by Wendy Wax
“Do you feel better now?” Miranda asked. “Now that you got the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”
Blake leaned back against Anne Farnsworthy’s desk. Stubble darkened his cheek and shadowed his jaw. He looked almost as tired as she felt.
“We could have avoided all of this if you’d just stepped forward at any point and told me what was going on.” He folded his arms across his chest, and she saw the anger simmering underneath the iron control. “After Tom left would have been a good time. After we slept together would have been even better.” A tick appeared in his cheek. “Even after Tom’s body was found would have worked for me.” His blue eyes pierced right through her. “How well do you have to know someone before you think they can handle the truth, Miranda?”
She fell back a step. He knew why she’d kept silent, and still he used it against her. “That’s not fair and you know it. There was too much at stake. It wasn’t just about us. And you weren’t exactly up front yourself. Showing up every time I turned around. Tailing me to Atlanta. Failing to mention the outcome of the investigation until you got everything you wanted.”
He snorted and ran a hand through his hair. “You didn’t leave me much choice. This whole mess needed to be cleared up. For everyone’s sake.” The blue eyes held her fast, and his voice softened. “I know what it is to be left, Miranda. Believe me, it’s better to know what happened than to spend a lifetime wondering.”
She looked at him, saw that he was sincere, and knew just how dangerous that made him. “So you’re saying, what? That this little fiasco today was staged on my behalf?” She shook her head, thinking of the lengths he’d gone to. “Frankly, I think the truth is highly overrated.” Tears welled up and she swiped them away. “Because now I know all kinds of things I could have gone a lifetime without knowing. And you’re crazy if you think I’m going to thank you for rubbing my nose in them.”
Miranda looked at the man who’d made love to her so thoroughly then held her so gently; the one who had just locked her in a jail cell with her mother, her grandmother, and her dead husband’s mistress. Blake Summers was too big and his personality was too commanding. And for some reason, he thought he had the right to decide what was best for her.
She stoked her anger because it felt better than the bone-crunching weariness. She stoked it until it flamed up and burned a hole through her fog and allowed her to see things she’d been afraid to see before.
“You know what else is overrated?” she asked.
“No.” He was starting to get that amused glint in his eyes, which really pissed her off. “But I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”
“Men are overrated. And relationships. In fact, I don’t even see how those two things are supposed to go together.”
She felt suddenly freed of all the rules and expectations that had governed her life. At the ripe old age of thirty-eight, after fifteen years of playing the dutiful wife, her slate had been wiped clean. In the aftermath of her husband’s betrayal and her public humiliation she’d discovered the one truth her mother had neglected to tell her: The only person a woman could count on was herself. Period. Which made her the only one she had to answer to.
Not Blake Summers with his arrogance and his primordial urge to set everyone straight. It had taken thirty-eight years to figure out who she was and what she wanted; she wasn’t going to get hooked up with some man who’d want to tell her who to be and what to do.
Miranda pressed a finger to Blake’s chest and felt a burst of electricity at the contact. But what was electricity when compared to insight? And what was an ache in the heart compared to hard-won independence?
Miranda left her finger where it was. Careful to keep any sign of the hurt and regret she felt off her face and out of her voice, she tilted her chin up and looked him right in the eye. “It could be centuries before I believe anything a man has to say to me again,” she said. “Possibly eons.”
She took her finger back and let her hand drop to her side. “It’s time for me to be my own person. I’m not in the market for guidance or unsolicited advice. And I think we’re better off ending whatever it is that’s between us before anybody really gets hurt.”
She couldn’t help taking a small bit of pleasure from the look of surprise that spread across his face. It was kind of hard with the damned tears welling up again, but she kept her tone flip as she moved toward the door. “As someone I know once wrote on leaving,” she said as she placed her hand on the doorknob, “you be sure and have a nice life.”
Impressed despite himself, Blake watched Miranda leave. He’d fully expected to have it out with her over the importance of honesty in a relationship. He’d figured if he was lucky, he might even win a chuckle or two for this afternoon’s imitation of the folksy Andy Griffith.
But while he’d been braced for a certain amount of anger, he’d never anticipated Miranda Smith’s Emancipation Proclamation.
He didn’t regret the action he’d taken. If he hadn’t staged today’s lockup, Miranda would still be ducking and hiding from him all over Truro, while she and her Gran each worried that the other had somehow done Tom in.
Blake closed up the office, smiling over Miranda’s rendition of “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” Then he walked through the gathering darkness to his car, trying to figure out what to do next.
On the drive home, he realized he had no choice but to give Miranda the space she’d asked for. He’d just have to bide his time and hope that once she got over her anger at him and the shock over Tom’s death, she’d recognize what she was turning her back on.
She did have one thing right, though, he decided as he parked and let himself into the house. He did think he knew what was best for her. What was best for Miranda Smith was him.
chapter 27
T he spring was tinged with sadness as Miranda grappled with the feelings of loss and grief that ambushed her when she least expected them.
The spring was also full of firsts and lasts. Miranda’s first official Ballantyne board meeting as acknowledged president and CEO, her first feature article in the industry publication Underneath It All. At the end of May her Rhododendron Prep class met for the last time, and the girls spent it guessing who would be chosen to represent Ballantyne in this summer’s Miss Rhododendron Pageant.
“Does the contestant really get a whole set of handmade underwear?” Mary Louise clearly relished the thought.
“And personal coaching? And a brand-new evening gown?”
The girls were flush with excitement over the upcoming announcement. All except Andie Summers, who slumped in her chair and stayed there after the rest of the girls had left.
As she slipped into the desk beside her, Miranda noted the changes in the girl’s appearance with satisfaction. Andie’s blond hair was pulled back in a smooth French braid that accentuated her high cheekbones and finely arched brows. Over the months her makeup technique had steadily improved, and she now wore the minimum to maximum effect, just a subtle enhancing of the gifts she’d been given. She and Mary Louise were the top contenders for Ballantyne’s sponsorship.
“What’s wrong?” Miranda asked.
“It’s my dad.”
“Is he all right?” Her imagination rushed to provide images of an auto accident, or something incurable.
“Yeah, he’s just being a pain.”
Miranda let out a small sigh of relief. She would shoot herself before she’d admit it, but Blake Summers was blowing a great big hole in her superfluous-man theory. Now that she’d sworn off men, he’d begun to look increasingly attractive. Sort of like chocolate when you were on a diet; you knew it wasn’t good for you and you’d probably regret it later, but staying away from it took increasing amounts of willpower.
“He won’t let me date, he won’t let me meet Jake at the Tastee-Freez, he won’t let me take calls from boys period. The number of things he won’t let me do gets longer every day. And he’s gotten all grumpy and growly, like
a bear who thinks someone’s stolen all his honey.”
“And this is different, how?” Miranda smiled.
“Just different. Grandpa says he needs to stop pussyfooting around and go after what he wants, and then they clam up whenever I walk in.” She sighed. “I’m considering putting myself up for adoption. I don’t suppose you’d be interested?”
Miranda smiled and slipped an arm around Andie’s shoulders. “I’ve been wanting a daughter since I was a little older than you.” She paused as if seriously considering the idea. “You’re taller than what I was planning to bring home from the hospital, but I’m game if you are.”
Andie gathered her things and they moved toward the front of the classroom. At the doorway Miranda stopped and turned Andie around to face her, then placed a hand gently on the top of the girl’s head. “By the power vested in me as a beauty pageant coach and all-around girlie-girl, I hereby adopt you and make you my own.”
She kissed both of Andie’s cheeks and wrapped her in a less-than-ladylike hug. “That means any time the testosterone level in your house gets too high, you can call me and I’ll come whisk you away to my bastion of femininity.”
“Bastion of femininity?” Andie looked delighted. “I love the sound of that. Maybe we can build our own clubhouse or something.”
“Yeah,” Miranda laughed. “And we’ll post a sign out front that says ‘No Boys Allowed.’”
“You know, I hardly miss men at all.”
“That’s good.” Carly held the straw hat tighter to her head to keep it from flying off as the convertible rounded a curve. They were on their way to Ballantyne’s Memorial Day Picnic and the Miss Rhododendron contestant naming. For obvious reasons, this year’s event was NOT being held on the banks of Lake Carraway at the top of Ballantyne Bald, but at another lake site several miles away.
Miranda glanced in the BMW’s rearview mirror to where an excited Lindsey was also dressed in full picnic regalia. “Do you? Miss Lindsey’s daddy, I mean?”
Carly looked out the window at the scenery rushing by. The wind whipped her blond hair back from her face and lifted the collar of her cotton shirt. “Sometimes,” she said. “When the day’s been really long and I’m bone tired and I don’t have anyone to talk to about it.”
Miranda knew the feeling all too well. Those were the times when Tom’s absence was a tangible thing and no amount of dredging up his betrayals eased the emptiness.
They rode in silence for a minute.
“Or when my boss is especially difficult and I don’t have anyone to gripe to about her.”
They looked at each other, then threw back their heads and laughed. A short time later they pulled into a makeshift parking area and followed the music to this year’s picnic grounds.
“Oh, Mommy, look!” Lindsey dropped Carly’s hand and jumped up and down.
A bright yellow-and-white-striped tent perched on the far side of the clearing. Beside it, Sam Skinnard’s All Mountain Man Band played on a makeshift wooden stage; the twang of their banjos and fiddles rang off the surrounding mountains and echoed through the woods. Beyond them, lines of children waited for a turn on one of four ponies being led around a circle. It was toward a white one with a brightly ribboned tail that Lindsey now ran.
“Oh, my,” Carly breathed. “We really outdid ourselves this year.”
As they drew near, Miranda squared her shoulders and raised her chin. Things were going well at Ballantyne, she was seeing to that, but it wasn’t what Andie would have called a “slam dunk.” There were pockets of resistance, and the occasional muttering about how Mr. Smith would have done things. No one came out and argued with her, but they didn’t exactly welcome her with open arms. Even with the change of venue, she wouldn’t be the only one noting Tom’s absence today.
Miranda spotted Gus in a group of suspendered old-timers pitching horseshoes while Gran cheered him on, and she located Andie in the middle of a group of girls chattering excitedly while Jake Hanson and several of his buddies buzzed nearby. She automatically began to scan the crowd for Blake Summers, but stopped herself in mid-scan. Much better to keep that box of chocolates closed; she’d never be able to eat just one.
Inside the tent, women set out food on buffet tables already groaning with delicacies, and eyed what others had brought. Ballantyne had provided the site, the entertainment, and the drinks, but plates would be filled to overflowing with homemade fried chicken, potato salad, and cornbread. Her mother blew her a kiss as she directed the rearrangement of the dessert table with a seriousness normally reserved for invasions of troublesome countries, while her father, who looked wonderfully fit and tan, swapped fish stories with a couple of his cronies nearby.
Miranda forced herself to stroll around the edge of the crowd, moving from group to group with a friendly nod or wave; but while people nodded back or raised a hand in greeting, no one called her over or invited her to linger. Everyone seemed to be a part of something except her.
Slipping out the back flap of the tent, Miranda leaned against a support pole and stared out at the lake.
Only a few teenage boys had braved the still-cool waters; a few of the younger ones amused themselves splashing water at any girl who ventured close enough to be a target. The girls’ delighted shrieks swirled up into the mountain air and blended with the pickin’ and singin’. A good time was being had by all.
“Having fun?”
Blake’s voice took her completely by surprise. Her heart started dancing its own little jig, which she did her best to hide.
“Sure,” she said too quickly. “How about you?”
“I’m having about as much fun as it’s possible to have while keeping bees away from the hive.” He nodded toward the crowd of boys surrounding Andie. “It was a lot easier before you turned her into such a . . . girl.”
For a moment she considered warning him about her upcoming announcement, then decided he deserved it. The man had locked her in a jail cell and threatened to throw away the key. “She’s a very attractive young woman; being attractive should be a positive, not a negative.”
Blake didn’t argue the point. “I don’t think she’s going to last in your man-haters’ club. How many members you up to now?”
Miranda blushed. “Our numbers are legion. Converts are born daily.”
He looked down at her with a knowing look. Kind of like a Twinkie planting himself outside a Weight Watchers meeting.
A voice reached them from the other side of the tent wall. “Don’t ya’ll think this party should have been cancelled out of respect for Tom Smith?”
An angry buzz of voices joined in, though their words couldn’t be discerned. Miranda’s shoulders tensed, and she froze in place.
Wanting to end the uncomfortable silence surrounding them, she turned her attention to the relay teams being formed on the other side of the meadow. “Excuse me,” she said as she stepped away from the tent, “I’m going to go check on things.”
“There you go, Carly,” Sam Skinner boomed into the microphone as Miranda neared. “If you add Miranda and the chief you’ll have an even number.”
“What?” Blake reached her at the same moment Carly stepped up. And began to tie Miranda’s ankle to Blake’s.
“Hey, wait.” Miranda protested, but Carly had already moved around them to start on the other line. “If you want to keep that promotion you’ll come back here and untie us.”
Before Carly could respond, a white flag flashed downward and their team’s first couple lurched forward.
Miranda and Blake stood tied together at the back of what was now their team’s line. Blake’s heat pressed against her side and his arm hung behind her back.
“Sorry.” He lifted his arm, letting the hand trail casually up her rear end before slinging it across her shoulder. He didn’t sound at all apologetic. “I have to put my hand somewhere.”
The first couple returned laughing and out of breath and the next took off. Blake and Miranda moved forward, and he used
the hand on her shoulder to weld her more tightly to his side.
“You know, if you ever decide to fraternize with the enemy . . .” he began as their teammates went down in a tangle of arms and legs. A groan went up from their side.
“Me?” Miranda made the most of her tone since she was wedged too tightly to him to risk serious shoulder movement. “Fraternize with someone who investigated me, then slept with me, and then locked me up and interrogated me? I’m surprised you didn’t come right out and ask me whether or not I killed my husband.”
She risked turning under his arm and her breast smashed against his chest. “How could you make love to me the way you did and then grill me like that?”
The duo in front of them swiveled around. At Blake’s glare, they spun back toward the front, and then took off in a practiced skip.
“Miranda, I have to ask the questions whether I think I know the answer or not. I’m also required to investigate any death in this town to the fullest extent of my ability. And it’s not like you didn’t tell a few lies along the way.”
They were busy staring into each other’s eyes and neither of them saw the white warning flag go up. “You are the most confusing and irritating woman I have ever known. And I can’t seem to get you out of my head.”
“Go!” There was a push from behind, and Miranda and Blake hurtled forward in reaction—pretty much all feet at once. They clutched at each other in an effort to regain their balance. The other team’s couple took off in a smooth, coordinated lope.
“Middle foot!” Blake shouted. “Pick it up!”
Before she could argue, Blake’s arm clamped tighter around her shoulder and he surged forward, pulling her along with him. The other team waved as they raced by.
They were moving now, in a rough and totally uncoordinated way. Actually Blake was moving; she was being hauled along like a sack of potatoes. She jounced against his side as they moved.
