Little Wonders: A Novel

By Kate Rorick

If you like SMALL ADMISSIONS by Amy Poepell or CLASS MOM by Laurie Gelman you will love this novel about super mommies, private schools, and getting your worst moment plastered across the internet.

Her mommy meltdown is seen around the world!

When Quinn Barrett’s son refuses to wear his hand-crafted costume to the Little Wonders Preschool Happy Halloween Parade and Dance Party she loses it -- complete with stomping, screaming, and costume-destruction galore. Not her best day. And caught on viral video.   Yep, “Halloween Mom” is now internet famous.

The posting culprit: tattooed, blue-haired, west-coast transplant Daisy McGulch, out of place in the posh New England town and unable to blend with the other perfect mommies of Little Wonders Preschool.

While she couldn’t care less about organic snacks (paleo-preferred) or the winter quarters of the Little Wonders chickens, she’s not about to admit she’s the one who accidently brought Quinn’s worst moment to the entire world—she’d be kicked out of town!

But when Quinn and Daisy find themselves unlikely cohorts in the fight for Little Wonders Parents Association supremacy, they also discover they have more in common than they expected…but the internet is forever.  Can Quinn live down her new reputation?  And how far will Daisy go to keep the truth from coming to light?

Hilarious, clever, and unforgettable, Little Wonders offers a glimpse into the high-pressure world of modern momming, with natural toys, scrutinized playdates, PTA politics, and social media gone amok.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Mar 17, 2020
• ISBN: 9780062877222

Kate Rorick

Kate Rorick is a writer for The Lizzie Bennet Diaries. She has written for a variety of television shows, including Law and Order: Criminal Intent and Terra Nova. In her spare time, she is the bestselling author of historical romance novels under the name Kate Noble. Rorick is a graduate of Syracuse University and lives in Los Angeles.

Book preview

Little Wonders Preschool October Newsletter

Hello, WONDER-ful Parents!

September and new school jitters are behind us, and fall is officially here! Which means preschool is in full swing—and it’s about to get super fun! Buckle up buttercup, this is gonna be intense.

Ms. Rosie in the Tadpole Room has asked that we remind everyone that Share Day is every Friday, and the kids should bring only ONE toy, preferably organic, and no branded products. So no, you can’t bring the entire Avengers squad. I don’t care if your kid cries. Don’t ask.

Also, as the days grow shorter, we will be moving the chicken coop into the barn for the winter months, so don’t worry if you don’t see Cherry, Jelly Bean, and Candy Corn, they are nice and cozy inside!

Theme days this month are Sports Day, you better not send your kid in Yankees gear we are in the playoffs, Favorite Cuisine Day but still means no peanuts for anyone who decides to bring Thai food I’m looking at you TERRY, and of course, the big one: Halloween!

The Little Wonders Happy Halloween Parade will be at 4 PM on Friday, October 30th, followed by a rockin’ Dance Party in the Multipurpose Room. We look forward to decking the place out in Halloween gear and food, and hope that we can rely on families to help with the decking! We want money.

Finally, our Parent Association president, the domineering pain-in-the-ass bitch-on-wheels indomitable Quinn Barrett, would like to remind everyone that the volunteer boards are up for the Halloween parade! Everyone loves to help out on Halloween, so to make it organized, you can sign up to volunteer via our Facebook group, via the portal on the Parent Association website, or go old school and sign up on the posters in the lobby. The information will be consolidated. You don’t need to sign up more than once! And you know who gets to consolidate it, right? Yup, the Parent Association secretary. Cuz I don’t have enough shit to do.

Parent volunteers are what make the Happy Halloween Parade and Dance Party work, so let’s do everything we can to make it a special event for the kids. And if you don’t, you’re a horrible parent.

We can’t wait to see the costumes!

Together in Parenting!

Suzy Breakman-Kang

Parent Association Secretary

Little Wonders Preschool and Child Development Center

P.S. As a reminder to those parents TERRY who brought up their concerns again at the last Parent Association meeting, the hens in the chicken coop on campus are NOT diseased. They are molting, as they do every fall. There is no need to worry. Seriously, people. Google.

Chapter One

In dark moments, when Quinn Barrett looked back and analyzed what caused the destruction of her entire life, she should have known that it would happen at the Little Wonders Preschool Happy Halloween Costume Parade (and Dance Party).

Not that the Little Wonders Preschool Happy Halloween Costume Parade (and Dance Party) was in any way apocalyptic. No, it had been a perfectly executed Quinn Barrett production from start to finish.

But, if she was being honest with herself—and in those dark moments of wine-fueled reflection, Quinn could be nothing but honest—the entire day had been full of hiccups that stacked one on top of the other, until she’d felt like she had when she was six and she’d drunk five root beers at McDonald’s and everything exploded out of her, into the playspace ball pit.

The day had begun as usual. Her internal alarm—once she started using the Parcel Method she no longer needed an external one—went off precisely at 5:45 AM. Dividing her day into Parcels—basically fifteen-minute segments—had been an organizational godsend that allowed her to take the reins of her day—or at least that’s what the motivational book she’d adopted it from claimed. Her first fifteen-minute block was delegated for either 1. a solid mile and a half on the treadmill, 2. frothing some coconut milk for a decent cappuccino, or 3. a shower *with* shaving legs. Since she would be running around all day at work at the Beacon Hill house followed by the Halloween parade setup, she could skip the treadmill. And since she had gotten a full five hours of sleep last night, she didn’t need the caffeine shot. Thus she could indulge in smooth legs.

So, shower. One of complete luxury and solitude. She was even contemplating a decadent exfoliating scrub, when the first hiccup occurred. She heard the fast, hard footfalls that heralded the arrival of one sleepy, grumpy three-year-old boy. Who was awake six minutes ahead of schedule.

Mommy, I’m all wet, her son, Hamilton, said, and sat down on the bathroom floor in his pee-covered pajamas.

Her heart broke even as she sucked in a steadying breath. She should have opted for coffee. Oh, sweetie, again? Quinn said, as she quickly rinsed the soap out of her hair (no time for conditioner, and shaved legs were laughable at this point). Ham had been using the potty—really, he was!—for several months now. But he still had problems at night with wetting the bed. (. . . And, there were those times during the day that the teachers would find him crouching behind a chair and pooping in his pants.) But Quinn insisted he was completely potty trained. Because he knew how to do it. He just . . . didn’t. And now, she had less than five minutes to get their morning back on track before the next Parcel started.

Okay, hop in, she said. Stepping out of the shower, Quinn efficiently stripped him out of his wet pajamas, and got him in the shower to wash off. She ignored Ham’s screams of having to be under the water (really, you’d think he was melting like the Wicked Witch of the West). Then she got him out (naturally, after thirty seconds in the water, now he didn’t want to leave), dried him off, and used the remaining four minutes of her Parcel to strip the sheets off Ham’s twin bed and replace them.

Even with the plastic mattress protector a vague pee scent permeated his room. She would have to leave Alba a note to see if she could do anything about that.

By the time she dug out that one pair of summer slacks that sort of worked for fall, she was running seven minutes into her next fifteen-minute Parcel. Time to pick up the pace.

Yaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy!!!! Mommy, chase me! Hamilton cried, running away, toward the master bedroom, for no apparent reason other than he was three years old and didn’t need the coffee that Quinn dearly wished she had made.

Ham—Hamilton, come back here! she hissed, but never underestimate the speed and slipperiness of a wet three-year-old.

There was a dive, and a crash, and then a wailing cry.

I. STUBBED. MY. TOE!!!!

As she rushed over to console the victim, another grumpy voice, one she’d hoped to avoid rousing, sounded through the master suite.

Aw come on, the voice whined, in a state of cranky stupor. Ham, I need my sleep.

Hey, honey, Quinn said soothingly, to both Ham on the floor and to the rumpled pile of sheets that was groaning in the bed. Sorry, but Ham wet the bed and then stubbed his toe and—

I was in surgery until midnight, Quinn, her husband, Stuart, groaned, not even opening his eyes. And I have to be back in the OR again today. I need my sleep.

Right. Sorry. Come on, sweetie, she said in a hush to Hamilton. Let’s let Daddy sleep.

She managed to scoop Ham up and tiptoe out of the room, shutting the door behind her. By now, the stubbed toe was forgotten, and she ushered him to his room where she began to ruthlessly dry him off and get his clothes on.

Stuart was a wonderful dad, like she told everyone—but God, was he grumpy when he woke up.

Like father, like son, she supposed. Not everyone was a morning person. By biology, or necessity.

Come on, Ham, Quinn said as she wrestled her son into clothes, rooting around in her mind desperately for something to motivate him into cooperating. You have to get dressed so . . . you can be my special helper today!

She was now nine minutes into her next Parcel, and it looked like the whole morning was going to be shot if she didn’t do something to get things back on track.

I’m Miss Rosie’s helper this week—I get to feed Nemo.

Ham was immensely proud of the responsibility of feeding Nemo, the class goldfish. Not to be confused with the goldfish in the other classes, all named, like all preschool fish, Nemo. To hear Ham tell it, he had a special bond with his Nemo—maybe this was the beginning of Ham being responsible enough for a pet? A dog—ugh, but Stuart would say no. That conversation wasn’t even worth starting. Especially not in the morning.

Yes, but I need you to be my helper, too.

Why?

Because it’s a very special day! It’s Halloween! Rather, it was the Friday before Halloween, but when you’re in preschool, Halloween was more of a weeklong spectacle than any one event. And we have lots to do before the parade, so we have to hurry hurry hurry to get to school. Got it, buddy?

Halloween? My costume! Ham’s little eyes lit up and Quinn felt the warm glow of a three-year-old’s joy. And no small amount of pride at what she had been doing until one in the morning the night before.

Ham thundered down the stairs. Where, in the center of the impeccably decorated living room, by the vintage gray tufted couch she’d agonized over, sat . . .

What’s that?

That’s your costume, sweetie! Your spaceship! Not just any spaceship. It was hand-crafted papier mâché and shaped corrugated cardboard, with vinyl sheeting for windows and actual working LED lights. It was a feat of engineering and silver chrome spray paint. And it was what Ham had said he wanted to be for Halloween—not a space man, not an astronaut, but a spaceship—for the last month.

And Quinn Barrett did not disappoint. Especially not her son.

It doesn’t look like a spaceship, Ham said, dubiously. All of the good feelings Quinn had crashed down around her.

Hiccup Number Two.

Sure it does! she said, and she was about to give him the rundown of all the amazing things the spaceship could do (Lights! Sounds! A smoke effect that she wasn’t allowed to use in the parade but would be employed on Halloween night!) when her watch went off, reminding her that the latest Parcel was up, and she NEEDED to get breakfast ready.

Okay, honey, time for you to go use the potty and get your clothes on, while I make mini-quiches!

Ham was left eyeing the spaceship dubiously, while she trotted off to the kitchen.

A healthy breakfast was the best way to start the day, and luckily, she had made the egg white, spinach, and mushroom quiche cups in advance and frozen them; all she had to do was pop them in the toaster oven. (Microwaves were not allowed in her household since she’d read that study on developing brain waves and concentration.)

The steaming quiche cups came out of the toaster oven, delicious and tempting, and—

I’M A FIREMAN!!!!

—and they hit the floor, as one of Ham’s toy fire trucks hit her ankle.

Damn. Damn damn damn damn. That was the last of the mini-quiches. Also, Ham was somehow naked again.

Too loud! came the grumbly voice from above stairs.

Sorry, Mommy, Ham said, contrite. Whether he was contrite about the fire truck to the ankle or about again waking his father, she didn’t know, but she didn’t have time to guess, she had to plan B a healthy breakfast, pronto.

Got a sorry for Daddy, too? Stuart said, as he plodded down the stairs, looking rumpled and gorgeous with a morning beard. He came up to Ham, and they did their usual greeting. Tiger claws and growls.

Grr! Ham said.

Grr! Stu said back; he cocked an eyebrow at the spaceship. What’s this thing?

It’s my fire truck!

It’s a spaceship, buddy. You wanted to be a spaceship.

Stu’s eyebrow remained cocked. You made that? When?

Here and there. It wasn’t hard. She aimed for breezy, but her fractiousness at the loss of the mini-quiches was showing through. It was too early in the morning for her to entertain a fractious moment, she thought as she rummaged in the cabinets for what to sub in for breakfast. They were low on almost everything. She would have to leave Alba a list.

Muesli mix! she said triumphantly, finding some in the back. It was usually reserved for the weekends (high-carb breakfasts on weekdays were generally a no-no, but when needs must) and with Ham comfortably ensconced at the kitchen’s marble island, chomping away, she could rush upstairs and finish getting herself dressed.

She threw on the dress shirt she had thankfully had Alba iron yesterday, her favorite high-heeled ankle boots, and was so grateful for the tousled, chin-length cut she’d had her stylist implement. Sure, Stuart bemoaned the loss of her midback tresses, but if she could save herself one Parcel of time in the morning on hair care, then all the better. Secretly, she loved the way the cut framed her face and brought out her eyes. But she didn’t tell Stuart that. She told him that she’d grow it back out once life got a little less hectic.

Plus, for special occasions, she could put in some extensions.

She trotted back downstairs, tucking her shirt in as she went.

Mommy, I want green juice. On the one hand she was thankful he was into his vegetables this morning, on the other, she was already a full Parcel behind. And their fridge was desperately empty.

Also, Stuart’s fancy blender defied her.

I’m sorry, Ham. Alba isn’t here, so she can’t make you a green juice. Go on, time to go get dressed.

She shot pleading eyes at Stuart—Go help him get dressed!—but . . . well, it might have been too early for Stuart to get such complex signals.

Go on, Hamilton, Stuart said, not looking up from his own bowl of muesli.

Ham hopped down off his stool and went to his room. Quinn shook her head. The chances of a three-year-old actually getting dressed by himself were approximately the same as a shark marrying a nubile young skinny-dipper, but Stuart didn’t seem to understand that.

What? Stuart said. What’s that look?

Nothing! Quinn replied, letting her eyes fall to her watch (vintage Cartier, her push present from Stuart). Where is Alba? She’s not usually this late.

Alba had been Ham’s nanny since he was born, but now that he was at Little Wonders, she had transitioned to being their housekeeper, and general all-around lifesaver. Alba proved the adage that behind every woman who has it all is a middle-aged domestic helper making everything work.

She’s in Puerto Rico, Stuart said, filling his mouth with muesli as he spoke.

Hiccup Number Three.

WHAT? Quinn couldn’t help but let out. This time, she couldn’t help but let her fractiousness show.

Stuart kindly swallowed before he replied. She’s in Puerto Rico. For her daughter’s wedding?

When did that happen?

She called my office a couple of weeks ago, asking for the time off. Stuart shrugged. I told Charlene to email you.

That’s not something you have your scheduler email your wife about! That’s something you put on the family calendar! That is something you—

That is something you tell me, and we discuss it, and we figure out what our game plan is going to be.

Oh, now, don’t give me that look, Stuart said, a sly half grin on his face, looking up from beneath his lashes. He got up from his stool and came over to her. I’m sorry, okay? I was running from one OR to another when Alba called, that’s why I asked Charlene to email.

You didn’t think to mention it to me when you got home? Quinn tried her damnedest to maintain her justifiably pissed-off face, but Stuart slipped his hands to her hips in that way that he did, and well . . .

Honestly, it completely slipped my mind until now. He gave her a grin that romance novelists would describe as saucy, but that Quinn could only describe as trying to get away with it and succeeding. His lips lightly grazed her neck. It’s just for the weekend. Is it really that big a problem?

Was it really that big a problem? Alba only made it so their household functioned. Beyond the grocery shopping, the cleaning, the green juices she somehow convinced Ham to love—she was Quinn’s backup and life support. She was supposed to come help with the Halloween parade today. She was supposed to come help hand out candy (and help with Quinn’s visiting mother) on Halloween night tomorrow.

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