by Wendy Wax
Andie watched until they disappeared from sight. Then she just stood there next to the tree, feeling tall and awkward and envious until, with a snort of disgust, she too, headed down to the parking lot. All the way down she wondered whether Jake Hanson even knew she was a girl.
Miranda spent Sunday afternoon in Tom’s study filling a yellow pad with notes and ideas on everything from new stalls in the Ballantyne ladies’ room—when you and your laptop spent long periods of time in one, you couldn’t help noticing its deficiencies—to developing a new product line. But her notes, like her thoughts, were an unsatisfactory jumble of images and fragments.
The house was too quiet. She could feel it pressing in on her as she stared out the study window. Alone, it seemed to say to her. You’re all alone.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she answered back.
In the Dempseys’ yard next door the birdbath was frozen. In the bare branches of the tree beside it, a squirrel hung by its tail and feasted on the cylindrical birdfeeder, totally focused on its mission.
She’d won countless beauty pageants by focusing that strongly on one event at a time: Win the interview, move on to the swimsuit, then focus on the evening gown. Nail the stage question and let the points add up. That was the way to salvage things at Ballantyne.
Miranda skimmed down her notes until she reached the word “receivables.” If Fidelity National discovered the fake receivables on their own—and if she’d found them there was no way a team of accountants wouldn’t—she’d never get the chance to put the company back on a firmer financial footing. Because there would be no company.
There was also the chance they wouldn’t stop with just putting Ballantyne out of business. Even large financial institutions took the concept of fraud very personally. Fidelity National might not consider the matter finished until somebody went to jail.
Okay. Miranda wrote the words “Stall audit” in big black letters and added three exclamation points. If she could put together the resources to guarantee the line of credit, this might actually be possible. She made a note to schedule a meeting with the bank.
Number two? She thought for a second and wrote “Find Tom” in big block letters and tried to push aside the ache that accompanied it. At night when she lay in bed wondering when he had stopped loving her and why, she was afraid to explore what, if anything, she still felt for him. He had taken such complete control in leaving that her feelings seemed . . . moot and too often contradictory.
One minute she never wanted to see him again; the next she wanted the face-to-face confrontation she’d been denied. But most of all, she craved an ending to this limbo he’d left her in. After her appointment with the bank, she’d meet the attorney she’d been referred to and find out what her options were. Maybe then she could move on.
Number three was a little easier and a lot more enjoyable: dinner with Gran.
Shoving the legal pad aside, Miranda called her grandmother to let her know she was coming, then placed their usual order at Ling Pow’s. She didn’t intend to spill all the sordid details, but she did need a sounding board. And she also needed assets to pledge.
Gran’s cottage was a cozy guest house on the grounds of the home she’d grown up in. After her husband’s death, Gran had passed the big house down to Miranda’s parents, along with the running of Ballantyne, and thrown herself into the renovation of the once derelict cottage. The two-bedroom home sat on the far side of a small orchard and allowed her to set up housekeeping at what she had declared the perfect distance from her daughter: far enough away to maintain her independence and close enough to impose her will . . . at will.
Some of Miranda’s happiest childhood memories had been made in this cottage, where her grandmother’s unconditional love and approval had been a welcome relief from her mother’s more demanding form of affection. When Miranda turned sixteen, she’d been given her own key, and in the years that followed, Gran and her home had provided an important demilitarized zone in the escalating war between Miranda and her mother.
Late each spring Gran decamped for her house near the summit of Ballantyne Bald, where the higher elevation kept the small lake cold year-round and no air-conditioning was required even on the hottest summer days. Her wedding gift to Miranda had been the adjoining lakefront acreage on which Miranda’s small retreat—and Tom’s love nest—now sat.
But Gran spent winters in the lovely stone cottage with its blazing fireplace and old mullioned windows. It was a place for kicking off one’s shoes and curling up for a good read or whispered confidences. Miranda had learned to navigate the waters of small-town life from this life raft. Tonight she planned to ask for an oar without revealing where she intended to paddle the family canoe.
While Gran stoked the fire, Miranda deposited the “to go” cartons onto the farm table in the great room, then went back to the kitchen for plates and chopsticks.
They took seats across from each other at the scarred wooden table, and for a few moments the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the rustle of cardboard as they served themselves.
Miranda began to relax as they chatted idly. Being with Gran was so much easier than fielding her mother’s fitful attempts at communication, which swung between snippets of unsolicited advice and not-so-silent bouts of parental disapproval.
Miranda did not look forward to the day Joan Ballantyne Harper discovered her daughter had been dumped. And she sincerely hoped there were no pageants for almost-middle-aged women without husbands, for her mother to try to push her into.
She looked up and caught her grandmother eyeing her.
“So what do you hear from Tom?” Gran asked.
“Not, uh, much.” Make that nothing. As always the whys of it stalked her. Why hadn’t Tom shared the problems at Ballantyne and allowed her to help? Why hadn’t he loved her enough to stay and face the consequences of his actions? Why had he needed lingerie and other women?
“He’s gone inland to find new suppliers.” God, she hated lying to her Gran.
“Tom certainly has an eye for satin and lace,” Gran said almost conversationally.
Miranda froze as the silence stretched out between them; she actually had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from dumping the truth in her grandmother’s lap.
“Well, perhaps in this case no news is good news,” Gran finally said. “Tell me what you’ve been doing at Ballantyne.”
“There are a few things that Tom has,” Miranda cleared her throat and looked away, searching for words that would prevent an outright lie, “left me to take care of.”
“And do you want to talk about those things?” Her grandmother, too, seemed to be choosing her words with care.
“Not exactly.” Once again Miranda longed to lay down her load and go on about her life . . . or what was left of it. But she was the one who’d chosen a man who’d trashed the family business and then run off. With her father unavailable, it was her responsibility to try to clean up the mess. “But I do need to ask you for something, Gran. And I need to ask it on our old terms—no questions asked.”
“You mean like when you took your mother’s Volvo and transported that sow and her piglets in it? Or the time you faked a fever so you wouldn’t have to participate in the seed-spitting competition at the Miss Watermelon pageant?”
“I thought older people were supposed to get feeble and forget things,” Miranda said. “Do you remember every single thing I asked you to keep to yourself?”
“Just the highlights, darling. Your exploits have always helped keep me young, though I must say your life hasn’t been anywhere near as entertaining since you married Tom.”
No, nothing about her marriage to Tom felt very entertaining at the moment. She tried to dredge up an image of him posing for a Ballantyne catalogue, but the image just made her want to cry.
Miranda reached out a hand and placed it over her grandmother’s. “I may have to pledge some personal assets to guarantee something at the bank, and I was hoping y
ou’d sign the house on Hilton Head over to me. It’s supposed to be mine on my fortieth birthday, but it would help to have it in my name right now.”
“If it’s money you need, Miranda, all you have to do is ask.”
“I don’t want your money, Gran. I just need to look a little better on paper right now.” At least she intended to back up her claims with real assets rather than fake receivables.
“Well, of course, Miranda. That house is yours, and it makes no difference to me when you take possession of it.”
“And you won’t say anything to Mom or Dad.”
“My lips are sealed.” Her grandmother moved her chopsticks toward the remaining piece of pork and smiled as she lifted it to her mouth. “You wouldn’t believe the secrets I can keep.”
Blake took a beer from the refrigerator and went into the family room, where he sank down into the perfectly worn leather recliner. Gus and Andie were in their rooms, and the only noise was the muffled thump of the bass from Andie’s stereo on the other side of the house.
In the relative quiet, Blake eased all the way back in the recliner, toed off his boots, and considered the existing pieces in Miranda Smith’s puzzle.
To date he had one anonymous phone caller, lots of gossip, and Miranda Smith’s sudden interest in her family’s brassiere company—plenty of small things that didn’t add up, but nothing big enough to sink his teeth into.
Of course the Truro grapevine was busy producing all kinds of theories about the state of the Smiths’ marriage. At the Dogwood Café, odds were being laid on how long Tom Smith would stay away and how much his wife might or might not want him back. No one except his anonymous caller actually considered Tom Smith missing.
A troubled marriage wasn’t really a matter for the law. But Blake could do some discreet poking around. He could have a little chat with the bank and the airlines; maybe get in touch with his buddy who handled investigations for Visa and MasterCard. Just a little nosing around to get a feel for the situation. If, in fact, there was a situation at all.
Of course, his best potential source of information was Miranda Smith herself. He raised the beer to his lips as he pictured the long legs and the clear green eyes. Then he replayed their encounters at the pool and at church, and the odd look in her eyes when she’d talked about Tom.
Something was going on, that much was clear. And he was just the man to figure out what it was. All he really had to do was put himself in her path, let her know he was watching, and see what happened. He’d be just like that proverbial penny and just keep showing up.
chapter 8
T he day of her meeting with Fidelity National, Miranda got up at dawn and drove to Atlanta for a 10:00 A.M. hair appointment. She’d prepared for the meeting as best she could; now she needed a new look to go with the corporate image she intended to present. It was critical that she be taken seriously.
By ten-thirty the floor around Miranda’s chair was littered with strands of long dark hair. Her long dark hair. Just lying there. No longer attached to her head. She forced her gaze up from the dark piles covering the salon floor to the mirror in front of her. Antonio had pulled out a razor and was wielding it with abandon, transforming her long, heavy locks into a short, businesslike hairstyle—the kind favored by news anchors and corporate VPs—the style she’d asked for and which she now sincerely regretted.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the stranger in the mirror while Antonio spritzed something all over what remained of her hair, poofed up the top layer with his fingers, and whipped the cape off with a flourish.
“Ees really something, no?”
What it was was short. Very short. Miranda swallowed. “It’s really, really . . . something all right.” She swallowed again and told herself that grown women didn’t cry over their hair—at least not in public.
She leaned in toward the mirror and tilted her head from side to side, but her hair was still short. With a last longing glance at the hair she was leaving behind, Miranda followed the stylist to the front desk. Without the familiar weight of hair on her shoulders, she felt naked and exposed. The air tickled her neck and tears pooled in her eyes.
“Ees very stylish. Very now,” Antonio enthused.
She nodded, her voice little more than a whisper. “And very, very short.”
“Jes, exactly.” He smiled, pleased, before heading off to greet his next client.
Determined to keep her greater goal in mind, Miranda paid for the haircut and drove to Phipps Plaza in Buckhead, where she made her way to the designer department of Saks.
“I need a suit,” she told the silver-haired saleswoman. “Something corporate but feminine. And I’ll need shoes and a bag to go with it. And I wondered if someone at the Lancôme counter could freshen me up?”
An hour and a half later she was seated in the reception area of the Atlanta office of Fidelity National in a black Armani power suit over a winter white silk blouse. A new Coach bag sat on the floor at her feet next to the matching shoes.
Any minute now she would have to walk into John Anderson’s office and start lying. If she was very lucky and he believed her tall tales, she would then go back to Truro and find a way to make those tales come true.
Miranda reached up to flip her hair over her shoulder in an automatic gesture she’d been making since childhood, but encountered nothing but shoulder. She was still adjusting to her lack of locks when an assistant arrived to escort her to John Anderson’s office.
“John,” she said, extending her hand for a brief, but firm, handshake as the banker came out from behind his desk to greet her. “Thank you for fitting me in today.”
“Glad to do it.” He led her to a seating alcove in the large corner office and motioned her to a chair.
Miranda sank down smoothly, folded her hands in her lap, and continued to maintain eye contact, something John Anderson wasn’t managing so well.
“I was surprised to hear from you rather than your husband.” He raised his gaze from her legs. “What can I do for you?”
Careful not to fidget, Miranda tilted her head and gave her version of the truth. “Tom is in China establishing suppliers for a new line we’re considering producing. We felt it made more sense for him to stay until everything’s set up satisfactorily, rather than waste time and money flying back and forth.”
As she spoke, she modulated her voice and controlled the speed of her delivery, being careful not to speak so fast as to appear nervous, or so slow as to appear uncertain.
“Very sensible.”
She smiled. “He’s asked me to keep things running while he’s away. You know, my husband and I met at Emory while we were working on our MBAs.”
“I didn’t realize . . .”
“Many of the decisions made at Ballantyne since my father retired have been made jointly by Tom and me.”
She didn’t mention that those decisions had been about wallcoverings and carpet. After all, she’d had better grades than Tom all the way through college, and her MBA carried just as much weight.
“I’m here because there’s a problem with some of our receivables.”
The banker looked surprised. “Yes, I sent a letter to your husband a couple of weeks ago stating our concerns.”
“I know.” She smiled again and managed not to mention where and in what condition she’d found the letter. She reached up to toss her hair, but, of course, it was no longer tossable.
“When I noticed the auditors were due next week, I decided to take a look at the receivables myself.” She smiled yet again and moved to the crux of the visit. “I called all the accounts to verify the amounts and the dating.” She paused and allowed concern to show on her face. “I’m afraid quite a few of them are having difficulty paying for the goods they received.”
Once again he looked surprised by her admission. Walking into a lender and admitting to bad receivables was highly irregular. But not quite as irregular—or dangerous—as the bank discovering those receivables had never actually exis
ted.
“I’ve contacted all of them to work out repayment plans,” she continued. “But I don’t want our line of credit jeopardized.” She paused but kept her gaze locked with his. “I’ve come prepared to pledge personal assets to secure it.”
Surprise flashed over the banker’s features again. Miranda smiled and mentally crossed her fingers. For a moment she was back on a pageant stage waiting to hear the emcee call her name for the final five. When she thought she might pass out from holding her breath, the banker’s face cleared and he smiled back at her.
“Actually,” he said. “You’ve just made my life easier.” He lowered his voice to a confidential tone. “One of our largest borrowers is experiencing a severe financial crisis, and I need to send a full team of auditors to deal with it. Perhaps now that we’ve clarified your position, I can postpone your audit until their situation is resolved.”
Miranda smiled and uncrossed, happy to see someone else receiving the bank’s full attention.
“Why don’t I get the paperwork started on the pledging of those assets?” Anderson asked. “Then I’ll be in touch again when we’re ready to reschedule.”
“Yes.” Miranda stood and smiled again, barely managing to restrain her relief. “That would be fine.”
She wanted to pump a fist into the air and do a victory dance on John Anderson’s desk. Instead, she extended her hand in parting and made a graceful exit, being especially careful not to kick up her heels on the way out the door.
Miranda’s euphoria was brief and didn’t survive her meeting with Dana Houseman, Attorney-at-Law.
Somewhere in her mid-fifties, Ms. Houseman wore a conservative gray suit and sensible black shoes. Her makeup was minimal and she had a calm, understated manner. But her brown eyes gleamed with intelligence and her voice rang with authority as she gave Miranda a quick education on the way the world worked.
“I’ll need ten thousand now and another ten thousand if we go to trial. And I’d like to put Harrison Maples on—he’s our best PI—to track down your husband. That’ll probably take another five thousand to start. The total will depend on whether your husband actually left the country or not. And how seriously he’s hiding.”
