by Wendy Wax
She saw Carly’s surprise, but she couldn’t seem to stop the flow of words. This woman had captured the essence of her idea on these torn-out pages so that it was no longer a vague and abstract thing. If Carly Tarleton could draw it, surely she, Miranda, could make it happen.
Her words came out so quickly she was practically tripping over them. “We’re going to design a whole boatload of options. We are going to revolutionize the bra-buying experience for our customers so that all any woman has to do is make her choices. This strap with that cup, with this closure—” She pointed to the drawings. “In one of twenty fabrics. And then . . . then we’re going to custom-fit it to her body. And then we’re going to sew it for her—by hand, right here in Truro.”
“But—”
“Imagine it, Carly. Right now bras are necessary evils. Women wear them because they have to. They don’t feel good and they don’t always do the job they’re supposed to. I’m going to change that.”
The possibility hummed inside her. She could see it so clearly now, and for some reason she couldn’t explain, she needed Carly to see it, too. “I’m going to make each Ballantyne bra the perfect combination of support, comfort, and fit for the woman who wears it. It will be the one item of underclothing a woman is prepared to pay top dollar for—because it will be and do exactly what she wants it to.”
“You’re going to do this?”
Miranda nodded.
“But what about the Board?” Carly paused, and Miranda knew what was coming next. “What about Mr. Smith? What’s he going to say when he comes back and sees what you’re doing?”
Miranda looked Carly Tarleton in the eye.
Carly looked back, and Miranda could almost see the questions forming in her mind. “Where is Mr. Smith and when is he coming back?” she asked.
Miranda swallowed.
“He isn’t in China, is he?”
There was a silence while they stared at each other, taking each other’s measure.
“He could be,” Miranda said carefully. She paused, uncertain whether to continue, then plunged ahead. “Or he could be on the North Pole.” She hesitated again. “Or in the next town.” It wasn’t exactly a conscious decision, but before she knew it she was spilling out the whole ugly truth. “I have absolutely no clue where he is . . . where he’s been . . . or where he might be planning to go.”
It sounded so bizarre she could hardly believe it herself. And yet she felt incredible relief at finally speaking the horrible truth out loud, and a paralyzing fear that she had spoken it to the wrong person. “He left for work on the morning of January eighth, and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
“But that was more than a month ago.” Carly’s voice was incredulous.
Miranda nodded again.
“Did he take anything with him?”
“All of his clothes and most of our money. He left me a note saying he wasn’t coming back.”
The blue eyes got even wider, wider than Miranda would have thought it was possible for eyes to get. And all she could think was, Oh, God, don’t let her panic. And please don’t let her tell anyone.
Barely breathing, Miranda waited for Carly Tarleton’s reaction. She braced herself for horror, imagined she might see fear, hoped she wouldn’t get pity.
But the younger woman’s smile was lopsided and her tone wry as she said, “I guess this wouldn’t be the time to talk about the promotion I was promised.”
The air whooshed out of Miranda’s lungs, and she knew her own smile was filled with relief. “If we don’t take this idea and make it work, Carly, getting a promotion will be the least of your worries.”
At home that night, Miranda wrote a check for fifteen thousand dollars and signed the retainer agreement Dana Houseman’s office had sent. After slipping them in the return envelope, she booted up her laptop and logged onto Tom’s AOL account so that “he” could inform his staff of his confidence in his wife’s ability to lead Ballantyne Bras on its newly discovered path.
She fired off E-mails to Myrna Talbot in Design and Todd Holmes in Production, spending a good bit of time trying to imitate Tom’s terser communication style. Briefer messages went to Human Resources and Shipping and Delivery. When her fingers stilled on the keyboard, she noticed the silence around her. As always when things got quiet, her mind worried at the question that wouldn’t go away. Where was Tom? Was he living happily somewhere on the other side of the world with a new woman, new friends, new interests, and new lingerie? Was he really on a beach as she’d pictured him, or somewhere farther north where he’d light a fire and bundle up with someone else?
How strange that someone she’d loved could rip her and her world out of his so completely. Was she so unimportant, so unmemorable that Tom could waltz off without a backward glance?
She logged off the computer, checked to be sure she’d locked the front door, and wandered the darkened house.
In the bare dining room, memories of their first Thanksgiving and Christmas assailed her. She could see herself and Tom hosting those first holiday meals in their brand-new home, remembered that surprising sense of acting like grown-ups, when in fact they’d been excited children.
Moving into Tom’s empty office, she relived her disastrous stamp search and all that she had discovered since. Tom’s collection of antique rifles no longer filled the far wall, but her only regret about that was that she hadn’t had a chance to use one on him before she sent them to auction.
The office was a large, well-lit space, and as she imagined it redone to suit her taste, another truth hit her. Even if Tom reappeared tomorrow, they could never go back. She had hired a divorce attorney and once Tom was found she’d be a divorcée. There was no reason to leave this, or any other room, as it was. She could redecorate the whole damn house in hot pink and lime green if she chose—assuming she could do so without money.
Snapping off the office light, Miranda went up the stairs and past the now empty guest room. Too tired to bother with the creams and moisturizing oils she’d applied so meticulously in her previous life, Miranda washed her face and brushed her teeth quickly before sliding into bed, which she was surprised to note no longer felt too big or too empty.
“’Til death do us part” had been replaced by “Until things get tough,” and while she was debunking myths and fantasies, it appeared that real men not only ate quiche, some of them also wore women’s undies.
Staring up into the dark, she focused on plotting out her immediate future. She needed to keep Tom’s disappearance under wraps until she’d won Board authorization and had Ballantyne on the road to her vision of recovery. She felt the flutter of excitement the custom-bra idea produced, and she vowed anew to make it happen.
Once she had Ballantyne on its feet, she’d deal with Tom and whatever that entailed. She shuddered as she imagined her rejection and abandonment reduced to fodder for Clara Bartlett’s column, but she really didn’t have much choice. Tom Smith had stopped being her husband the day he left her, if not before. The only thing she wanted from him now was her freedom.
Carly was hanging up the phone the next morning when Miranda arrived at Ballantyne. She had a strange expression on her face and looked quickly over her shoulder, clearly afraid of being overheard.
Miranda looked over her shoulder, too, though she wasn’t sure what she was checking for. Everything looked like it usually did at eight-thirty on a weekday morning except Carly, who appeared ready to vibrate right out of her skin.
“Are you all right?” Miranda asked.
“I don’t know.” Carly looked over her shoulder again and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Guess what?”
Miranda leaned in closer, matching her hushed tones. “What?”
“I heard from Mr. Smith today.”
Miranda’s gaze swung to the phone. “He called?” She tried to gather her thoughts, but her head was spinning. “And you hung up?”
“No, not the phone. I got an E-mail. He wrote that he finally got to a
n Internet café in,” she looked down at the sheet of paper in her hand, “Shen . . .”
“. . . zen,” Miranda finished.
“Oh.” Carly looked at Miranda, confused. “Did you get one too?”
“No, but almost everyone else did.” She gave Carly a meaningful look. “I believe yours read, ‘My wife tells me you’re indispensable. Thanks for—’”
“Oh!” Carly said as realization dawned. “You mean you . . .”
Miranda nodded. “I thought it would be good for morale if everyone knew Tom was behind me.”
Carly looked impressed. “Gee, that’s a nice touch. I mean, I knew, and I still thought . . . Did you say everybody got one?”
“Miranda?” Helen St. James strode toward them, murder in her eye.
“Not exactly.” Miranda winked at Carly.
The bookkeeper came to a stop in front of them, her attention focused squarely on Miranda. “I heard that Mr. Smith e-mailed, and I don’t understand why I didn’t get one. I want my E-mail account checked.”
Carly backed toward her desk. Miranda headed to her office, Helen right behind her.
“You didn’t get an E-mail?” She tried to look regretful. “I told him you were hoping to hear from him the last time he called.”
The bookkeeper fell back a step.
Miranda was getting ready to dismiss the woman when the intercom buzzed.
“Yes, Carly?”
“Mr. Smith’s on line two.”
It was Miranda’s turn to fall back a step. Helen’s head jerked up as if she’d been slapped. Miranda knew the feeling.
“Um, okay,” she said to Carly.
After a long moment the assistant buzzed back. “Mrs. Smith?”
“Um-hmm?”
“If you want to speak to him you need to pick up.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.” She lifted the receiver to her ear and sank down into the desk chair. Helen watched as if she were contemplating leaping over the desk and wrestling the phone out of Miranda’s grasp. Given how hard Miranda’s hands were sweating, she doubted she’d offer much of a challenge.
Miranda cleared her throat and spoke into the phone. “Hello?”
There was a delay during which she and Helen St. James studied each other warily.
“It’s me.” Carly’s voice whispered. “I thought a phone call might kind of reinforce the E-mail thing. Does Helen look really freaked out?”
The bookkeeper was practically sitting on her hands.
“Yes. Definitely.” Miranda sat back and crossed her legs. “So, um, where are you calling from?”
“The supply closet.”
Miranda bit back a laugh. “I see.”
“It’s a mess in here. Somebody really should—”
“That’s great.” Miranda plastered a smile on her face. “I miss you too, sweetheart.” She considered putting her feet up on the desk, but decided that would be overkill. “So, what did you think about the . . . um . . . sketches I e-mailed you?”
Helen St. James leaned forward in her chair while Carly waxed eloquent about the sketches.
“Really?” Miranda laughed gaily and snuck a look at Helen. “Yes, me, too, darling. But you need to put your mind back on business.” She giggled.
Helen St. James frowned and sat back.
“Does she have that pursed-lip thing going, like she swallowed lemons?” Carly asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Good. And by the way, those sketches were obviously drawn by someone with real design talent. I think we should give whoever that is the promotion they were promised and a big fat raise.”
“Do you really think so?” Miranda asked sweetly.
“You know I do!”
“Well, I’ll keep the idea in mind.”
Miranda heard a knock and the rattle of a doorknob through the receiver.
“Uh-oh,” Carly hissed. “Hold on!”
“All right.” Miranda smothered her smile. “I love you, too.”
Helen jumped to her feet and crossed to the desk. “But I need to speak to—”
Through the receiver Miranda heard the scrape of metal and Carly saying, “I think I can reach that with the ladder.”
Then she heard Carly shriek, and there was a loud thud, followed by the sound of the phone clattering to the floor.
“Is everything all right there?” Miranda asked cautiously.
No response.
“Um . . . Tom?”
Muttering, the scrape of metal, and the sound of footsteps resounded in the background. The receiver clattered on the floor again and then got picked up.
“Hello?” Miranda said. “Tom?”
Carly came back on the line full voice. “Phew, I thought she’d never leave.”
“Yes, dear, me too,” Miranda cooed while the bookkeeper’s face turned a very deep red. “Helen’s here and she wants to speak to you.”
And then, because she was only human and every instinct she possessed told her Helen St. James had been having an affair with her husband and continued to do her best to thwart her at every turn, Miranda puckered her lips and made really sickening smooching noises into the phone.
“Yes, darling,” she added in a distinct simper. “I’ll tell her you’ll speak to her another time. I know we’ll talk again soon.”
Without a word, the bookkeeper turned and left the office, closing the door none too gently behind her.
“Yeah,” Carly said on the other end of the line. “I think we should definitely talk again. But next time I’m calling from somewhere I won’t need to climb a ladder, and I plan to hold you to that raise.”
Miranda laughed into the receiver, well pleased with their unplanned charade. “Whatever you say, sweetums. I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed the call.”
And then she hung up, reflecting that revenge, however small and petty, could be very sweet indeed.
chapter 13
T elling himself it had nothing to do with the ever-present memory of Miranda Smith in those gray sweats, Blake kicked Operation Bad Penny into high gear. At every opportunity—and in a town the size of Truro the opportunities were plentiful—he simply made it his business to run into her.
He gave up his usual spot at the counter for a table next to hers at the Dogwood; had his already spotless cruiser washed so he could chat her up in the waiting room of the E-Z-Suds Car Wash, and got Gus and himself and Andie invited to Sunday dinner at Cynthia Richards’s.
Today he’d trailed her to Truro’s answer to Starbucks, Hyram’s House of Coffee. With a spring in his step and a double latte in his hand, Blake walked over to Miranda’s table.
She looked up from her coffee as he approached and the green eyes became hooded. And then combative. Who would have thought being annoying could be this much fun?
“Ah,” she said, “if it isn’t my new shadow.”
“May I?” He nodded to the vacant seat.
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll sit over there.” He pointed to the next table, less than a foot away. “No harm done.”
With a snort of resignation she motioned him to join her. “I don’t know what you hope to achieve by tailing me around Truro like this. People are starting to talk.” She nodded toward the group of ladies watching from a corner table.
“They were talking long before I arrived.”
“Oh?”
“Oh, yeah.” He whipped out his notepad. “Would you like to hear some of what they’re saying?”
She blinked. “You’ve been taking notes?”
He smiled. “I take my responsibilities very seriously.”
Miranda took a sip of her coffee. “Read away,” she finally said. Her expression was unconcerned, but the set of her shoulders and grim line of her lips told him otherwise.
“Well,” he said earnestly as Hyram poured Miranda another cup of coffee and then retreated, “there are opposing theories. For example, Jewel down at the Dogwood thinks Tom’s staying away as a kind of trial separatio
n.”
Her mouth dropped open.
“Because as Enid over at Chez Nous said, and I quote, ‘No man goes off on a business trip for over a month if his marriage is healthy. No, sirree.’ And of course Suzanne—she does nails there—pointed out that you could have gone with him, if you’d had a mind to.”
“You went to the beauty salon and asked people’s opinions? About me?” Her tone dripped disbelief.
“Well, it wasn’t a formal survey or anything. I just went in for a trim and the subject happened to come up.” He grinned. “What do you think?” He ran a hand through his newly layered hair. “I like it, but I’m not sure it was worth the extra ten bucks.”
A tic appeared in her cheek. He flipped through the notepad again, wondering what it would take to make her lose control completely. “Yep,” he said. “Most everybody’s going with marital problems. Except Grace at the Piggly Wiggly. She’s kind of hoping Tom went over to bring back one of those international orphans.”
Miranda choked on her coffee and Blake waited until he was sure she didn’t need a clap on the back. Or mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.
She looked as if smoke might come out of her ears at any moment, so he didn’t mention that some folks thought Tom had been fooling around for some time. Or that he’d claimed it was Miranda’s fault they didn’t have children.
The more he heard about Tom Smith the less he liked him, which was the direct opposite of how he felt about Miranda. “Quite a few people thought you’d be better off if Tom didn’t come back at all.” He looked her in the eye. “And one or two of them pointed out you haven’t exactly been going around town boo-hooing for him to come home.”
“Why, of all the—”
“Of course, I’ve still got that anonymous caller who insists you’ve done Tom in and buried his body somewhere so you could take over Ballantyne.” For some reason he didn’t understand, he didn’t add that the caller had also claimed to be having an affair with Tom.
“I wouldn’t have to kill him to do that,” she said. “The company’s not called Ballantyne for nothing.”