Leave It to Cleavage (31 page)

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Not bothering with the steps, Blake sprang onto the stage and strode toward the group in its center. Taking the microphone from Miranda’s hand, he turned to face the folks he had sworn to protect and defend. “What in the world is wrong with you people?” he demanded.

No one responded, which Miranda figured was a good thing.

“This woman,” he said, gesturing toward Miranda, “has lost her husband. And while I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, I think we all know Tom Smith wasn’t the prize he tried to pass himself off as.”

There were murmurs.

“Tom Smith was running around with other women,” Blake said. “And he stole money from his wife’s company, from
your
company. He ran it badly and then he stole from it. And when he realized the truth was going to come out he made plans to run away. Right after he took all the money out of his and his wife’s personal bank accounts.” He watched their faces as his words sank in. “He didn’t get real far, but he ran without a thought for his wife, his girlfriend”—he looked pointedly at Helen St. James—“or you all.” He didn’t bother to mention the lingerie Tom Smith ran in. Miranda figured everybody was busy filling in that blank for themselves right now.

He let them mutter and mumble for a bit, and then he continued. “For almost five months,
this woman
”—he pointed at Miranda again, and she began to think maybe in the excitement he’d forgotten her name—“has carried the weight of her family’s company and our town on her shoulders.”

There was more murmuring, but it felt decidedly less hostile.

“She had
no
money,
no
one to confide in, and
no
where to turn. A lot of people would have given up, shrugged you all off, and moved on. But she didn’t turn her back on you. She found a way to keep Ballantyne intact and all of your jobs safe.”

Blake looked at her, and though he continued to speak into the microphone, his words were clearly meant for Miranda. “This woman we’ve shrugged off as a beauty queen has more grit and determination than any ten men put together.” He smiled. “If this is what a Miss Rhododendron is capable of, then I hope my daughter has what it takes to win a crown.”

“And what about her husband’s death? Are you just going to let her wiggle off the hook for that?” someone shouted.

“Every shred of evidence gathered by the GBI, the coroner, and my office supports an accidental drowning,” Blake said.

“But he was leaving her,” Clara Bartlett broke in. “How did he end up in the lake?”

Blake paused, then looked the gossip columnist in the eye.

“Tom Smith’s car slid into the lake. The GBI found skid marks preserved under the snow, and when the car was pulled out they found the accelerator stuck. There was no sign of foul play—just a malfunctioning accelerator and an icy bank. He was alive when the car went in and if his”—Blake cleared his throat—“clothing hadn’t gotten caught on the gearshift, he might have made it out alive.”

He shook his head and got a strange look on his face and concluded, “According to the coroner who handled the autopsy, Tom Smith died of something we law enforcement personnel refer to as a”—he cleared his throat again—“DBC.”

The crowd dispersed, and with a sigh of relief Miranda turned to Blake. “Thanks, I, uh, appreciate the vote of confidence and the public explanation.”

She wanted to throw her arms around him and bury her face in his chest, but she kept her arms anchored to her side. She’d missed him, missed his quick intelligence and dry wit; she’d even missed tangling with him. Blake Summers could be annoying and arrogant, but he was a good man and a well-intentioned father. And just being around him sent her into sensory overload.

“I wondered if you might like to go to a movie or get a bite out one night?” he asked now. “Maybe we could start fresh, take some time getting to know each other.”

Miranda looked into the blue of his eyes and wanted nothing more. Little voices in her brain stood up and shouted, “yes, oh yes,” and tried to find their way to her lips. But she’d only just managed to find her way, had only recently begun to know herself; if she let him into her life he’d take it over without even trying.

Miranda shook her head and forced herself to maintain eye contact. “I know how keen you are on the truth, so I’m going to give it to you right now.”

She bit her bottom lip, mauled it for a while before plunging ahead. “I’m still dealing with the failure of my marriage and the fact that Tom died wanting to leave me.” She shrugged. “And you,” she smiled sadly, “you’re not someone I can just go out with now and again. There’s too much there, Blake. And you’re too . . . big . . . to be contained.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t feel quite as . . . militant about it as I did that day at the jail, but nothing’s really changed. I’m still figuring out what I want and where I’m going, and I can’t afford to get sidetracked. I need you to leave me alone.”

They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. His were filled with disappointment and disbelief, and she suspected hers were filled with the same.

Then he took a step back, and he was the one shaking his head. “You may call that honest, Miranda, but I call it bullshit.” His eyes locked with hers and wouldn’t let go. “No one takes over your life unless you roll over and let them. And from what I can see, your rolling over days are
over
.” He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head one last time. “I’ll stay away, but you’re making a big mistake. Going it alone’s not all it’s cracked up to be. That I know for a fact.”

It was July, and the Ballantyne parking lot sparkled under a bright summer sky. The scents of summer drifted on the breeze and the Truro High School Marching Band stood at attention, their instruments raised, ready to blow their hearts out at the awaited signal.

Miranda, the attending board members, Ballantyne’s Miss Rhododendron contestant, the company’s three hundred and twelve employees, and a crowd of townsfolk stood beneath the spot that the old sign declaring Ballantyne’s support of Truro had once spanned. With a nod to Andie and the band director, Miranda pulled the end of rope in her hand and felt Andie do the same with hers. The first note of the trumpet fanfare rang out as they unfurled the new banner.

With held breath, she read the new sign along with the crowd.
BALLANTYNE BRAS
,
HOME OF CUSTOM CLEAVAGE
:
CREATING THE PERFECT BRA ONE STITCH AT A TIME
.

There were murmurs, and the fanfare died in mid-note. Like a precision drill team, hundreds of pairs of eyes clicked from the banner to Miranda. Not exactly the enthusiastic reaction she’d been hoping for.

She stepped forward into the surprised silence and surveyed the crowd.

“You’re right,” she said. “This is not your parents’ Ballantyne.” She looked at her own parents’ surprised faces and then back at the crowd. “Or my parents’, for that matter.”

There were a few guffaws.

“What this
is,
” she said, “is our opportunity to create something entirely new out of a long and proud history. And it’s going to take each and every one of us pulling together to make it happen.”

Scanning the assembled faces, Miranda saw pockets of doubt. She understood their fear of the unknown but refused to let it hold her back. She intended to build consensus where possible, and drag the unwilling along when necessary. The resurrection of Ballantyne had become so inextricably linked to the reshaping of her own life that she could no longer envision one without the other.

Miranda stepped off the podium as the band pulled itself together. Carly sent her a thumbs-up and Helen St. James, with whom she had forged a surprisingly effective working relationship, signaled her approval. For all his failings, Tom Smith had had great taste in women.

Gran stepped up beside her and gave her a hug. “You’ve done well, Miranda.”

“It feels right, Gran, to try to repair what Tom destroyed.”

“Yes, I can understand that.” She paused. “And it fills your days. You run to New York and Atlanta. You torture the store designer and the fabric suppliers. Your energy is boundless. You’ve accomplished so much.” She took Miranda’s face in her hands. “But at some point you’re going to have to slow down and look at the other part of your life.”

Over Gran’s shoulder, Miranda spotted Blake Summers at the back of the crowd. He was tall and commanding in his khaki uniform and dark-billed cap. He wore sunglasses, so it was hard to know where his gaze was aimed. As she always did in his presence, she felt that tiny frisson of electricity. And as always she pushed it away.

He hadn’t approached her since the Memorial Day picnic two months ago, for which she told herself she should be grateful.

“You’re getting that wrinkly-wise-woman look again, Gran,” she said, still looking at Blake. “And we all know how that turned out last time.”

Following her gaze, Gran spotted Blake and gave him a small wave. “I don’t understand why you two keep doing this strange tango.”

“Believe me, we’re not dancing. The man locked me up in a cell and forced me to talk. I’m still thanking my lucky stars he didn’t haul out the naked lightbulb and the rubber hose.”

“We had lunch from the Dogwood and regular potty breaks, darling. I don’t think that constitutes cruel and unusual punishment.”

“He could have just taken my word and not dragged us all through that ludicrous charade.”

Gran raised an eyebrow.

“Well, okay, maybe I’d omitted a few things up until then.”

The other eyebrow went up.

“Well, he should have known I didn’t have anything to do with Tom’s death.”

“He’s the chief of police, Miranda. He couldn’t exactly write a report that said ‘I didn’t bother to ask because I know she’s innocent.’ And in case you’ve forgotten, he stood up in front of most of the town and defended you quite eloquently.”

Miranda remained silent.

“But that’s not really the issue, is it, Miranda? I don’t think you’re being honest with yourself or Blake.”

When she looked next, Blake had disappeared into the crowd and Miranda felt the usual surge of disappointment. “It doesn’t really matter,” she said as they walked under the new banner and back toward the main offices, though she sounded less certain than she intended. “My life is finally my own, Gran. And I’m living it the best way I know how. I really don’t need a man to complicate it.”

“Oh, pshaw.” Gran’s face registered her impatience. “We’re not talking
any
man here, we’re talking Blake. And for such a smart woman you’re being incredibly stupid.”

“Thanks, Gran. Your vote of confidence is overwhelming.”

“I know you’ve been hurt, Miranda, and after all that’s happened I understand you being afraid. But loving someone, the
right
someone, doesn’t obliterate who you are. It enhances it.” Gran smiled in that wrinkly wise way and lifted her hand to Miranda’s cheek. “A smart woman knows when she’s found that someone.”

Miranda tried to shrug off her grandmother’s words, but they took hold deep inside her and wouldn’t let go. She spent the rest of the summer sidestepping her grandmother’s attempts to draw her into Blake’s circle through Gus, and she did her best to keep her pageant coaching and friendship with Andie as separate as she could. And slowly she let go of Tom, keeping only the best memories tucked deep inside.

When being without Blake got tougher instead of easier, she told herself that she’d get over it one day soon. Only that day never came. She was horribly afraid she might actually be in love with him.

It was September now, and boxes of engraved invitations to Custom Cleavage’s grand opening were stacked on the conference table in front of her. Pages of the proposed guest list were strewn across the tabletop.

Her mother, her grandmother, and Carly, all of whom had contributed to the list, sat at the table with her while she went through it one last time.

“Is this Selena’s whole Atlanta client list?” she asked Carly.

“Yes.”

“And we’ve got the symphony guild, the Junior League, the private clubs, and all the volunteer groups that she suggested?”

“Check,” her mother said.

“We’ve got family, friends of family, Ballantyne board members, and friends of board members.”

“Definitely,” Gran said.

“There is not a woman with enough money to buy a custom bra within a hundred-mile radius of Phipps Plaza who is not on this list,” Carly assured her.

Miranda shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

“Is there someone you’d like to add, darling?” Gran eyed her knowingly, but Miranda refused to rise to the bait. Whether or not she invited Blake Summers to her grand opening was nobody’s business but her own. And what would inviting him to the opening mean anyway, when the whole world appeared to be coming?

After all the attempts he’d made and she’d rejected, any gesture from her would have to be grander than that. She pulled an invitation out of the stack and slipped it into her purse. Or maybe the scale of the gesture no longer mattered. Maybe it was just too late.

chapter
29

B
allantyne’s first Custom Cleavage opened in Atlanta’s Phipps Plaza on a bright fall morning.

Outside, the crapemyrtles had deepened to a burnished gold and the Japanese maples were the color of a rich merlot, but in this carefully created corner of Selena Moore’s flagship store, colors were muted and a quiet elegance prevailed.

Cream brocade covered the walls and twined around brass finials, while mahogany display pieces and antique lingerie chests showcased finely sewn samples. The richness of the wood furnishings gleamed brightly against the faded beauty of the Aubusson carpet on which they sat.

Miranda took a final walk through the showroom, then did a last check of the two oversize fitting rooms. She plumped pillows, polished the already spotless mirrors, and rehung the silk dressing gowns on their antique brass hooks. Every choice reflected her taste; no decision had been too small to require her input. She knew she’d driven the interior designer crazy, but in the end she’d gotten exactly what she’d envisioned.