Little Wonders

by Kate Rorick

  The argument, her questions, the sour pit of it still burned her stomach. But he had said he was going to try harder, and that’s what she had asked of him. He was tired, she was tired, and as long as there was progress, she could wait a little more to have the whole discussion.

  But Stuart ended up spending the whole Saturday in the city, at the hospital. Sunday, he managed to avoid their conversation by taking Ham out for a hike in the melty, salty cold air. He got his son so worked up that Ham skipped his nap and had become a bear by bedtime.

  Then Monday rolled around, and Stuart was back at work, on call, coming home late . . . and she’d told herself, after his week on call, that they’d address their issues for real. She’d find a family therapist, they’d go and talk to someone about how to meet each other’s needs. They would start to walk a path to meeting those needs.

  Everything would be fixed.

  She’d convinced herself of this as Stuart fell back into the old pattern of leaving everything to Quinn.

  How many times had this happened? Quinn expressed some frustration, Stuart said he’d be better, and they just went back to the way it had been? How many times had she let this pattern play out?

  She was disgusted with herself, but as more time went on, the more she felt like she had missed her shot to have the talk. The day-to-day of Life overwhelmed the sense of urgency to face their situation.

  Meanwhile, she’d gotten the call from The Brand New Home—she’d been chosen by the Hendersons to do the nursery. She was ecstatic. Even texted Stuart, who texted back a “Great. Congratulations.” While her marriage was at a stalemate, at least she had this nursery to focus on.

  And she pulled off the greatest, most functional, cutest nursery the world had ever seen, if she did say so herself. Her modular wall lighting was inspired, voice or touch operated, adjustable to mimic sunrise and sunset as necessary. Her low built-in shelves were exactly what she’d wished she’d had as a new parent. She’d filmed sequences for the show, letting them watch the messiness of the making rather than just the amazing finish. She’d had paint in her hair on camera. She’d been a mess in public. And she’d loved it.

  That was just twenty-four hours ago.

  Which betrayal hurt her more? Stuart’s? She didn’t know if she believed he would ever make a pass at Shanna like that—because . . . that was ridiculous, right? No doubt she’d misinterpreted something that he said. But it’s absolutely true that he wasn’t present now. He hadn’t committed himself to his family like he’d said he would. He’d just . . . gone back to the way it was.

  And then there was Daisy. The one person who had made things a little okay after everything fell apart was actually the cause of it. She thought back to the Halloween parade. She barely remembered seeing Daisy there—just something about Daisy picking up chairs she shouldn’t have. Surely that wasn’t enough to destroy someone’s life, right?

  Daisy had tried to tell Quinn what had happened, in the auditorium.

  “I . . . I didn’t mean to—I had just moved here,” Daisy was blubbering, trying to grab Quinn’s arm. “I was telling some friends back in LA what it was like, and showed them the video—after that I was so scared—”

  But Quinn’s brain could not really hear any of it. The weight of it rested on her chest, suffocating. She was just numb. And she just wanted to get Ham and go home. She shook off Daisy, ignored the crowd, and got out of there.

  When she thought of all the times Daisy and she had met up, hung out in the last few months. How many times could Daisy have told her? How many times had Daisy been laughing behind her back?

  No . . . Quinn knew Daisy hadn’t been laughing. She wouldn’t do that.

  But she hadn’t been honest, either.

  Oh god—had she become Quinn’s friend out of guilt? Quinn had long suspected that there might have been some pity involved when Daisy first approached her at the coffee shop, but she was at such a low point, pity was almost acceptable. Besides, their friendship quickly evolved beyond that.

  But guilt? Guilt was something else altogether. Guilt made their friendship a penance. Something that could absolve. Guilt added a layer of unease to every single phone call, text, and Long Island iced tea and just weighed her down into sadness.

  “Mommy? Why’re you crying?” Ham appeared in the archway of the living room, wearing his royal blue monogrammed bathrobe.

  Quinn touched her hand to her face. She hadn’t realized that tears were streaming down her cheeks until that moment.

  “Just . . . just because I’m a little sad, buddy,” she said.

  “You’re sad? I’ll give you a hug!” And Ham came over and wrapped his arms around her. She gathered him up and squeezed him tight.

  “Thank you, Hammy,” she said. “You give the very best hugs.”

  “Did the video make you sad?” he asked.

  She froze. “The video?” she said, pulling back to look at him.

  “Carrie’s mommy said she made a video,” Ham replied. And Quinn realized horrifically that not only did every adult in the auditorium hear every word of her exchange with Daisy and Shanna, but every kid did, too.

  Including Ham.

  “It’s kind of about the video,” she replied.

  “Is it a bad video?” he asked. Hamilton equated bad videos to things that were too violent for him to be allowed to watch. Like Road Runner cartoons.

  “No . . . it’s a video of Mommy being silly. Having a tantrum,” she qualified.

  “Ohhhhh,” Hamilton said. “Can I see it?”

  Quinn was about to open her mouth to automatically tell him no, but she stopped herself. Maybe he deserved to see it. It had been the cause of such a huge shift in her—and consequently his—life. Yes, he was three years old, almost four. Yes, he might not understand the full impact of it. But as Ms. Anna had said all those months ago—kids are smart and sensitive enough to know when something is going on.

  “Okay, buddy. Grab me my computer?”

  Hamilton trotted over to the dining room table and very, very carefully brought back Quinn’s laptop. She hoisted Ham onto her lap, went into that file she’d hidden deep in her computer that housed the video, queued it up, and pressed Play.

  There it was, that brisk October day. The camera swung wildly, settled on Quinn and Hamilton, hiding behind the barn. Shanna’s voice (how had she ever not known it was Shanna’s voice, she could hear it so clearly now) said, “Oh. My.” From somewhere off to the side.

  “Mommy, is that you?” Hamilton asked.

  “Yes,” Quinn answered calmly. “And that’s you I’m talking to.”

  Hamilton took that in like he’d been told a massive important secret. He leaned in, watching the screen even more intently.

  And then, on the screen, Quinn began stomping.

  “I did”—STOMP—“All of this”—STOMP—“For you!”—STOMP—“The parade!”—STOMP—“The Party!”—STOMP—“The freaking food trucks!”—STOMP—

  Quinn couldn’t bear to look. She turned away. But Ham, Ham was transfixed . . . and then she felt his body shaking.

  He was laughing.

  “Mommy, you’re so silly!” Ham said in between delighted cackles.

  “Yeah,” she said, feeling a smile dawn on her face. She felt a laugh bubble up in her chest. It was pretty silly, when you looked at it.

  On the screen, she nearly fell, windmilling her arms. Ham burst out in renewed laughter. And this time, Quinn joined him, her joy full and fat. God, all the terrible things that had happened, all the criticism, all the worry over how this would affect her son, and Hamilton . . . he thought it was the most hilarious thing.

  “Why are you so silly, Mommy?”

  “I was really upset that day,” she said, gasping for breath.

  Ham immediately sobered. “Why?”

  “. . . I don’t remember anymore,” she replied. “I’m very sorry I yelled at you, though.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, and gave her another hug. “I
don’t remember either.”

  “Bud, you should patent those hugs. You’d make a mint,” she said after she absorbed his love into herself.

  “What’s a mint?”

  “A lot of money.”

  “Oh. Hey, there’s Daddy!”

  Quinn’s head came up. Ham was looking at the computer, where the second video in her hidden file—the Jaxxon LaRue video from the New Year’s ball—had begun to play. They had gotten past the beginning bit, where Jaxxon and his brother talk in the hotel room, and into the montage of the party.

  Jaxxon was on the screen, talking to the event coordinator from the Children’s Hospital Trust. And there, in the background, where Ham was pointing, was Stuart.

  Dancing.

  With Sutton.

  She’d seen it before. She’d watched them dance together at the ball itself. Thought very little of it at the time, because Stuart had always had that young Clooney vibe. He leaned into it, that wasn’t a crime. He and Sutton knew each other through Quinn. They’d coincidentally ended up in the same spin class. So they were understandably friendly.

  But now, watching it again with new eyes, the dance was obviously more than friendly.

  Quinn started to get the sinking feeling that Shanna hadn’t misinterpreted what Stuart had said to her last year.

  Pieces began to fall into place. Stuart’s ease in finding a place to stay in the city when he’d left her. The voice mail she’d gotten from him when she’d been at Disney World. She thought her phone had malfunctioned, saying she’d had a call from Crabbe & Co. But Sutton’s cell was a Crabbe & Co. phone, and if Stuart had unintentionally picked up hers to call . . .

  Other things . . . deeper clues. The strange way Sutton spoke when Quinn had called her, to ask for the plans to the Beacon Hill house. Now Quinn realized that she’d sounded oddly familiar, then surprised, that it was Quinn on the other end of the call.

  Speaking of the Beacon Hill house . . . Stuart knew what state the Beacon Hill house had been in before it was refurbished and photographed for the Martha Stewart magazine. The Beacon Hill house was on the walk back from the spin studio to the office. Sutton could have easily let Stuart in to take a peek. And . . .

  And it would have to have been before Stuart left. Because by New Year’s, the Beacon Hill house was completely done.

  Scales were falling from her eyes. Pennies were dropping. And Quinn refused to fall down with them.

  “Excuse me.” Gina’s voice broke through Quinn’s concentration. “Hamilton, there you are.”

  Quinn snapped the computer shut.

  “Hey!” Hamilton protested.

  “Sorry, buddy,” Quinn said. “But that’s enough computer.”

  “Awwww . . . ,” Hamilton said, pouting.

  “Now, why don’t you go with Gina to get your PJs on, and then you can play Legos until it’s time for stories.”

  The promise of Lego time before bed perked Ham right up, and he trotted over to Gina without a backward glance.

  “Gina—can you stay a little late tonight?” Quinn asked. “I think I need to run an errand.”

  “Absolutely,” Gina said.

  “Thanks—you’ve been a lifesaver these past couple of months. I really appreciate it, more than I’ve told you.”

  Gina blushed, and went off with Ham, who was pulling at her hand.

  And Quinn turned to her phone, dialed.

  It took two rings for Quinn to formulate her plan. And on the third ring, Charlene, Stuart’s surgery scheduler, picked up.

  “Hi, Charlene,” Quinn said, her voice that miraculous combination of perky and soothing that masked all homicidal thoughts. Charlene was always all business—she would never presume that Charlene would knowingly cover for Stuart in committing infidelity, but that didn’t mean she didn’t cover for him. “I was wondering if Stuart had left yet? He was supposed to meet me for dinner, and the restaurant is about to give our reservation away.”

  “Er, yes, Mrs. Barrett,” Charlene said. “He clocked out two hours ago.”

  “Really? He’s not picking up his phone.”

  “Perhaps he’s at his spin class.”

  “That’s where he was going first, but it would have been over by now,” Quinn said, putting some worry into her voice. “Oh god, do you think I should start calling emergency rooms?”

  “Mrs. Barrett, I’m sure everything is all right. Did you try his other number?” Charlene answered.

  “Other number?” Quinn’s mind sparked, she quickly scrolled through her contacts. “You mean . . . his 617-555-7751 number?”

  “Yes, that’s the new one,” Charlene replied.

  It wasn’t a new number. It was Sutton’s number.

  “Would you like me to try him?” Charlene was saying.

  “Um—oh, he just walked through the door! Thank goodness.”

  “That must be a relief.”

  “And he has a very prettily wrapped present under his arm.”

  Charlene chuckled. “Mystery solved. Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Barrett.”

  “You too.”

  Quinn hung up.

  But before the cold fury could settle over her, the doorbell rang.

  She marched over and wrenched open the door. Surely the UPS man would see the absolute freaking-out/exhaustion/recent life alteration on her face, and drop his package and flee for the hills.

  “What,” she spat out. And then pulled back her snarl when she saw Daisy and Shanna standing on her doorstep, shivering in the falling night and the remaining light rain.

  “Oh. Hi.”

  “Hi,” Daisy replied.

  “Hi,” Shanna echoed, after a quick nudge from Daisy.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “We wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Daisy’s voice was choked with emotion. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Not that you really care.”

  “I do care though,” Daisy said earnestly. “Quinn, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. You have to know, I never, ever intended for that video to get out. I sent it to some friends because . . . I thought it was funny and I didn’t think about you at all, and I should have. I should have thought about you, how you were just having a bad moment, and we all have them. And after . . . after it got out, I was just so scared. So scared that the school was going to kick out Carrie, scared that a place that already thought I was a freak would think I was a bitch on top of it.”

  “So you were okay with the world thinking I was a bitch?” Quinn replied, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “No! No . . . I just . . . I didn’t know how to fix it.”

  “Well, one way not to fix it was to back Shanna in taking over the Parent Association,” Quinn said, her eyebrow going up.

  Now, Daisy nudged Shanna again, harder. And reluctantly Shanna spoke up.

  “Daisy didn’t know I was going to do that.” Shanna sighed. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry I did. It was a lot harder job than I thought it was going to be and . . . and I know now that you didn’t deserve what I did.”

  “I just want to know one thing,” Quinn said, turning her gaze back to Daisy. “Did you hang out with me all this time because you felt guilty?”

  “No! No . . . I hang out with you because you’re my friend and I need you,” Daisy sputtered. “I was lost in Needleton until you. I thought I was never going to fit in, I’m the weird mom, the weird cousin you all tolerate—sorry, Shanna, but that’s how I felt—until you became my friend and I realized we are all pretty much winging it. You’re the person who made being in Needleton okay.”

  Quinn felt wet on her cheeks, and she knew it wasn’t the rain.

  “Okay,” she said, sniffling. “Thank you both for coming.”

  “Can we come inside?” Daisy replied. “Shanna and I would really like to beg for forgiveness some more.”

  “Actually, I’m about to head out,” Quinn said. “My husband is cheating on me, and I need to catch him in the act.”

  Dais
y’s and Shanna’s jaws dropped in unison.

  “Do you guys want to come?”

  * * *

  They were going against rush hour traffic, so the drive into Boston went fast—almost as fast as Daisy and Shanna had said yes to Quinn’s bold proposal.

  Phone calls were very quickly made to spouses saying they’d be a little later than originally thought. Game plans were laid out, addresses looked up, phones were set to record, and Quinn climbed behind the wheel.

  “It’s so clean in here,” Shanna said, from the backseat of Quinn’s SUV. “How is it this clean in here? My car looks like Willy Wonka’s factory after a nuclear blast.”

  “It’s annoying, right?” Daisy said from the passenger seat.

  “This is because I cleaned out my car so I could haul all my craft stuff to the Family Fun Fest,” Quinn answered, as she merged onto the Mass Turnpike. “But Hamilton doesn’t like it to be messy back there, so he keeps it pretty clean.”

  “Really?” Shanna replied. “Can you come and teach Jordan your ways? I can’t get her into the car in the mornings without the bribe of an Oreo.”

  “You give Jordan Oreos to get in the car?” Daisy asked.

  “Yes. And it keeps her happy and quiet on the drive, too. I’m a horrible parent and she’s a total jerk. Please pass your judgments.”

  “No judgment,” Quinn said, and she reached over and opened the glove box, revealing her emergency box of Fig Newtons. “There are days these are necessary, for us both.”

  “Ohhh,” Shanna said, lighting up at the sight of the cookies. “Do you mind if I have one? This baby is screaming for sustenance.”

  “Feel free.”

  As Shanna munched on the cookies, Quinn looked over at Daisy, who was grinning into her hand.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Daisy said. “I just . . . in my wildest dreams, I never imagined tonight including the two of you sharing your Nabisco child-bribing secrets.”

  Quinn caught Shanna’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  And suddenly, the three of them were all laughing.

  Their mood stayed that way, swapping three-year-old horror stories, until they exited the turnpike and made their way to a nondescript brownstone in Back Bay that had been broken up into apartments.