by Kate Rorick
Nothing big. Not yet. But something where she could express her creativity, her organization, and make beautiful rooms for people who needed the help finding their style. Needleton and the surrounding suburbs were awash with big new construction houses that were blank slates. Surely some new homeowner needed guidance picking wallpaper.
Unfortunately, the internet was the twenty-first-century yellow pages . . . and how was she supposed to have a website for her work without her old videos creeping back in to shame her? And if she made her comeback on television? They might as well run the Halloween Mom video in a picture-in-picture display.
It was . . . daunting.
“I . . . have a lot of things to consider, that’s all,” Quinn said, pasting a serene smile on her face. It was her “this is my final say on the matter” smile, and worked great with waitstaff and receptionists, but was apparently completely ineffective on Daisy.
“Don’t consider too long,” she said. “The deadline for applications is Monday.” Quinn knew that. It was flashing in red in her mind every time she had a spare moment to herself. “And I don’t want you to let something as stupid as an internet video keep you from doing what you’re meant to do.”
A warm rush of pride flooded Quinn’s chest. “What I’m meant to do.”
“Clearly you get a rush from organizing other people’s lives,” Daisy said, indicating the papers in her hands. “And your house is like walking into a magazine spread, but like, a lived-in one.”
“Thank you?” Quinn cracked a smile.
“The point is . . . don’t let anyone tell you who to be,” Daisy said, earnestly. She flipped a lavender length of hair over her inked shoulder. “Anyone. Not . . .” She hesitated. “Not Stuart, and least of all the internet. You are Quinn Barrett. You gotta strut down the preschool hallway and own it.”
Quinn rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help feeling the words.
“The preschool doesn’t really apply to the situation, but . . . okay. I’ll think about it.”
And she did. She thought about it for the next two days, over the weekend. Thought about it as the snow melted and Hamilton and Pluto rolled around in the mud. Thought about it when Stuart came back from his morning spin class freshly showered and smelling amazing. Home. She should be more focused on home. On Hamilton’s progress, on Stuart and building their marriage to a stronger place, to where they became an unbreakable unit, talking about their problems, his successes reflecting on her. And vice versa?
That was the problem. For her to have successes that reflected well on him, she had to have successes. And yes, having a smooth-running, beautiful home and a happy, well-adjusted child were massive, massive successes. Nearly impossible in this day and age. But . . .
There was that “but.”
She and Hamilton would be building with blocks, and she would be thinking about the design of the Lego house in her hands.
She and Stuart would be idly chatting about how many weeks she and Hamilton would spend at his family’s house on Nantucket this summer (Stuart’s schedule would only allow him to visit on the weekends) and she would be mentally scouring the shops in town for beautiful island pieces to incorporate into some future design.
There was this part of her that she couldn’t turn off. And she didn’t want to.
Quinn did not think of herself as a controversial person. In the narrow life she led in Needleton, she might come off as “strong willed” (or another euphemism for brash, bitchy, or blunt), but in the grand scheme of things, she was truly insignificant. And she didn’t want significance. She didn’t even want perfection, not anymore. She just wanted to have a happy home, and a fulfilling existence.
Going on television to enter a design contest . . . that was courting significance. But success there might overcome the only other impression the world had of her—that of Halloween Mom.
In fact, other than an unknown length of time, it might be the only thing that could.
So, Sunday night, after Stuart was asleep, she got up, booted up her computer, found the form and instructions beneath some sketches on her desk, filled out the online application, and hit Send before she could change her mind.
She was certain that nothing would come of it.
They were probably overloaded with applicants, and as it was last minute, they had likely already chosen their next round.
So imagine her surprise when, a few days later, she learned that the next round would include her.
The next round, which occurred during the week that Stuart had decided to take off. So they could work on their marriage.
And she did want to work on their marriage. But Stuart . . . Stuart seemed to think that working on their marriage consisted mostly of sex and talking about grand future plans.
They planned their summer vacation (Nantucket, obvs), they talked about what schools they wanted Hamilton to go to (Groton was Stuart’s alma mater, but Quinn blanched at the thought of Hamilton going to boarding school), what kind of volunteering Quinn could do (Stuart’s mother apparently had ideas, and a few charities with openings on their boards—once her little scandal was well and truly over, that is). The idea of her designing was not brought up.
And they adamantly did not talk about the past. Which was the only thing Quinn wanted to talk about. Because her big questions still had no answers. And Stuart dodged every attempt she made to approach them.
She still wanted to know WHY. Why he’d left. Why he thought it was remotely okay to do that to her, to Hamilton. Why did he have so little faith in her? Why did he think it was all in the past?
Why did she still want him after all of it?
So while they did not talk about the past, the only thing that kept Quinn from going crazy was thinking about her future, and the TV competition callback burning a hole in her brain.
The second round consisted of submitting plans and photos of a recently completed project, as well as an interview. The one bit of luck that she had was that it would be a phone interview, and she wouldn’t have to sneak out of the house. Unfortunately, for the other half of the requirements, she would have to contact Crabbe and Co., and ask for copies of official plans with her name on them as project manager and lead designer.
Which she really, really didn’t want to do.
Stuart was in the basement, trying to figure out the tankless water heater, which didn’t work that morning again. While he pretended to be handy, there was nothing for Quinn to do but dive right in, so she lifted the kitchen phone off the receiver and dialed the number before she had a chance to chicken out.
“Well hello there,” Sutton’s voice purred on the other end of the phone. “Bored yet?”
“Funny you should ask, Sutton,” Quinn said. “I have a favor to ask of you.”
Sutton paused for a second. She heard a shuffling noise. “Of—of course, Quinn . . . Gimme a sec.”
“Sutton, did you just drop the phone?”
“No! No, I was . . . ducking into the hall. Um, I didn’t want Jeremy to overhear. Hi! How are you? Bored of, ah, being at home yet?”
“‘Bored’ isn’t the right word,” Quinn said, taking a deep breath. “But I am working on a little something at the moment, and . . . could you send me copies of the comprehensive plans for the Beacon Hill house?”
“. . . the Beacon Hill house?” Sutton asked. “Why?”
“I . . . well, it’s silly, but I’m applying for a . . . well, it would sort of be a job. And they need to see previous work.” Her name was all over the official plans, she knew. Because she had designed and drawn them. Jeremy might have erased her from the magazine article, but she knew he was too lazy to bother erasing her from the paperwork. “It’s all completely aboveboard, I promise.”
“I would never think it wasn’t!” Sutton said quickly. “So you’re applying to a new firm? I didn’t think you were . . . going to go back to work.”
“Why not?”
“Just . . . ,” Sutton hedged. “That it seemed like y
ou were done with designing. To, you know . . . focus on your family?”
Quinn’s brow came down. Really, she expected this kind of attitude from Stuart—not from her smart young female former protégé to whom she tried to impart the basic tenet of fighting for everything you want.
“Well, it wasn’t really done with me. Besides, it’s not a firm, it’s a . . . TV show. I have no doubt I won’t get it and this is all for nothing.”
“A TV show?” Sutton said. “Wait, are you applying to The Brand New Home? The PBS show?”
“Yes . . .” Oh god, was Sutton applying, too? That would be terribly awkward.
“I heard about that! Actually, I know the homeowners—friend of a friendish. Good luck. From what I’m told, you’ll need it.”
“So, you’ll copy those designs for me?”
“Absolutely, I got you covered.”
“Great—so,” Quinn said, awkward. “How are things going there?”
“Good—it’s a lot of work. Jeremy gave me my own project. Lead designer. Small, but it’s all mine.”
Quinn tried to listen with interest, but in truth, she was waiting for that vague knife-in-gut feeling to pass. It was unseemly that she still felt this way. She should be happy for Sutton’s successes. But the idea that she was flourishing in the place that had kicked Quinn to the curb . . . well, it wasn’t going to stop hurting anytime soon.
“That’s great. I’m sure you’re going to do fine,” Quinn said, cutting Sutton off mid-description of the two-bedroom beachside bungalow she was in charge of. “Listen, I’ve got to go—email me those plans as soon as you can?”
“Sure, and . . . and say hi to Stuart for me. Haven’t seen him at spin class in a couple of weeks. Good luck with the show!”
It turned out that she didn’t need luck. Because after her phone conversation with the producers, one of whom was Robbie (who made a disclosure at the beginning of the meeting saying that he knew Quinn via his daughter’s preschool and was therefore abstaining from the interior designer decision), she knew, without a doubt, that she had advanced to the next round.
They laughed at the right moments. They asked the right questions about the Beacon Hill house. They asked about her creative process, her work history, her favorite part of designing (figuring out a solution to an impossible problem), and her least favorite part (when that solution didn’t work, grr!).
As they talked, she became more and more enlivened. She went from “oh this is nothing more than a lark” to “I want this so badly my blood is screaming” in the space of fifteen minutes.
It wasn’t an hour after she hung up the phone that she got a call from the production office.
“Hey, Quinn.” It was Robbie, on speakerphone. “Got a sec?”
“I’m on my way to Little Wonders to pick up Hamilton,” she said. “So you have ten glorious minutes of child-free convo time.”
“Excellent! Well, it’s my pleasure to tell you that you have made the final round.”
“I did?” She smiled wide, and tried not to swerve the car with her chair dancing.
“The clients loved the sample you sent. Our producers—minus myself, who abstained—unanimously voted you in. All you have to do now is come on the show, and give your final presentation to the clients, and they choose the winner.”
“On the show,” she said. Actually on camera. Nerves began to swamp her again. Was she courting more notoriety? But, she rationalized . . . they knew about the video. Granted, it hadn’t come up in the meeting—and it wasn’t something that she’d figured out how to put on her resumé, but Robbie knew about it, he must have disclosed it to his coworkers. And if they knew about it, and didn’t care . . . maybe, just maybe it didn’t matter.
“Yep. We’ll be filming the client meetings this Friday. So you need to present a design idea for a nursery.”
Friday . . . three days. She could mock up some ideas for a nursery in three days. During the week that Stuart had taken off so they could focus on their marriage.
But honestly . . . yes, she could do it. And she wanted to do it. It wasn’t as if they were spending the week doing nothing but drinking mai tais, either. Stuart still checked in with the office, worked out. And she was helping Daisy—which Stuart didn’t mind in the least. In fact, he encouraged it, saying it was a good way to get her feet wet back with the school, without sticking her neck out too far.
Which was an odd thing to say, but he meant well.
So, if she worked on a nursery design while he thought she was going over a Family Fun Fest budget, then no one got hurt.
There was one close call, when he leaned over her computer and saw a file marked “nursery ideas.”
“Nursery ideas?” he asked, with a smirk. “Is there something you have to tell me?”
Quinn gave a little laugh, but at that moment, she knew, yes . . . she did have something to tell him. She couldn’t go to the interview on Friday—she couldn’t appear on a television show—without him knowing.
On Friday morning, she came down the stairs, dressed and made up, portfolio in hand, ready for her proverbial close-up.
“Morning, Ms. Quinn!” Gina said from the sink, where she was washing out the remnants of a green smoothie from the blender. “You look very nice.”
“Thank you. Hey, buddy!” She bent and kissed Ham’s head as he slurped up said green smoothie. “Where’s your dad?”
“Riding his bike,” Ham said in between slurps.
In the basement, where he had set up his fancy new stationary bike. She made her way down there, her nerves staying eerily calm with each step.
She found Stuart working away on the bike, sweating up a storm. When he saw her, he stopped, pulled the earbuds out of his ears.
“Morning,” he said, dubiously. “Where are you going?”
“I have an interview.”
“An interview?” He stepped off the bike now. “Where?”
“For the television show The Brand New Home.”
Stuart sighed deeply.
“I have to head into the city, so I need you to drop Hamilton off at school today.”
Stuart wiped off his face with a towel, taking the moment to regather himself. “I thought you weren’t going to pursue that.”
“I know that’s what you thought. And I know what all your arguments are against it,” Quinn said. “But I decided that this is something I want to do. It’s important to me.”
“Damnit, Quinn,” he said softly, shaking his head. “You’re going to put yourself out there again. And you’re going to be humiliated again.”
“I don’t believe I will be,” she said, as calm as she could manage. “But if I am, that is my choice.”
“I just want you to be happy, okay?” he said, heat coming into his voice. “I want us to be happy.”
“Having a career makes me happy.”
“And if I end up humiliated with you?” he bit out.
She froze. Those words, among all of his others, were a slap in her face.
The look on her face must have told him how way out of bounds that was, because he sighed deeply, held up his hands in surrender. “You . . . could you just do one less thing? Could you focus on our family and do one less thing?”
“Maybe you should focus on our family and do one more thing,” she shot back, surprising herself. “Which is take our son to school today.” She breathed deep, digging for that well of composure all the self-help books swore she had. “You want to repair our marriage. And you think taking a week off here and there is enough to get us back on track. But I need a partner every day. I need a partner, right now.”
He was silent for a moment.
“I’m not asking for your permission. This is my decision. I’m going in to the interview. I’ll be back before lunch. And when I get home, we can have a wonderful afternoon together, and maybe . . . maybe talk about what we actually need going forward.”
She left him there, stunned. And as she walked away, she was stunned herse
lf.
* * *
It would be easy to assume that Quinn Barrett had already done the hardest thing she would do that day. Confronting Stuart was not something she liked doing, or was used to, but it had been absolutely necessary, because now, she was free. Freed from the uncertainty that had been plaguing her for weeks, free from trying to fit herself back into the role Stuart wanted her to play.
Therefore, the on-camera interview should be a breeze.
And it pretty much was . . . until she was actually on camera, sitting across from the homeowners she had to impress.
“You’ll sit here, Quinn,” the producer was saying, ushering her from hair and makeup (she had thought her hair and makeup were already done, but she was grateful for the touch-ups). Robbie had popped in earlier to wish her luck, but for obvious reasons he would be sitting out the interview. This producer was female, with a no-nonsense attitude, a headset on, and the all-important clipboard of authority in her arm. She placed Quinn on one end of a low couch. A stone coffee table was in front of her and beyond that, three cameras were set up, and a big lighting display with white bounce boards. They were going to go for a casual vibe with the setting, but the set was anything but casual.
“And the homeowners will sit next to you—if you could try and cheat a little to the camera, that would be helpful,” the producer said. “Do you need water, or anything?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look so relaxed,” she said. “You’re gonna do great. Oh, and here they are now. George, Sybil, this is Quinn Barrett.”
They were a young professional couple in their early thirties. He was genial, with an easy smile and an expensive watch. She was impeccably dressed, swollen to about six or seven months, and honed in on Quinn with an intense gaze.
And suddenly Quinn knew exactly who she was dealing with. She was staring at herself, four or so years ago.
Quinn stood to shake their hands. George pumped hers enthusiastically, while Sybil’s was more tepid.
They sat down, and Quinn was about to launch into her design plans when the producer spoke.