  “It was in the pile marked ‘Reviewed.’” Then, the coup de grace, “There are some old X-Men comics in here that my husband would just die for. He loves the yellow guy. With the claws?”

  “. . . You mean Wolverine?”

  “Yes!” she said, batting her eyes for good measure. “Hugh Jackman’s so hot, amirite?”

  That Guy looked from her, to the box, back to her. Then he shrugged. “Go for it—we don’t have room in the back for that anyway.”

  She flashed That Guy a full-wattage smile, and got out of that store before he could change his mind. She practically skipped to the car, and spent the entire car ride back to Needleton trying to get her heart rate under control.

  So by the time she’d pulled up at Quinn’s house, she was in a state of absolute giddy joy, smiling like a drunken ferret.

  “Hey,” Quinn said, when she answered the door, and then she gave Daisy a once-over. “You look amazing. What’s going on?”

  “Hi, I am amazing, I had a total win, and I will tell it to you later if you’re into meeting up,” Daisy said so fast it sounded like she was on speed. Or at least on sugar.

  “Sure,” Quinn said, her brow furrowing. “You want to come inside now?”

  “No, I have to go to the Parent Association meeting tonight. I know,” she said to Quinn’s raised eyebrow. “But I promised Shanna.” Shanna had sent at least a dozen texts that week, all saying that she really needed Daisy’s help and to please, please come to the meeting. Daisy was a little skeptical, but Shanna was family. There are some things you can’t escape.

  “So, what’s up then?” Quinn said.

  Daisy dug into her bag, to find what had really brought her here. “I was hoping to see you at pickup or drop-off, but I had so much to do today—anyway, you know how Robbie works for The Brand New Home?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “And you know how I told you they are incorporating a competition element for craftsmen, designers, landscape artists?”

  “Yes . . .” Behind Quinn, Daisy heard barking, and then a shadow moved.

  “Pluto, NO! Quinn, can you do something about Pluto, he’s—” Suddenly Stuart appeared in the hall. “Hey. Can we help you?”

  “Stuart, you remember my friend Daisy? Carrie’s mom, from Little Wonders.”

  “Right.” Stuart’s gaze went from Daisy’s hair and her septum ring to finally meeting her eyes. He gave her a very easy, practiced smile. “Nice to see you again. Quinn, when you have a second, the dog. That you got for our son.”

  Stuart disappeared back into the house. Daisy met Quinn’s eyes. She had a feeling Stuart didn’t go very far. “How’s that going?”

  “Oh! Um . . .” Quinn bit her lip. “You know . . . great. Getting back to normal.”

  Yeah. He definitely hadn’t gone very far.

  “So, anyway—something about the show?” Quinn said, pulling Daisy’s mind out of the hallway and back to the conversation.

  “Right! They need interior designers to enter the competition, and I think you should apply.”

  “What?” Quinn blinked.

  “Actually, I showed Rob those designs for the basement that you texted me, and Rob thinks you should apply.”

  “I . . . I’m not with a firm anymore, I don’t have associates or their infrastructure . . .”

  “You’ll have the show’s infrastructure to help,” Daisy replied. “Here’s the paperwork if you decide you want to apply. Callbacks will be week after next. And I have a feeling you’ll get one�
��you’re probably the most qualified person they’ve got. But that’s inside info—the benefit of knowing the producer’s wife.”

  Daisy practically shoved the application into Quinn’s hand. Then she checked her watch. “I have to go. Shanna awaits.”

  “Okay, bye,” Quinn said, and as Daisy leaned in for a cheek kiss (god, she’d become so very bougie but she was feeling so good she couldn’t be mad about it), she saw a shadow move in the dark hall behind her.

  “And call me so we can meet up,” she said. Quinn nodded, and waved as she shut the door.

  But before the door closed, Daisy heard Stuart’s voice float out on the cold air, setting Daisy’s jaw and putting a tarnish on her amazing day.

  “Who on earth is she and what was that about?”

  * * *

  “Shanna, where are you?” Daisy whispered harshly into her phone.

  She had been late to the Parent Association meeting, hoping to sneak into the back of the auditorium without being noticed, get first crack at one of the better volunteer jobs at the Family Fun Fest, and make sure she said hi to Shanna on her way out.

  But instead of finding a room full of parents intently listening to Shanna give a PowerPoint presentation breaking down their needs for the upcoming festival, she walked into the hum and murmurs of a room full of people annoyed at having to be kept waiting.

  And when the door shut loudly behind her, every eye flew to Daisy.

  “Finally!” Suzy Breakman-Kang said in a rush, as she came down from her spot at the main table on the dais. “We’re going to be starting soon, everyone! Thank you for your patience!” The clickety-click of her kitten heels sped up as she broke into a trot.

  “Suzy, what’s going on?” Daisy had said when Suzy reached her side. “Where’s Shanna?”

  “She’s not with you?” Suzy said, alarmed. “She called me, said she needed to talk to you before tonight.”

  “I . . . I haven’t heard from her,” Daisy said, a trickle of worry going down her spine. This was not like Shanna. Something must be wrong. “Do you think she’s okay?”

  “Can you call her?” Suzy asked. “I’ll try and stall everyone.”