Little Wonders Read online

  Alba never asked for time off. She worked whenever Quinn had an emergency, or she and Stuart needed a night out in the city. Now Quinn was left without a backup for the madness of dealing with a three-year-old’s Halloween weekend . . . And for her to leave without telling Quinn—purposely calling Stuart’s office instead—it just about cracked Quinn’s psyche in half. What did it say about how Alba viewed her?

  But there wasn’t time for a cracked psyche, not today. She could handle this. She was Quinn Barrett—she got shit done.

  “No, it’s fine,” she said, sighing. “You and I will just handle my mother on our own tomorrow.”

  Stu let out a groan, and pulled away, back to his muesli mix. “You really know how to kill a mood. And to think, I was all ready to show you my gratitude for the snack when I got home last night.”

  Quinn’s brow furrowed. When did he think she had time to enjoy his “gratitude”? Did he think she took a shower with half-shaved legs that morning for his benefit, and not the benefit of the hundred people she had to interact with that day?

  But no, she was getting irked. She couldn’t get irked. Or fractious. Or have a cracked psyche. Not today.

  “What snack?” she asked instead.

  “The one in the green Tupperware,” Stuart said into his cereal.

  A shiver of annoyance ran down her spine. “You mean Ham’s lunch?”

  Stuart didn’t have time to reply, or to give her a romance novel saucy grin and save himself. Because at that moment, Stuart was saved when his son bounded down the stairs, wearing a fireman’s hat, one sock, and nothing else.

  Her alarm beeped. Another Parcel gone.

  “Fireman!!!!!!” Ham yelled as he zoomed around the room. “Let’s go to schooooooool!!!”

  * * *

  By the time they trotted up past the sign on the front door that read “Needleton Academy for Potential Prodigies” and “Little Wonders Preschool,” Quinn was back on her Parcel schedule by mere seconds. Once she got to work she would get a more comfortable lead, but for now, she plastered a serene smile on her face, as if Ham’s Halloween costume, a bag of Ham’s spare clothes, her Parent Association clipboard, and the six cellophane-wrapped raffle baskets she lugged weighed a mere feather.

  Luckily, Ham had decided to be helpful that day, and carry his own (hastily assembled) lunch as he rushed ahead, eager to get to class, Miss Rosie, and Nemo.

  “Hamilton, remember what we talked about,” she singsonged as they made their way through the yard. “Walk perfectly straight please.”

  For once, Hamilton did as he was asked. And while she was laden with the entire contents of a craft store, Quinn still had the wherewithal to walk with perfect posture (she’d killed it at Pilates during her lunch breaks) and do the smile and nods to every other parent she passed.

  There were the twins, Charlie and Calvin, running at a breakneck pace through the yard and toward the primary-colored playground structure, followed by their extremely tired moms trying to corral them inside the building. There was Jorge, who managed a lucrative investors’ fund (and Quinn had to remember to hit him up for Parent Association donations), yelling numbers into his phone while his little Javi trailed sullenly behind. And there was Shanna, leading her little Jordan—her nose as high in the air as her mother’s, as if they smelled something foul—toward the front doors.

  “Hold the door, please!” Quinn called out, not altering her pace at all. Shanna paused long enough for everyone around to know that she heard Quinn, and thus, could do nothing but hold the outer door.

  “Thank you,” Quinn said. “Thank you!” Ham piped up, making Quinn preen.

  “You have quite a bit of stuff there,” Shanna said by way of conversation. “Jordan honey, make room for Hamilton’s mommy. She’s very . . . wide today.”

  “What is that?” Jordan said, looking at the spaceship dangling from its shoulder straps on Quinn’s arm.

  “It’s Ham’s Halloween costume,” she replied, and enjoyed the stricken look on Shanna’s face as she gently shifted the bag behind her that no doubt held an Elsa dress or something equally banal.

  “No it’s not!” Hamilton cried, but he was interrupted by Quinn’s watch beeping. Her next Parcel was up, she needed to get moving.

  “Shush, honey, of course it is,” Quinn said, and then managed, with more grace and strength than she usually had at that time of the morning, to wave and sail into the school.

  She was dying for a coffee. Or any food, really—it was only then, carrying all that crap, that she realized she’d skipped breakfast.

  Her empty stomach was the cause of her annoyance right now, she told herself. And her armload. Once she put everything down and got a nondairy latte, she’d be her usual cheerful, competent, Get-Shit-Done self.

  She felt her smile becoming a touch more honest as they entered the main halls of the historic building that was the Needleton Academy for Potential Prodigies and Little Wonders Preschool.

  She loved it here. One of the town founders’ original barns from the early eighteenth century still stood on the grounds, but the preschool itself was a late-nineteenth-century building—with graceful lines, but appropriate security and plumbing upgrades. She loved the idea of Ham being so close to history. And she loved the teachers, the Reggio-play-based learning curriculum, and even the annoying welcome song that started off each morning. She felt safe leaving Hamilton there every day, certain he would be cared for, educated, loved.

  Another checkmark in her endless score of being an awesome parent, she thought to herself. Choosing Little Wonders. Ham is lucky to have them. And they are sure as hell lucky to have me.

  Hamilton lit up the moment he saw Miss Rosie, his teacher.

  “Hamilton, my friend!” she said, a welcoming cry that greeted every child who walked through the door as if they were the most special person in the world—which, when Miss Rosie locked eyes with them, they were. “Come, my helper! Nemo is so hungry, it’s time for his food!”

  As Hamilton rushed forward, very intent on his important job of feeding Nemo, Quinn managed to hand over his lunch and his costume.

  “Is this Hamilton’s fire truck?” Miss Rosie asked.

  “No—it’s a spaceship. He’s been asking for a spaceship for a month.”

  Miss Rosie cut a glance at Hamilton, but otherwise said nothing.

  “And here’s more pants and underwear.”

  Miss Rosie took the bag of comfortable, easily-pulled-down-for-potty-training pants and space-themed underwear with a gentle sigh. “Mrs. Barrett, I know you want Hamilton to wear big boy underwear, but yesterday was the fourth time this week that he had an accident. Maybe just for nap time, we keep him in the pull-ups—”

  “Nonsense. He knows how to do it. And he will.” Her stomach was grumbling. Damn, she needed a coffee. The gift bags were getting heavier and heavier. “Ham, honey! Have to go!” Ham nodded solemnly, as she blew him a kiss—without using her hands, because of the raffle baskets. Her heart broke a little, walking out the door, the way it did every day. But she had too much to do. The Beacon Hill house was waiting. She quickly ran by the underutilized supply closet that she and Jamie had petitioned to have converted to a Parent Association room and dropped off the raffle baskets, ducked her head into the front office to update everyone on when to expect the pop-up tents to arrive, and the food trucks to come, expecting to check those things off on her trusty clipboard.

  And then came Hiccup Number Four.

  “Didn’t they tell you, Mrs. Barrett?” Ms. Anna, the school’s principal said. “The food trucks were canceled.”

  “WHAT?”

  “The town said that since we are a historic landmark, we couldn’t have food trucks.”

  That goddamned prehistoric barn, her mind flared angrily.

  “The food trucks would be in the parking lot! Are you telling me that the parking lot is a historic landmark?”

  Ms. Anna simply shrugged. “I spoke with the town council, but they said no
food trucks. We can have catering brought into the cafeteria . . .”

  “No. We had food trucks last year. We are having food trucks this year.” Everyone—everyone—said that the Halloween-themed organic taco truck was the highlight of last year’s parade. This year she had not only booked the taco truck but the snow cone truck with a special request for monster-themed agave syrups. It had cost them an extra 10 percent for that. No way was she canceling the food trucks.

  As she marched out the door, she sent a quick series of texts. To Sutton at the office, saying she was taking a personal day, and to text her every hour with updates on the Beacon Hill house kitchen fixtures situation. To Stuart, telling him that she was going to miss their usual Friday lunch date. And to Alba—but no, Alba wasn’t there. She quickly shifted the Alba text to “Hope you’re having a great time! Congratulations to your daughter! When will you be back, Monday?” and hoped her tone was collegial and not angry and desperate. She added one of those smiley emojis just for flavor. Then, she shifted her car into gear and drove straight for the town hall.

  Last year they’d had food trucks. So, by God, this year they would have food trucks.

  But last year, Quinn had had Jamie Stone at her side. And Jamie had arranged the food trucks. She thought wistfully of her partner-in-crime on the Parent Association board. They’d been copresidents, a dynamic duo, running the show and making it fun. But then, last year Jamie had decided to give up the stay-at-home life and go back to work. And of course Quinn, a working parent herself, could not begrudge the decision. But it also meant that Quinn was now alone as Parent Association president.

  Not everyone was as Get-Shit-Done as she was. But Jamie was a Needleton native and had relatives on the town council. No doubt that was how they had gotten the food trucks past the landmark barrier. Quinn’s thumb hovered over Jamie’s number on her phone. But no. She was going to do this herself. It would take no time at all, she told herself. And then she’d get a freaking coffee.

  * * *

  It had not taken no time at all. It had taken almost the whole day.

  But, it had gotten done. She had permission from the town council. She used the Instagram picture of Ham’s Halloween costume as guilt fuel, and it had worked. She had uncanceled the food trucks (for another 10 percent markup, damn them) and she’d fielded incoming texts from work while she did. And Stuart, of course, who didn’t get her lunch text. As he was in the cell phone dead zone of the surgery floor.

  Stuart: Where are you? You said you got us a res at Bocca?

  Oh, Bocca. They hadn’t been since before Ham! She’d made the reservation ages ago, it was one of Stuart’s favorites. She’d been dreaming of their panna cotta for weeks. Quickly, in a text, she explained the day’s craziness. Then she followed with a plea.

  Quinn: Is there any chance you can come early and help do set up?

  She hoped with her fingers. But she pretty much knew the answer.

  Stuart: Sorry, Hon. I have a surgery right after lunch.

  Quinn: But you’ll still make the parade, right?

  Stuart: It’s an appendix, should be quick. Hold a chair for me.

  Quinn: You got it. Enjoy Bocca. Bring a dessert home for me!

  But he didn’t reply. The thought of dessert made her stomach grumble.

  But once she got the Little Wonders Happy Halloween Parade (and Dance Party) up and running, everything would be fine.

  Admittedly, when she first faced down the prospect of doing the parade by herself without Jamie, she’d considered hiring an event coordinator. But that would be too unQuinn. And really, it should be simple. All the work had been done in advance. Now that the food trucks were sorted out, it was easy peasy. The tents and tables and raffle baskets and tickets had been dropped off. The rented decorations for the dance party in their little auditorium were laid out and waiting to be hung. The popcorn machine was stocked. The parent volunteers had signed up on the sign-up sheet weeks ago, and now, all she had to do was direct them where to put things and how.

  But then the volunteers were late.

  And then they all acted like gerbils who had never opened a folding chair before.

  And the food trucks didn’t know where to park, and she had to get six people to move their cars out of spots she had specifically marked “RESERVED FOR FOOD TRUCKS” in the school’s parking lot.

  It was as she was dictating to Elia’s dad (one of Ham’s classmates, the little girl who hugged too much) exactly how to open a pop-up tent that the parents began to arrive.

  Starting with Shanna Stone.

  Of course she would be first. Quinn left Elia’s father to actually read the instructions for himself, pasted on a smile, grabbed her clipboard—the most important accessory for exuding authority—and forced herself to slow to a leisurely pace to greet the new arrivals.

  Shanna’s eyes were hidden by massive sunglasses that covered practically half her face—and were completely unnecessary on this slightly overcast fall afternoon. But still, she swanned about in her athleisure wear, as if she were on the porch of a Nantucket beach house in mid-July, as at ease and ready to be waited on hand and foot.

  “Quinn! Oh, Quinn!” Shanna called out, waving her over. And much like the reverse from this morning, Quinn couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard.

  “Shanna, how lovely to see you,” Quinn said as she approached, pretending to check something off on her clipboard. Thank goodness for that clipboard—it acted not only as a badge of authority, but as a body blocker from those who might air kiss—as it looked like Shanna was about to attempt.

  “You’re very early,” Quinn chided.

  “Well, now that I’m at home full time, I don’t have to rush from the office. It’s so freeing.”

  “Yes, I recall Jamie very much took advantage of that last year.” And it was an advantage that Quinn herself missed.

  “Hm. Well, Jamie’s so much happier now, back in the office. He just loves it. He’ll be here when the parade starts.”

  If Quinn could undo anything in this world, it would be to have her partner-in-presidenting Jamie not also be Shanna’s husband, Jamie. But there they were.

  Last year, when Quinn decided to run for Parent Association president, there had been fierce competition from Shanna’s husband, Jamie—until they decided to run the show together. Quinn had all the organizational skills and experience, while as a stay-at-home dad Jamie had the time to implement their decisions. Not to mention, he was a decent handyman and good at fostering connections with local vendors and could set up a pop-up tent all by himself without having to have the instructions dictated.

  But at the beginning of the school year, Shanna and Jamie had decided to trade places. Jamie went back to work, and Shanna stayed home.

  And Shanna . . . Shanna didn’t do pop-up tents.

  “I would have thought at least the chairs would have been set up by now,” Shanna was saying.

  “Well, that’s what happens when you arrive early.”

  “Not that early. We stopped by the Tadpole Room, I had to drop off Jordan’s Elsa wig—it’s a professional wig and I didn’t want it getting ruined by sticky hands through the day. All the kids are in their costumes.” She gave Quinn a decidedly pointed look. “Well, most of them.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry. Ham knows his costume is special, for the parade.” She snuck a glance at her watch. Yes, still way too early for Ham to be in his spaceship costume. Absolutely.

  “Hmm. I saw your Instagram post. It looks . . . very involved. You certainly know how to do Halloween.”

  “Oh, you follow me on Instagram?” Quinn said, and watched Shanna’s face harden, knowing she’d missed a trick. “That’s wonderful, I’ll have to follow you back.”

  Quinn mostly used her Instagram for her work as an interior designer. It was a crucial tool in showing her skills and design sensibility to potential clients. (Plus, she loved impressing random people on the internet with her color schemes.) But sometimes Hamilton pictu
res snuck their way in there, especially when they were ridiculously cute, or ridiculously amazing—and the spaceship qualified as both.

  “Hey, Shanna, I found them,” said a breathless young woman with alarmingly blue hair who came up to them, hauling four chairs under her arms. “They were in that closet place, like you said.”

  “Excuse me,” Quinn said; this girl must be a mother’s helper to Shanna. God knows Shanna would hire someone hapless to boss around. “But you can’t just take our chairs. Parent Volunteers will be placing them out shortly.”

  In fact, she sent the world’s fastest all-caps text to Elia’s dad to tell him to abandon the tent and get on the chairs, toot-effing-sweet.

  “Oh, I’m a parent,” the young woman said, awkwardly putting the chairs down in a jumble so she could extend her hand. “So I volunteer. I’m Daisy.”

  “Have you two not met yet? I’ve been so remiss,” Shanna tutted. “Daisy is Carrie’s mom. She joined the Tadpole Room a few weeks ago.”

  Quinn’s eyebrow went up. Of course she had noticed the new little girl in Hamilton’s class. She was hard to miss, with the bright purple glasses and the mop of dark curls. But if this was her mom—with the electric blue hair, completely tattooed arms peeking out from the pushed-up sleeves of her cardigan, and a discreet silver hoop threaded through her septum—Little Wonders must have been hard up for enrollment (which she knew by the waitlist was not true) . . . or a rather big favor was called in.

  “Jamie and Daisy’s husband, Robbie, are cousins. Practically brothers.”

  Ah, and there was the answer.

  Quinn turned a short but polite smile to the newcomer. “Nice to meet you. I guess Shanna hadn’t yet explained that parents have to volunteer to earn their hours, and that sign-ups happen far in advance.”

  “Oh . . . ,” Daisy replied. “I guess I can put them back . . .”

  “Daisy, don’t be ridiculous,” Shanna said. “Besides, it’s not good for me to be on my feet too long. In my condition.”

  As much as Quinn wanted to ignore that conversational cue, she couldn’t, not with the way Shanna’s hand lightly grazed her perfectly flat stomach.