Leave it to Cleavage

by Wendy Wax

  “You’re not going to cry again, are you?” Miranda groaned. She had a company and a town to save and she didn’t want to talk about napkins anymore.

  Angela’s permanently eyelined lids blinked furiously.

  Feeling like she’d just kicked a puppy, Miranda turned her attention to the woman on her right. “Okay, why don’t we move on to the entertainment report and come back to the napkins later?”

  Angela sniffed her agreement. The entertainment chairperson, Vivien Mooney, perked up and cleared her throat. “At the last meeting we voted to ask Daniel Hawthorne’s Band of Renown for a tape.” Vivien paused. “Unfortunately, I don’t have one to play you yet.”

  “Because . . .” Miranda prompted.

  “Because Daniel Hawthorne sent me a recording from the Blumfeld bar mitzvah in Atlanta.”

  Miranda felt her eyes widen.

  “Thirty whole minutes of ‘Hava Nagilla.’”

  There was a moment of silence while they all pictured the members of the Truro Ladies’ Guild and their tuxedo-clad husbands circling the Masons’ Hall in an unskilled attempt at Middle Eastern folk dancing.

  “Right, then . . .” Miranda turned to the next committee chair. “Gloria, where are we with the menu?”

  “Originally we were going to do a surf and turf. But then I polled some of the girls at the club, and Margaret suggested going French. Then Charles brought up the idea of going Italian.” She frowned. “Maybe we should go back to the surf and turf and add a side dish of linguini.”

  “But if you do anything too saucy I’ll have to look at darker napkins.” Angela’s voice trembled.

  “I don’t see how anyone could dance with all that heavy food in their stomachs, anyway,” Vivien said.

  Miranda considered pointing out that if they hired Daniel Hawthorne they could work off the heavier food doing the hora. But the members of the Ladies’ Guild were not known for their senses of humor. “Look, ladies, all we need is entertainment, a menu, and some decorations. This is the Guild Ball, not consensus-building at the UN. How much time do we really need to spend on these details?”

  The gasp was collective. Angela began to cry, while six sets of eyes stared her down across the table. Miranda fingered the wisps of hair on her neck.

  Rebecca Wyndham reached out and put an arm around Angela, who now had tears running down her recently sculpted cheekbones. “What in the world has come over you, Miranda?” she asked. “These insignificant details used to mean something to you, too. But all of a sudden you’ve got an attitude the size of Montana.” She cocked her head, and Miranda could tell she was about to let her really have it. “And I cannot figure out what you were thinking when you did that to your hair.”

  Ouch. Miranda ran a hand through the short part of her business “do” and told herself not to get defensive. Not long ago she’d been one of these women. Like them, she’d spent her days volunteering, playing tennis, and lunching at the club, with a few light PR duties for Ballantyne thrown in to make her feel like she was “doing something.” If her life had left her a little less than satisfied, she hadn’t been dissatisfied enough to do anything about it.

  It wasn’t their fault her life had changed so completely. Nor was it their fault that she could barely think of anything anymore but finding a way to save Ballantyne and Truro.

  Miranda took a moment to really look at the other women at the table. For the most part, they were intelligent and well-intentioned. They gave their time and energy to their families and their causes. If their lives demanded no more of them than that, who was she to criticize?

  There’d be time enough for being cut off from everyone once the news of her dumping and duping hit the Truro grapevine. Why should she alienate everyone now?

  As she studied them, two of the women adjusted a bra strap and another did that subtle squirm that said her brassiere was cutting into her in some way. Miranda perked up and keyed into the women in the room, not as members of her committee but as bra wearers and buyers.

  When had anyone at Ballantyne last asked their customers what they wanted in a bra? Women’s wants and needs were constantly evolving. They expected different things from their lives than they had ten years ago; surely the same could be said for their bras. Truro was filled with women who wore Ballantyne bras out of a sense of loyalty and obligation. But when was the last time someone asked them how they felt about those bras?

  Miranda stopped fingering her hair. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I was way out of line. I’ve just been under a lot of pressure lately.”

  There were murmurings of forgiveness, but Miranda wasn’t really listening. She had just figured out how to kill several birds with one simple stone. “We need to sample some dishes so that we can make a decision about the menu. And we need to choose the wines that will go with the meal. Most of the other decisions will evolve out of that. Vivien,” she said to the entertainment chair, “why don’t you try that group over in Franklin that played at Elaine Knight’s anniversary party? And I can give you the number for the booking agent out of Nashville we used one year.

  “I’ll speak with Henri at Mais Oui Catering to try to solidify some of Rebecca’s thoughts. Then we can all meet at my house at the end of the week to sample the wines, taste the menu suggestions, and listen to whatever demos Vivien comes up with.”

  “You don’t have to do all that, Miranda,” Rebecca said.

  “No, I’d like to. It’ll be fun.”

  “What can we bring?” Vivien asked.

  “I’ll arrange everything. I’m just going to ask one thing in return.”

  “Name it,” said Rebecca, while the others nodded enthusiastically.

  “Everybody who comes Friday night has to come prepared for a frank discussion about their bras.”

  chapter 9

  M iranda stood outside the Ballantyne conference room in her new Armani suit. Placing her hand on the doorknob, she paused a moment to let her stomach settle. Once again she reached up with her free hand to flip her hair behind her shoulder, and once again, came up with air.

  It was time to walk through the door, take her seat at the conference table, and lie to the department heads assembled inside. Before she could chicken out, she drew in a deep breath and entered the room.

  Coming to a stop behind the empty seat at the head of the table, Miranda smiled at the group and made eye contact with each of them individually, just as she had been taught to do when walking into a pageant interview.

  Panic swirled in her stomach, but Miranda knew she had only a matter of seconds to take command of the room. Several of those present waited expectantly. Others, like Helen St. James, were clearly waiting for her to fall on her face. All of them were staring at her hair.

  Carly Tarleton sat at the far end of the table with her notepad in front of her. Her nod of acknowledgment was subtle, but reminded Miranda that she wasn’t completely alone.

  With her smile firmly in place, Miranda took her seat. She wanted her hair back so that she could flip it over her shoulder, would even have settled for running her tongue over her dry lips. Instead, she maintained eye contact and continued to smile, knowing full well that what she said now and how she said it was critically important.

  “Tom is still in China and won’t be back for a while,” she began.

  People murmured.

  “I’ve been consulting with him regularly. In fact, he keeps sending me directives via E-mail.” She flashed them a smile and lifted “Exhibit A”—the stack of E-mails she’d sent herself using his account.

  Carly looked up from her note-taking, clearly surprised. Myrna, the head designer, and Todd Holmes, who led the manufacturing division, looked reassured, as Miranda had intended.

  Encouraged, Miranda kept her voice steady and her tone matter-of-fact, as if running a department head meeting was something she did every day. “We’ve decided that I’m going to fill in for Tom while he’s gone.”

  There was a stunned silence, which Miranda ig
nored. “And we’re not going to just mark time waiting for him to get back.”

  “Why is he still in China?” Myrna asked.

  “He’s adding to our supplier base,” Miranda replied.

  “Are you sure he’s not looking to go offshore?” Todd Holmes asked, referring to the trend to move manufacturing to other countries where labor was cheap.

  “As long as there is a Ballantyne, manufacturing will take place in Truro,” Miranda said.

  “Who are you to promise that?” Helen St. James questioned.

  The room went still again.

  “At the moment, I’m the acting president of Ballantyne.”

  “And what qualifies you to lead this company?” the woman demanded.

  The others looked shocked, but it was clear to Miranda the question needed to be addressed.

  “My name qualifies me for this position,” she said firmly. “I grew up in this business. It’s in my blood.” She paused to let that sink in. “And my MBA won’t hurt, either.”

  Everyone in the room, except for the head bookkeeper, looked satisfied.

  “We intend to take this company in new, more profitable directions,” Miranda continued. “To do that we need everyone pulling together.”

  Miranda looked at each department head in turn, but let her gaze linger on Helen St. James. “Anyone who can’t handle that idea, or working with me in Tom’s absence, should start sending out résumés.”

  Miranda waited for the other woman to look away first. The bookkeeper’s hands, with their beautiful French manicure, were clenched on the table. Those nails, coupled with her hostility and her frantic E-mails to Tom, made Helen a top contender for the woman who’d posed with her hand on Tom’s ass. But while she might have had an affair with Tom, she had seemed genuinely shocked that so many of the new receivables were fraudulent. Surely if she’d been Tom’s accomplice, she wouldn’t have stayed to take the fall.

  “Ballantyne Bras is at a crossroads,” Miranda concluded. “We can no longer afford to go head to head with the ‘big boys.’ We need to find a new niche, a new path to follow. I’d like you to make time this week to brainstorm ideas for a more profitable direction. The only stipulation is that manufacturing remain in Truro.”

  There was excited chatter as she ended the meeting. Only Helen St. James remained sullen and unenthusiastic. Knowing she had to neutralize the woman’s negativity, Miranda motioned Helen to wait while the conference room emptied out. When it was just the two of them, Miranda faced the other woman. “You were in a position to know about the bad receivables. It’s hard to believe you didn’t.”

  Fear and anger showed on the other woman’s face. Miranda looked into Helen’s eyes and tried to imagine what she and Tom had been to each other.

  “I didn’t think to question them. They were Tom’s accounts, and I . . .”

  “Seem to have trusted the wrong person.” Miranda let the statement sink in. She was tempted to add “Welcome to the club,” but resisted. She needed to proceed with caution. If she acknowledged that Helen had been personally involved with Tom, she’d feel compelled to fire her and while that would be really satisfying, it wouldn’t necessarily be in Ballantyne’s best interests.

  “But you’re in luck,” Miranda continued. “Because I don’t particularly want someone new digging through the books right now.” Miranda delivered the whopping understatement with a straight face. “Assets have been pledged to cover those receivables, and if you think you can keep the situation to yourself, you can stay.”

  “Why, you can’t fire me anyway. Tom’ll . . .”

  “What, rush back to save your job?” She shook her head gently. “I don’t think so.” Miranda didn’t elaborate, intentionally letting Helen think she’d made things up with Tom.

  “And if I don’t keep quiet?” the woman asked.

  “Then I’ll have no choice but to take the books to the authorities and tell them what I think may have happened.”

  It was a lie of course, but she’d told so many, what was one more? “My only concern right now is Ballantyne,” Miranda said. “I’m not going to let anything or anyone jeopardize this company again. I won’t be taking my eyes off you for a minute.”

  They stared at each other until Helen St. James finally nodded and looked away. Miranda held her breath as she watched the other woman go. As the old adage said, it was good to keep your friends close . . . and your enemies even closer.

  It was almost six o’clock when Carly popped her head in to the office doorway. “Do you need anything else?” She already had her jacket on and her purse over her shoulder, but she’d brought a pad and pen.

  Miranda motioned her in and waited while she took a seat on the other side of the desk. “I’d like to do a tour of the whole facility sometime next week. And I’d like some time built in to talk with key employees along the way.”

  Carly nodded and started making notes.

  “Then I want to talk with Human Resources about employee benefits and incentives.”

  Carly’s pen paused as she shot Miranda a questioning look.

  “I also need the phone number for the research group and repping firms we use out of New York. And I’d like a written report from Bookkeeping on how new accounts are currently set up along with the shipping addresses for these accounts.” Miranda slid the list of fictitious businesses across the desk. “If Helen gives you too much grief, refer her to me.”

  “Thanks, Boss . . .” Carly stopped and they eyed each other for a moment. Then the assistant bent her head and scribbled something on her pad.

  Miranda looked over the list she’d made once more. “Am I missing anything?”

  “No, you’re being very thorough. More thorough than I would ever have imagined.” Carly tapped her pen nervously. “In fact, this doesn’t really look like the to-do list of a person who is just filling in for a couple of weeks.”

  Miranda met the younger woman’s gaze. She was intelligent and efficient. Against great odds she’d earned a college degree and appeared to be a dedicated mother. She was also ambitious, and she knew the day-to-day workings of the company in a way Miranda didn’t.

  In order to pull off the resurrection of Ballantyne, Miranda would need at least one ally; someone to help run interference; someone she could trust to be on her side. The idea of sharing the truth was so appealing it made her head spin. She opened her mouth, already anticipating the relief she’d feel when the burden was no longer hers alone, and realized she couldn’t take the risk.

  If word got out before she knew what direction to take the company in or how to get it there, there could be a panic from which Ballantyne might never recover.

  Miranda licked her lips and swallowed back her confession. Then she looked down at her watch in a gesture of dismissal no one could misinterpret. “I’m just trying to take care of some things Tom’s been too preoccupied to deal with,” Miranda said, being very careful not to mention that it was dressing up in lingerie and stealing money that had distracted her husband from his job. “And I’ve invited members of the Ladies’ Guild to my home Friday night to serve as a, um, a kind of focus group. I’d like you to be there to take notes.”

  “Sure.” Carly stood and turned to leave. As she whirled around, her things got tangled up in her purse strap and flew out of her arms. A sketch pad bounced off the top of the desk and landed on the floor, its pages exposed. They both bent to pick it up at the same time.

  Carly flushed as they each grabbed a corner and pulled. The top pages came free and scattered across the floor.

  Miranda looked at the drawings that covered the sheets of paper. Surprised, she looked up at the other woman. “Where did you get these?”

  The assistant swallowed. “I drew them.”

  “What are they?”

  “Bras.”

  “Yes, I can see that,” Miranda responded dryly. “But why are you drawing pictures of them?”

  “Because I want to be a designer.” Carly raised her chin
a notch as if expecting laughter, but Miranda could barely take her eyes off the drawings.

  “I’ve been studying in my free time with Myrna. And I’m also learning CAD—you know, computer-aided design. But I do better sketching by hand like Myrna does.”

  “And these are?” Miranda asked.

  Carly stepped closer. “Drawings of a bra I designed for myself.” She blushed again. “I’m petite but busty. Off-the-rack stuff doesn’t work that well for me.”

  Miranda took the pad and flipped through the rest of the sketches. “What about this?”

  “Well, Anna in marketing saw what I’d designed for myself and asked if I could design something for her. She wanted a different kind of cup and she likes the padded satin strap instead of the normal elastic strap.”

  “Have you had any of this costed out?” Miranda asked.

  “No, but Myrna said it shouldn’t be too expensive. I mean we already have all the pieces, you know? I’m just combining them in different ways.”

  Miranda handed the drawings back to Carly. She and the women in her family had always had custom bras. It was one of the perks of being in the business. But she’d never really stopped and thought about how other women got the right style and fit.

  Miranda picked up her purse and a stack of folders from the desk and walked out of the office with Carly while the seed of an idea took root in her brain.

  On her way home, Miranda stopped at Ling Pow’s to pick up her takeout order. The restaurant was mobbed, and after squeezing through the front door, she began to maneuver her way toward the cash register. There she waited next to the fish tank, her gaze drawn to one unhealthy-looking fellow who seemed to be floating on his side, until Ling Pow himself beckoned her forward.

  “Ah, Missy Smith. So sorry. I don’t see your ticket here.”

  Miranda’s stomach gave a growl of protest. She was tired and hungry and in no mood for crowds. “How long will it take if you start it now?”