“Uh, thanks.”
He suddenly began to laugh. “You’re not so bad in the biting-off-heads department yourself. I’d say that got me back for my comments the first day I met you.”
Miranda groaned. “I am so sorry. I mean, it’s true what I said about Farrah’s guests and my reasons for debating about asking you, but telling you to get over yourself was uncalled-for. I blame it all on the blue paint dripping into my brain, and trying to sidestep Ms. Becker’s verbal traps.”
Russ shook his head. “No. You were right. I had no business jumping to conclusions and I can get pretty touchy. I’m the one who should apologize.” He grinned. “And the blue is quite decorative.”
She chuckled. “Courtesy of Yasmin Durani, who was madly flinging paint on everything and everyone today. I could tell she was having the time of her life.”
“If it makes you feel any better, I ended up with rainbow-colored hair more than once when Kam was on a roll. I used to hope he’d be in the mood for black ink illustrations only.” He paused, then asked, “So? Am I invited? If nothing else, I’d love the chance to taste the results of Farrah Nolan’s prowess in the culinary arts.”
Miranda glanced over at him as she navigated her way through a convoy of slow-moving sedans determined to use a non-existent middle lane. “Seriously? You want to go?”
He smiled. “Well, someone needs to keep you from blowing blue-painted steam at all these boring, distinguished fine folks, not to mention Darci, who needs to stay happy for the Durani exhibition. Who better to do that than the man who needs to get over himself?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FARRAH NOLAN HAD been right. Her new recipes were delicious and Miranda had quickly achieved new heights of sheer gluttony. She helped herself to a third serving of the “little cheese appetizers” and the small stuffed mushrooms and the healthy crisp veggies waiting to be dunked into the unhealthy but delicious dip and tried to gauge how many calories she could consume and still fit into Miami Montreville’s black leather spy suit in a couple of weeks.
Miranda waved at Dave Brennan, Brett and Cort and two men she didn’t know. George Miller was happily chatting up Darci and hadn’t approached Miranda apart from a “Hi. How are you?” when she and Russ first arrived. Russ was currently in a corner conversing with Miranda’s dad via the Dragon and some major hand waving.
She turned from the hors d’ oeuvres table with the intention of joining Russ and Tim but was stopped by George and Darci. George handed her a bourbon on the rocks and asked if she had any idea as to when she and Russ would be through with the inventory.
“Is there a court date for the contested estate?” he added, leaning toward her.
Miranda set the glass down on the nearest table, picked up the lemonade she’d just refilled and wondered if it would be considered rude to simply scream, Go away!
Instead, she politely responded. “I have no answers, George. Trying to organize the last seventy years of someone’s life is tricky and time-consuming. Russ and I are sorting and labeling to make it easier for a real appraiser to find anything valuable. But I’m also busy working at the children’s theater and trying to fit in some classes. As to court dates? I haven’t heard a word.”
“Classes?” Cort had joined their conversation just in time to hear Miranda’s last comment.
“Yep. Classes.”
“In what?” Darci asked. “I thought you were teaching classes, not taking them. Or did you sneak into a mini-summer-graduate course somewhere?”
“I am teaching. I’m also trying to keep my own skills up and I found a place that has a vocal coach as well as dance for adults. Plus, I took a crash course in...”
“In what?” Cort asked. “Diving? Scuba? Mountain climbing? Hang gliding?”
Miranda chuckled. “Nothing quite so strenuous. I recently graduated from the crammin’ three weekend course in ASL at The Cooper School. Actually, they were strenuous—just not physically. My brain was in constant overdrive.”
“ASL?” George asked.
“American Sign Language,” Darci said drily.
George seemed puzzled. Then he glanced across the room as the light dawned. “Ah. I get it. Russ Gerik?”
Miranda kept her temper and did not reply, None of your business. Instead she calmly explained that yes, she had taken the lessons partly to communicate with Mr. Gerik while they worked at Virginia’s but also because she had a non-hearing child at the children’s theater and she hoped to encourage their board of directors to reach out to more non-hearing children. Plus Jesse was a cool kid and she liked “chatting” with him as best she could.
There were nods all around except from Darci, who sniffed. “Sounds lovely, Miranda. I’m sure that one child really appreciates your efforts.” Her amusement grew. “I’m sure Russ appreciates them far more.”
Cort came to the rescue. “My soon-to-be sister-in-law isn’t totally deaf but she lost a lot of hearing after a major illness, so our whole family is looking into schools. We figured it’d be easier at family gatherings to keep her in the loop. So you liked this Cooper School?”
Miranda nearly hugged Cort in gratitude. She began to explain the methods used, at least by Dr. Vinny, and managed about two sentences before she was interrupted. This time the culprit wasn’t Darci. It was Farrah, playing the good hostess and ushering her guests toward a huge round table in the center of the dining room laden with heavier fare that no one really needed after devouring appetizers for the past hour.
Miranda quietly told Cort to give her a call and she’d provide him with the particulars on the Cooper School. She headed toward her father and Russ, who were ignoring Farrah’s efforts to herd any and all strays to gather, but Farrah grabbed her arm before she’d managed more than three steps.
“Miranda? Tim and your friend are being rude. They’ve been talking only to each other since y’all got here. Please get them to join everyone, would you? It looks so uncomfortable having these little clutches when I’m about to serve the main courses. Tim will listen to you.”
Miranda stifled a sigh and nodded, reluctantly accepting the assignment. She’d barely reached her father when he stood up and gave her a quick hug. “I know. Don’t tell me. We need to be good boys and go join the others.”
Miranda grinned. “You know your charming wife well, don’t you?”
He smiled. “I love her and she has many wonderful traits, not the least of which is her ability to wander into a kitchen and come out with a meal rivaling the best French chefs, but her insistence on being the perfect hostess does occasionally drive me batty. I wince every time I realize she talked me into buying a table worthy of King Arthur and his knights.”
Russ had followed most of the conversation on the Dragon. “What’s up?”
“We’ve all been summoned to the center of the dining room to gorge and presumably engage in one huge discussion on whatever topic gets voted most interesting.” Miranda pointed to the chairs that had been swiftly placed around the table by George and the two nameless bachelors. “Whoa! It looks like a séance.”
“Come on, kids,” Tim said. “Food and Farrah wait for no one.”
Darci hadn’t endeared herself to Miranda at the gallery but Miranda’s opinion about the woman nearly made another abrupt switch to best friends forever when Darci echoed Miranda’s last statement.
“Whoa! All we need is a happy medium and we can have a séance!”
Farrah didn’t seem offended. She took a sip of wine and proclaimed, “That’s a great idea! Maybe Miranda could summon Miss Virginia’s spirit and find out where she stowed those priceless works of art?”
Russ’s Dragon was too far away to pick up Farrah’s comment, but the look on Miranda’s face told him something was not right. He handed her the device and whispered, “What’s wrong?”
She qui
ckly used the Dragon to text an abbreviated version of Farrah’s suggestion. His eyes narrowed and he spoke up, saying, “Excuse me, Mrs. Nolan, but that’s a myth. Rumors only. That house has been searched on numerous occasions and there’s not a hint of anything other than sentimental value to those who loved Miss Virginia.”
Farrah plowed right on. “Well, maybe Virginia wrote something in one of her diaries about where those paintings could be hidden?”
“Diaries?” Brett asked. “I thought she only wrote about the concentration camp.”
“No one knows,” Farrah said. “But the journals are the only things Miranda and Russ have managed to organize so far.” She looked directly at Miranda. “Now if y’all could just get Virginia’s kitchen pulled together like that, I’ll bet you could find some amazing old things like madelin tins or cherry pitters or a really good antique coffee grinder. I could use all of the above.”
Miranda vowed to keep any future discoveries a secret from Farrah and the world. As she pondered the merits of gagging her stepmother with a scarf, she said, “Virginia did leave some diaries. But there are no ‘Aha!’ revelations pointing the way to nonexistent treasure. I do think an historian would find the diaries interesting and I plan to donate them to the Holocaust museum if they’re ever legally mine.” She glanced at Russ, who nodded. “Russ feels the same.” She shook her head. “It’s very sad. Virginia had a horrible life in the camps. It’s amazing she was still so gentle and kind.”
Miranda wasn’t sure if she’d deflected the talk away from treasure, but her father winked and added, “Virginia and Farrah would have gotten along beautifully. Both of them make Julia Child look like a lightweight in the kitchen. Which reminds me—I have an announcement to make. Farrah is negotiating with one of the local cable stations to host a food show!”
The ruse worked. “Farrah! That’s awesome!” Darci squealed. “Will you be cooking or are you having guest chefs? Tell us all about it! Maybe we could do an episode at the gallery? Part of an exhibition? I’ve got this wacky artist who lives in Atlanta who does nothing but paintings of food, but they’re really good. This could be a marvelous way to show them!”
The conversation quickly turned to the ever-popular topics of food and reality television shows featuring celebrity chefs, and then it shifted to a news story that had been taking Birmingham by storm—the possibility of a casino right outside the city. Every one of Farrah’s guests had an opinion on the merits of legal gambling versus the consequences for persons who already had addiction issues. The only other mildly personal question came from George, who mumbled around a full mouth of broccoli casserole. “Miranda, you mentioned dance classes. Could you give me the name of the studio? I have a college-age sister who’s been looking for a place to take adult ballet.”
“Magic City Academy. Lots of info on their website but I’m actually taking some classes in the morning so I could pick up a brochure if you’d like.”
“That’d be great. Thanks. So, tell me, I seem to remember some talk about your career at Farrah’s last party. Are you still doing a spy movie?”
Darci gasped. “You’re doing a movie? When, where, what!”
“The when is right after the Fourth. The where is Manhattan and the what is The Agency, which is supposed to be this super-duper spy outfit that makes all the other initialed services look like elementary school monitors.”
“Fabulous!” Darci exclaimed. “Do you make a pot load of money?”
“I’m not in the star bracket, Darci, so I’m not making out like the proverbial bandit. It’s a living and if it does well then residuals will be very helpful. But I’m really excited about doing this. The script is great and my character has a blast doing bizarre stunts.” She grinned. “I hope the studio has insurance.”
The talk shifted back to whether Farrah would have a script for her TV show or if she’d wing it. Miranda mused that if Farrah asked Darci to be her sidekick she wouldn’t have to worry about any awkward silences.
Miranda scooped up a spoonful of the homemade raspberry sherbet and refrained from voicing that particular opinion. She glanced at Russ, who was eyeing the Dragon with wry amusement.
“What?”
“The battery died.”
Forget to charge it? she signed. Want me to find an outlet?
“I didn’t forget,” he said quietly. “Just didn’t get a chance between the gallery and coming here. Frankly, I’m not terribly concerned. The conversations with the few folks I had earlier didn’t thrill me—apart from a great discussion I had with your father about the history of Sharia law in Afghanistan and the perversion of that law by the Taliban. We also discovered we’re both model-train nuts.”
Miranda grinned at him, then signed, There are times when talk is overrated. This evening is a great example.
He nodded.
Miranda dug her fork into a creamy pasta dish, then stopped before taking a single bite. What was it really like not to be able to hear that talk, even if the conversation wasn’t funny or interesting or intelligent? She suddenly needed to know. Using her imagination as an actress went only so far.
Miranda placed the fork back onto her plate, pulled out her cell phone and stuck in the earbuds. She smiled at the guests. “Uh, folks, I don’t want to appear rude but I need to learn this song so I’m bowing out of the conversation for a bit.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. She did need to learn the song. Perhaps for an audition next fall—or a year from next fall.
The earbuds acted like industrial strength interceptors. They didn’t allow even white noise to seep through. For the first few minutes, the absolute silence was restful. She was able to focus on her own thoughts and on the visuals around her, picking up the emotions from people’s facial expressions instead of listening to words that she now suspected were filled with lies or subtext. Her olfactory senses kicked into high gear. She could smell the nutmeg and cinnamon flavors in the cold squash casserole. She could taste the white mustard in the potato salad and the basil and thyme in the pasta.
After approximately fifteen minutes of total silence, Miranda realized she was starting to breathe harder. She was sweating even though the Nolans’ air conditioner was set to sixty-eight. Her palms were wet and she was having difficulty swallowing that nutmeg-and-cinnamon-scented casserole. Her stomach veered from a cramping sensation to a roller coaster dip. Her eyelids were even starting to twitch. She felt hemmed in by the room itself, as though she’d suddenly fallen into a world walled off from the rest of humanity. She had to stop herself from jumping out of the chair and running into the street.
How did Russ and Jesse live with this? Hour after hour, minute by minute. It must be worse for Russ since he’d been much older when he lost his hearing. Miranda believed she would’ve been institutionalized in less than a day.
Russ glanced at her as though reading her thoughts. He reached over and patted her hand, then signed. Not as easy as it appears, is it?
How did you know?
He winked. “The volume on your phone’s keypad is at zero.”
She bit her lip, embarrassed that he’d caught on to her attempt to experience his world. But he signed, Thanks.
They smiled at each other. The silence that separated them from the rest of Farrah’s guests was comfortable and peacefully intimate. Miranda continued to keep the earbuds in while they finished the meal.
After the Italian crème cake and coffee were served, Russ signed to Miranda, Farrah wouldn’t ever be my choice in a wife, but I’d hire her as my personal chef any day of the week.
Miranda grinned before finishing every bite of a large slice. After she placed her fork on the plate, she glanced over at Russ, who nodded and signed, Time to split.
She removed the earbuds and announced, “Not to be party poopers, everybody, but I’ve got to get up early for Saturday dance classes and Rus
s has some deliveries scheduled for the morning. I’m his ride tonight, so we need to make tracks. Farrah, this was beyond delectable. If you want backers for that TV show, all you’ll need to do is let them taste this cake. Or anything else you served tonight. I’ll be home a bit later on. I’m going to grab Phoebe out of the yard and let her ride with us, maybe run her around the park after I drop Russ off.”
She and Russ rose and waved goodbye. Russ headed for the front door and Miranda took off for the guest bedroom, where she’d left her purse and keys.
Farrah followed. “Miranda, I’m sorry if talking about Miss Virginia’s diaries upset you. Tim didn’t originally tell me it was a state secret and I thought everyone already knew you’d been reading them.”
“It’s okay, Farrah. I tend to get a little emotional about Virginia especially when she becomes the topic of conversation. But there was no harm done.”
“Oh, good.” Farrah paused for a moment before adding, “This young man, Russ. He seems a bit odd. Kind of aloof or detached. Are you two an item? I don’t mean to interfere but he doesn’t seem your type.”
Miranda inhaled and counted to ten. It didn’t help. “Russ is not odd, aloof or detached. He’s not going to come across as the life of the party when ninety-nine percent of the people here don’t sign or don’t slow down enough for his voice-recognition software to translate. Plus, not to sound cranky, but I don’t have a ‘type’ and it makes me crazy when that excuse is used by casting directors bumping me from good roles or anyone inquiring about my dating habits. I know this is a celebrity cliché but Russ and I are really just friends.”
She grabbed her bag and was out of the bedroom before Farrah had a chance to recover. Russ was already at the front door. Miranda gave him the keys and signed that she’d meet him at the car once she released Phoebe from the backyard. Russ and Tim shook hands and Miranda gave her dad a hug. She thanked Farrah for the exquisite meal, then called out, “Nice seeing everyone. Bye.”
“Y’all are leaving so early,” Darci said. “Got a romantic night planned?”
Legacy of Silence Page 12
