Leave it to Cleavage

by Wendy Wax

  He studied the woman across from him; took in the narrowed eyes, the rigid jaw, the way she was practically squeezing her words through clenched teeth.

  There was no question she was hiding something. But whether it was the demise of her marriage or something more he couldn’t tell. He was getting plenty of reactions all right; unfortunately he was having them, too. Knowing and understanding what was going on was becoming more than a game to him, and his gut told him she needed help of some kind. If she ever stopped lying to him, he might be able to give it.

  “So.” He stared into the green eyes behind which all the secrets were hidden. “Would you like to take this opportunity to set the record straight?”

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t have anything to add?”

  “Nope.”

  “There’s nothing you want to tell me? Nothing you think I should know?” He leaned in real close, close enough to kiss her if he’d had a mind to, while the ladies whispered over their coffees.

  “Will you leave if I tell you something?” she asked.

  “Um-hmm.”

  “All right, then.” Miranda leaned so close he could feel her warm breath on his cheek and see the hazel flecks in her green eyes.

  “I’m not completely sure, but I think you may have a coffee stain right there on your lapel.” She smiled. “And I don’t know if it’s intentional or not, but you’re really starting to bug the hell out of me.”

  In a futile attempt to obliterate Blake Summers and his probing blue eyes from her mind, Miranda did a half-hour workout in the club pool. Then she showered and changed back into her business clothes—a feat that now took half the time it used to thanks to her wash-and-wear hairdo and recently lowered standards—and met her mother and grandmother in the club’s main dining room.

  “Why, you look . . . good,” her mother said with surprise as they air kissed each other’s cheek.

  Her grandmother enfolded her in a hug and then held her at arm’s length, opting, as always, to do her own assessment. “Your mother’s right, Miranda. Tom’s absence seems to be agreeing with you. And I love your hair this way.”

  “Mother,” Joan Harper warned, “you know people are already gossiping. Not to mention that ill-mannered Clara Bartlett.”

  No one spoke as they were led to their table, and Miranda sincerely hoped she wasn’t going to get another rehashing of Truro’s take on the state of her life.

  When they were seated, Miranda’s mother completed her warning. “You tell Tom you expect him back for the ball. And don’t overextend yourself at Ballantyne. Too much stress makes getting pregnant even harder.”

  “So does an absent husband,” Gran pointed out drolly. “And she’s right to look out for the family interests. It wouldn’t do to forget what oils the wheels that make our world go round.”

  This was always the way of it, Miranda realized. Her mother cautioning and worrying about appearances, her grandmother urging her forward. It was only lately that she’d begun to notice how much her mother craved her own mother’s approval and how seldom she got it. Perhaps she and her mother had more in common than she’d realized.

  “How’s Daddy?”

  “Still grousing about all the lifestyle changes Doc Chainey has ordered, but at least he’s taken them seriously. If we can bring his blood pressure down far enough and he doesn’t have any more chest pains, we may be able to avoid the angioplasty.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” The worry about her father had been ever present, a sort of low-lying hum that never went away.

  They ordered, and after the drinks were served, her mother said, “Tell me what’s happening with the ball, darling. I’m so sorry I missed the last meeting. Has Angela chosen a napkin color? And what about poor Henri? I hear he’s still recovering from the sampling.”

  Her mother’s eyes lit with interest, and Miranda knew she was just warming to the topic.

  “Everything’s going fine, Mother, but there’s something else we need to talk about,” Miranda said smoothly. “I want to call a meeting of the Ballantyne Board of Directors, and I’m going to need your help.”

  “You’re going to call a board meeting?” Her mother looked shocked.

  “Um-hmm.”

  “But shouldn’t that be Tom’s responsibility?”

  “Yes, but Tom’s not here and he, um, asked me to take care of this for him.”

  “He wants you to conduct a board meeting while he’s gone?”

  “Yes.”

  “On his behalf?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And it can’t wait until he comes back?”

  “Definitely not.” Because she’d probably be in a nursing home by then—a very cheap one, considering what they’d all have left if she allowed Ballantyne to go under.

  Her grandmother had been unusually silent, and Miranda turned to her now. “I’m going to need you both behind me on this. I have an idea that I believe can do great things for Ballantyne, but it’s a pretty big leap from where we are. And you know how conservative Dad and the other directors can be.”

  Her mother began to demur, but Gran silenced her with a raised eyebrow. “We’ve got half an hour until bridge, Miranda. Why don’t you go ahead and fill us in.”

  “Mother, I really don’t think—” Joan began, but once again Gran cut her off.

  “Of course I’m behind you, Miranda. And if she’s smart, your mother will be, too,” Gran said. “Now let’s hear your idea. Fortunately for you, ‘unconventional’ is my middle name.”

  Miranda woke to the sound of pounding rain and gusty winds that made getting out of bed decidedly unattractive. She lay huddled under the covers, listening to the storm howl outside, wishing someone else would get up and put on the coffee and retrieve the undoubtedly drenched newspaper.

  If Tom were here she could nudge him awake and try to sweet-talk him into doing all the things she didn’t want to do right now. She felt the stab of loneliness and then pushed it ruthlessly aside.

  Once she might have traded a kiss per cup of coffee, and offered a little more incentive for the trek out into the rain. But it had been a long time since it had occurred to her to try to tempt her husband with anything out of the ordinary, and even longer since their sex life had been much more than perfunctory. It was little wonder she hadn’t figured out that lingerie was the answer—she hadn’t even realized there was a question.

  Miranda swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. Despite the sweats and thick socks she’d slept in, the room felt cold, and the overcast sky provided almost no light. After a cursory stretch and yawn, she padded downstairs, turning on every light switch she passed until the house was ablaze. It was 8:15 A.M., and she had no place to be and nothing to do. The day stretched out into infinity and beyond.

  After grinding beans and putting on a pot of coffee, Miranda pulled on an old yellow slicker and a battered pair of galoshes and raced out into the tempest to retrieve a soggy Truro Gazette.

  She started with “Dear Abby” and segued into the engagement and wedding announcements. Over her second cup of coffee, she decided to brave “Truro Tattles,” and immediately wished she hadn’t. The headline screamed: WHERE IS GUILD QUEEN’S KING?

  Miranda put down her coffee and read the two paragraphs that followed. Twice.

  Guild-queen-turned-bra-tycoon Miranda Smith is looking very corporate these days as she pinch-hits for her absent husband who, she claims, is away on an extended business trip to remote sections of China. There the king is purported to be drumming up new suppliers and not, as previously rumored, looking to relocate manufacturing.

  Ballantyne insiders say that the king stays in touch by phone and E-mail, but has not been seen for some six weeks—not even by his queen of hearts.

  The phone rang and Miranda knew, without checking the caller ID, that it was her mother. The boring day she’d been dreading began to look increasingly attractive.

  “Good morning,” she answered. “Que
en Miranda speaking.”

  “Oh, darling, I’m so angry with that Clara Bartlett and her infernal column.”

  “Well, at least she referred to me as royalty.”

  “Yes, Miranda, and now’s the time to be even more regal than ever.”

  Miranda looked down at her soggy newspaper and gray sweat socks. “Whatever you say, Mom.”

  “But not until after I sue her for every penny she has. And force her to print a retraction. Why, I’ll . . .”

  Miranda tried not to enjoy having her mother on her side, but it was too novel an experience not to be savored. “Mother, calm down. I’m not sure if you noticed, but she didn’t actually print anything that’s untrue. Tom has been gone for six weeks and he is in China. If it were possible to sue for attitude and innuendo, tons of publications would be out of business. Let’s just ignore her and hope she gets tired of this.”

  “Darling, I think that’s a very poor strategy. I mean, Clara doesn’t actually have a life of her own, as I believe I pointed out to her after her last column. She could write about you forever.”

  “Believe me, Mother, ‘no comment’ is the way to go here. And I know this will sound odd, but you might want to cut out those personal attacks. They don’t seem to be helping.”

  “Harumph!” This was her mother’s version of “Screw her” and “That bitch doesn’t know who she’s messing with.”

  “That’s right, Mom. Take some nice deep breaths.” Or possibly Valium. “And try to calm down. It’s just a couple paragraphs of silliness. Probably everybody’s papers are too soaked to read anyway.”

  Twenty phone calls later Miranda knew this was not the case. Tired of trying to sound unconcerned, she finally switched on the answering machine and took a cursory look at the caller ID as each call came in.

  By noon, when her grandmother called, Miranda was ready to climb the walls and in serious need of a more level head than her own.

  “Miranda dear, are you all right?”

  “Harumph,” she said, horrified to hear how much like her mother she sounded.

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Gran said. “The rain’s let up a little. I want you to get in your car and drive over here right now.”

  “I’m all right, Gran.” Her assurance sounded puny even to her.

  “I won’t take no for an answer, Miranda. I’ve got a beef stew started and a fire going. Bring Singin’ in the Rain, and Top Hat, and Houseboat. We’ll spend our afternoon with Gene Kelly, Fred Astaire, and Cary Grant. What could be better than that?”

  “All right, Gran. I’ll throw on some clothes, but I might have to stop for some Chunky Monkey on the way.”

  “That’s fine, dear. There’s nothing wrong with a little medicinal ice cream. And remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did. Only she did it backwards and in heels.”

  After church on Sunday, Miranda cut out Clara Bartlett’s column and pinned it to the bulletin board in her kitchen, right next to the others. Seated at her kitchen table, where she could see Clara’s columns for inspiration, Miranda pulled apart the Sunday New York Times, and pored over the business section. She was skimming through an article about “the new generation of entrepreneurs” when a familiar face caught her eye.

  Miranda studied the picture of her former pageant competitor with interest. Selena Moore’s blond hair was no longer “big,” but had been cut in a sophisticated style that brushed her shoulders. Her makeup had undergone a similar transformation. She looked, Miranda decided, like what she’d become: the CEO and driving force behind a growing empire of high-end boutiques. Boutiques that catered to the very market Miranda wanted for Ballantyne.

  She’d already decided that opening their own stores would make her undertaking too expensive and unwieldy; she simply couldn’t learn retail fast enough to market the custom line herself.

  But Selena was already reaching Ballantyne’s target customer, and according to this article, she had plans to reach more.

  Miranda stood and walked to the bulletin board. She pinned the article about Selena in the center, then stared at the grainy photo of Clara Bartlett that appeared with each column.

  “Stand back, O ye of little faith,” she said to the gossip columnist’s photo. “I do believe I’ve found the way.”

  chapter 14

  O ver the next weeks Miranda focused all her energy on Ballantyne. She flew to New York to meet with the marketing-research firm whose figures supported the direction she planned, called on several new repping firms she’d heard good things about, and reestablished contact with Selena Moore. Her days in Truro were spent ironing out the details of the line she intended to create and attempting to duck the highly attractive and much too persistent Blake Summers.

  In her spare moments she pulled together documents for Dana Houseman and filled out a twenty-page questionnaire that forced her to face just how long her marriage had been sliding downhill.

  The hours she devoted to Ballantyne were long, the decisions difficult, and the setbacks many, but there were moments of pure exhilaration, too. Like Miranda’s first glimpse of head designer Myrna Talbot’s final drawings and samples of the variety of bras that could be created from the custom components Carly had originally drawn, and the designer’s memo indicating that their basic in-stock fabrics would be perfect for the new line. Both of these things paled in comparison to Engineering’s news that a retooling of the plant would not be necessary.

  With a determination she hadn’t realized she possessed, Miranda maneuvered around the negatives and capitalized on the positives, being sure to make the absent Tom a party to her plans.

  During meetings she spoke glowingly of his progress on his China mission, and then checked her nose for telltale signs of growth. Like the Pinocchio she was afraid of resembling, she told herself each lie was the last, but inevitably one untruth led to another. And another after that.

  Two months into her secret takeover, only Helen St. James continued to question Miranda’s authority. In return, Miranda made sure that Helen was the only one “Tom” never e-mailed or asked to speak to, even though his loving-to-the-point-of-nausea phone calls to Miranda almost always occurred in Helen’s presence.

  It was after one such virtuoso performance that Helen St. James, seated in the chair across from what Miranda now thought of as “her” desk, looked up and said, “I’m surprised that you two can go so long without seeing each other. It must be tough to be apart for so long.”

  Miranda considered the other woman. “Yes,” she said faintly, “it is.”

  The bookkeeper’s gaze was pointed. “It’s March fifth. He’s been gone, what, almost eight weeks?”

  “Why, yes, he has,” Miranda chirped as if just realizing it for the first time.

  “I’m surprised he hasn’t come back to visit or to check on things. They do have airports in China, don’t they?”

  If she hadn’t seen a picture of this woman with her hand on Tom’s butt, Miranda would have been tempted to shout “touché.” “Yes, of course they do,” Miranda replied.

  Helen St. James tried the eyebrow thing, but Miranda wasn’t having it. “In fact, I’m planning a trip myself.”

  “To China?” The bookkeeper looked genuinely surprised.

  “Well, uh, no, we were talking about meeting in . . .” Miranda squinted and tried to remember where the ticketing agent had told her Tom had flown through. “In, um, San Francisco. In fact, Carly is booking my flight right now.”

  Helen appeared stunned, which gave them something else—other than sex with Tom—in common. Miranda cleared her throat and spoke into the intercom. “Carly, how are you coming on that flight for me?”

  There was a dead silence.

  “The one to meet up with Mr. Smith,” Miranda prompted.

  “Ohhhh,” Carly replied slowly. “You mean the one to mjummmppppp@@@@?” The word was so garbled it could have been anything.

  She was definitely going to have to give Carly that raise and promot
ion.

  “I’m just waiting for confirmation from the airline,” Carly said. There was another pause and then, “Let me make sure I have those dates right.”

  Oops. This was the problem with making stuff up as one went along. Picking up her Palm Pilot, Miranda pulled up her calendar, realizing she was now obligated to commit to a date. And then actually go somewhere.

  “Let’s see.” Today was March 5; she’d penciled in the board meeting for the end of the month, and the Guild Ball was the second weekend in April. That didn’t leave a lot of room for her “rendezvous” with Tom.

  “That was the weekend of March 19,” she said, playing it out in her head, “and I want to fly out of Atlanta so I can meet with Selena Moore at her Phipps Plaza store.”

  “Got it,” Carly replied. “I’ll buzz you when I have flight numbers.”

  “Thanks, Carly.”

  Miranda turned her attention back to Helen St. James, who no longer looked quite so cocky. “Was there anything else, Helen?”

  The woman stood, smoothing the skirt of her gray wool suit and tilting her chin at a proud angle. “No, I think that’s quite enough, actually. I can see that you’re busy. I’ll have those projections you asked for ready in the morning.”

  Miranda watched her go, no longer feeling quite so cocky herself.

  That night Miranda grabbed a bite at Ling Pow’s and met her mother, her grandmother, and the rest of the Guild Ball committee at Angela Johnson’s to discuss decorations. With nobody pushing wine, Angela’s “new pair” stayed decorously covered, but her dithering over details was as annoying as ever.

  “Okay,” Miranda finally said. “All in favor of eggplant for the napkins, raise your hands.”

  Angela wrung hers instead. “I don’t know,” she said. “Eggplant is so . . . vegetablelike.”

  Miranda sighed. “Why don’t we just call it purple, Ang, and move on? All in favor of—”

  “But purple . . . I mean, it just doesn’t seem . . . serious enough.”

  Miranda’s grandmother fixed the other woman with a stare. “It’s the color of royalty. It would be hard to get more serious than that.”