Leave It to Cleavage (16 page)

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 promotion.

“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.”

“Right,” said Miranda. “Everyone in favor say—”

“Is
this
eggplant?” Angela pointed to the band of color on her shirt.

Miranda’s mother cupped a hand to one side of her mouth and hissed, “She’s not going to take her shirt off again, is she? I heard she pulled it right off at the last meeting.”

“No, of course not, Mother,” Miranda said wearily. “All those in favor of—”

“That’s what happens when you don’t attend,” Gran observed. “You miss all the good stuff.”

Miranda turned to Angela Johnson. “You’re not planning to remove any of your clothing tonight, are you?”

Angela shook her head.

“Good.” Miranda turned to her mother. “Satisfied?”

“Yes, dear, I just—”

“Okay. All in favor of—”

“What are we voting on again?”

“Purple. The napkins are going to be purple. And I think we should do the tablecloths in the ecru with black as an accent,” Miranda said.

“Oh.” Angela perked up. “You never told me I could use more than one color.”

Miranda sighed again and glanced at the clock above the stove as her mother said, “I’d like to present an idea for consideration.”

Miranda bit back a groan.

“If we’re going with royalty, let’s have Miranda wear her rhododendron crown and bring back the velvet robes for the king and queen. The committee chair and her husband always used to be crowned queen and king.”

“Oh, no, Mother,” Miranda got out. “Let’s not . . .”

But after a night of interminable dawdling, the committee suddenly snapped to life. United in their love of the royalty idea, the group, who up until now hadn’t reached a single decision, made a slew of them. And every one of those decisions was going to leave Miranda sitting on a throne, her old rhododendron crown on her head. Without a king by her side.

“Look, I really don’t think—” she began.

“Oh, Miranda,” Vivien crowed. “It’s so perfect. And we can use your Rhododendron girls as a kind of queen’s court. They can invite escorts and do a processional in their evening gowns. It’ll be fabulous!”

“No! I mean, let’s not—”

“I’ll get the thrones out of storage,” the decoration chair offered. “And you know what else we could do?” She jumped up, excited. “We could turn the hall into a palace garden. The winter’s been so horrible it’ll be the perfect antidote. We’ll fill it with flowers so that it feels like spring!”

“But the forecasts are all calling for it to stay cold through April.” Miranda tried to remain calm, but her committee was gathering speed like a runaway train. “Flowers would cost a fortune, and it just doesn’t—”

“Oooh, oooh, I know.” Angela raised a hand and jumped up and down. Her new breasts didn’t even bobble. “We can use tissue-paper flowers—a garden full of them. It’s so retro it’ll be cool.”

Miranda tried to apply the brakes, but her committee had jumped the track. “You know why those things went out of fashion, don’t you?”

But everyone was buzzing with excitement.

“Because they’re so much work!”

“I can just see it now,” Angela exulted. “Tissue-paper flowers in every color of the rainbow. Annuals and perennials. Why, we can make flower beds full!”

“That would take younger hands and shorter nails,” Miranda countered, hiding her own still nimble and short-nailed hands behind her.

There was a brief respite from enthusiasm and then, “I know,” the newly decisive Angela exclaimed. “We can get your girls to make them!”

Like Andy Rooney and Judy Garland screaming “Let’s put on a play!” the committee zipped through the details, once again painting Miranda into a corner she couldn’t find a way out of.

“And maybe they could make extra to sell at school!”

“That money could go to the children’s hospital, too!”

“The school could give the girls credit for community service!”

“Oh, I can just see the garden now!”

“Do you think we should put AstroTurf down?”

Miranda blinked, and it was all decided. She was going to have to wear her Miss Rhododendron crown and a velvet robe and sit on a throne in a garden of tissue-paper flowers made by her students, without a king by her side.

Talk about your defining moments.

Later, over cake and coffee, Miranda pulled her mother aside. “I wish you hadn’t pushed this whole royal court thing. I’m not even sure Tom will be back in time for the ball.”

“Not back? Why, he’ll have to be.” Her smile was grim. “I’m sure Tom wouldn’t want to see you so publicly humiliated.”

Miranda considered explaining to her mother just how little her son-in-law cared about potential humiliation. Or what he probably would be wearing under his king’s robes if he had, in fact, been planning to show up. Instead she helped herself to another cup of coffee and rejoined the ladies seated around Angela’s kitchen table, all of whom stopped talking as soon as they noticed her approach. Miranda’s stomach dropped.

Angela looked away as Miranda set her coffee cup down, and every one of Miranda’s self-preservation instincts shouted “run,” “duck,” “hide.” But she’d learned enough from dealing with Helen St. James and the staff at Ballantyne to know it was better to confront this unpleasantness head on. “Did I interrupt something?” she asked.

Angela flushed with embarrassment. She was having trouble meeting Miranda’s eye. “We were just wondering when Tom was going to be back from his business trip.”

The attention of every woman in the room was now focused on them.

Her grandmother left her place near the counter and stepped over to stand behind Miranda, a move that spoke volumes in the too-silent room. Her mother stayed put.

Miranda felt as if she and Gran were starring in Truro’s version of the shoot-out at the OK Corral. She sincerely hoped they were going to be the Earps.

“He’s in China, visiting the smaller villages to find new suppliers. Textiles are very big in the more remote areas right now.”

“He’s been gone for a long time.”

“Are you, I mean,
when
are you expecting him back?” Sheila Taylor’s face belied her concerned tone.

“When he’s done,” Miranda said.

“It’s been two months,” Karen added. “How in the world are you managing without him for so long? The nights have been so . . . cold.”

“Kind of like this room at the moment,” Gran commented dryly.

“I have an electric blanket,” Miranda replied.

There were titters, but everyone had pretty much given up the pretense that they were doing anything other than listening.

“Actually,” Miranda continued. “I’m planning to meet Tom in San Francisco in a couple of weeks.” She was very careful to maintain eye contact with her committee members. “We decided he wouldn’t come home until all his business was complete, but, you’re right, it’s been much too long.”

She smiled as she added, “Why, he’s been gone so long I’ll have to take a picture along so I can recognize him.”

chapter
15

M
iranda called Friday’s Rhododendron Prep session to order, determined to put the best possible spin on her upcoming humiliation. “I am happy to report that you have all been asked to participate in the Ladies’ Guild Ball in April.”

There were murmurs of surprise and pleasure.

“You’re going to serve as ‘attendants’ to the queen; that would be
moi.
” She pointed a finger to her chest and inclined her head in regal fashion. “Which will require wearing evening gowns and doing the same sort of walk you’d do on a pageant runway. On the arm of your escorts.”

The girls simmered with excitement, or at least most of them did. Andie Summers slumped down in her seat and folded her arms across her chest.

“We’ll be getting out our high heels in just a moment to practice, but first I want to tell you about something else you can be a part of.”

She explained the whole paper-flower business as succinctly as she could and then pulled her own heels out of her bag.

Mary Louise’s hand shot up. “How many flowers are we each supposed to make?”

“Well . . .” Miranda hadn’t really thought that one out. “We need a ton of them to create the feeling of a palace garden, so the more the better.”

Thinking the subject covered, Miranda held one shoe aloft but had barely opened her mouth to speak when Mary Louise raised her hand again. “I’ll make fifty,” she said.

“Me, too,” said one of Mary Louise’s friends.

Across the room, Andie sat up straighter, her face suddenly intent.

“That’s great, girls, but it’s quite time-consuming, and—”

“Seventy-five,” Andie Summers said.

“I’m sorry?” Miranda lowered the shoe.

“I said I’ll make seventy-five.” Andie’s chin jutted out just like her father’s.

Mary Louise’s head whipped around. “Eighty!” the girl said, turning back to face Miranda. “I can make eighty flowers!”

“Eighty-five.” Andie’s voice rang out strong and clear.

ML’s hand shot up. “Ninety.”

“Ninety-five.”

Once again a group of females was taking the bit in their teeth and racing toward a finish line Miranda had never intended. “This is not an auction,” she said. “Or a competition.”

“I don’t know how someone who can’t even get her makeup right is going to be able to make that many delicate tissue-paper flowers.” Mary Louise sniffed. “I’ll make one hundred, since it’s for such a good cause and all.” She tossed her hair. “Plus the ones
she
doesn’t finish.”

“Ha,” Andie sneered back. “I’ll have my hundred and then some. Just because I’m new to this whole stupid face-painting thing doesn’t mean I can’t fold up some dumb tissue paper.”