Leave it to Cleavage

by Wendy Wax

  “Well . . .”

  Miranda could see Selena’s mental calculator tabulating the pros and cons. It took every shred of self-control she possessed to keep her tone casual. “Oh, come on, Selena,” she said. “Admit it. You haven’t had an opportunity this good since Janice Finch broke out in chicken pox right before the Miss Black-Eyed Pea Pageant.”

  Still Selena hesitated, but Miranda had her fish on the line, and she wasn’t leaving until she’d reeled it in.

  “Ballantyne has been passed down by the women in my family for five generations,” Miranda said. “It’s mine now, and I intend to give other women what they want and need—even if they don’t know what that is yet. And I intend to stand behind every bra we sell.”

  She watched Selena carefully, looking for some sign that the woman was going to cave. Finally the other woman tugged on her right earlobe in a signal of capitulation Miranda remembered well, then leaned across her desk to finger a demiunderwire with an extra-wide elastic strap.

  “I’ll commit to a trial period for our Atlanta stores. But we’re going to have to spend some time hammering out the terms of a broader joint venture. And I need more information on price point and terms of delivery. And how we’ll share the profits.” The other woman looked her in the eye. “Shall I have my attorney call yours?”

  “Yes.” Miranda offered her hand and stood. When you’d gotten what you wanted, it was always best to get up and get out before the other party could reconsider. “Anytime after Wednesday is good.”

  They walked to the front of the store together chatting easily. As they parted company Miranda managed to hold back the whoop of triumph she wanted to send echoing through the mall.

  Looking for a socially acceptable release, she turned and followed her homing instincts toward Saks Fifth Avenue. Vibrating with excitement and relief, she browsed store windows and thought about what would come next. When Blake Summers popped uninvited into her mind she pushed him back out. His daughter was allowed to remain.

  It was in the window of a store called Timeless that she spotted the ball gown. It was clean-lined and elegant and would be absolutely perfect for Andie. She would have loved to put it on hold and bring the girl back to see it, but there was a good chance her mother had already helped her choose something, or that Blake might not like the idea of Miranda being the one to introduce his daughter to the fine art of shopping.

  Still, the dress begged to be bought. So Miranda hurried in, spent a highly enjoyable twenty minutes picking out accessories to go with it, and left with the entire ensemble tucked under her arm.

  There was nothing like a little shopping to cleanse a woman’s soul.

  And nothing like a meeting with your divorce attorney to muck it back up again.

  “I wish I had more to report,” Dana Houseman said later after they’d gone over the marital history Miranda had completed. “But so far we have no strong leads as to your husband’s whereabouts.”

  “But I thought you said we could proceed even without Tom.”

  “We can, but we can’t go to court until we find him and have him served, or prove to the court that we’ve made a diligent effort to find him and have published notice.”

  “And how long do you think that will take?”

  Her attorney shook her head. “That I don’t know. But I do know that Harrison Maples is one of the best PIs in Atlanta. And right now finding your husband is his top priority.”

  On the day of the Ballantyne board meeting, Miranda woke before the alarm. Clad in her flannel pajamas, she stood in front of the mirror and ran through her presentation to the Board from start to finish, anticipating the exact way she’d use her visuals and how she’d place her samples, and coming up with an appropriate counterpoint to every objection they could possibly make. Using all the visualization techniques she’d learned as a pageant contestant, she pictured herself convincing the Board and driving toward her winning outcome.

  When she could put it off no longer, she took a quick shower and dressed, choosing the Armani suit and, for luck, the strand of perfectly matched pearls her grandmother had given her on her eighteenth birthday.

  Too nervous to eat, she poured a cup of coffee into a travel mug and drove to the office. Carly was already at her desk when she arrived.

  “Are you as wired as I am, Boss?”

  “Who, me?” She put a hand to her chest. “Why, I just live to be thrown in front of an audience where I get to tap dance without music while balancing the fate of the free world on my shoulders.”

  Carly smiled.

  “If I pass out or anything, just drag me under the conference table and take over, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Does Helen have the projections?”

  “Yep.”

  “She’s just there for window dressing, Carly. If she starts anything, I want you to put knockout drops in her coffee.”

  “A pleasure, but why wait until she acts up?”

  Miranda laughed, and some of the tension seeped out of her.

  “So about that promotion . . .” Carly began.

  “If we win board approval today, you are Ballantyne’s new assistant designer. Myrna will be kissing my feet. Maybe Lindsey can take over your old job; she’s not afraid of anybody.”

  “Well, she is really good with a crayon.” Carly reached over and smoothed the collar of Miranda’s suit jacket. “You’ll knock ’em dead. They won’t know what hit them. You’ll—”

  “Enough,” Miranda interrupted. “Let’s just pray my mother shows up.” She handed Carly the box of samples and picked up the presentation folders she’d prepared for each board member. “The charts and graphs are already in the conference room, but I’d like to go up now and run through everything one more time. The best defense is a strong offense.”

  By 9:00 A.M. the stage was set, and Miranda stood, her lips turned up in a professional smile, her mouth dry as the Sahara, ready to greet the arriving members of the board. Her father was the first to walk through the door.

  “Hello, Button.” Her father kissed her on the cheek and patted her on the shoulder.

  “Hi, Daddy.” She kissed him back and tried not to wince at his use of her old nickname. “You’re looking great,” she said, relieved to see that it was true. She hoped that would still be the case when the meeting was over.

  Longtime Ballantyne family attorney Reuben Blainsford arrived next. Miranda shook his hand and passed him on to Carly for seating. Reuben’s father had been legal advisor to her own great-grandfather, and he was as fiscally conservative as they came. He’d be most swayed by the numbers and projections, and Miranda was counting on the fact that her plan would require no real retooling or investment to help make up his mind.

  Hartley Mellish, Claymore’s self-proclaimed Chicken King, was next through the door. Having recently sold his chicken-processing plant to Tyson, he understood the necessity of taking risks to earn big rewards. He pumped her hand and then gave her father a hearty clap on the back before taking his seat next to Reuben. Miranda knew better than to count her Chicken King before he hatched, but she fully expected Hartley to see things her way.

  Her grandmother and mother arrived together, and her father’s look of surprise told her he had not been expecting either of them. While Gran occasionally sat in on meetings and received board communication on a regular basis, her mother had been content to leave the business in her husband’s hands—a practice Miranda had also followed until recently. Miranda sent her mother a peacemaking smile and realized just how precarious things were when her mother didn’t return it.

  Helen St. James entered with less fanfare and took the open seat between Carly and Gran. After waiting a few moments for everyone to settle in, Miranda called the meeting to order. While a vote of unanimous support would be wonderful, all she really needed were three of the five. Her mother was the wild card, and although Miranda wanted to take her appearance as a good sign, she wasn’t sure what her mother would do once she u
nderstood what was being proposed.

  It would take all of Miranda’s skills of persuasion to convince this group to follow her lead, especially without giving away the full extent of Tom’s treachery.

  When she had their attention, Miranda began to speak. She called on every scrap of public-speaking experience, gleaned primarily in pageant interviews and on pageant stages, to present her vision for Ballantyne. She spoke for thirty-five minutes, with Carly doing a corporate Vanna White by her side.

  “As we’ve demonstrated,” Miranda concluded, “there will be virtually no capital outlay for retooling or fabrics. Selena Moore Boutiques, which are already located in twenty-one of the most upscale malls in the Southeast, has committed to carrying our new custom line in their four Atlanta stores with plans to be a part of their chain nationwide. All we have to supply are the fitter/trainers and, of course, the end product.”

  She paused. “As you can see from the financials, our bottom line is grim right now. In order to compete in today’s marketplace we have to either take production offshore, which we are committed NOT to do, or radically change our niche in the marketplace. By shifting our focus to hand-sewn custom pieces and redeploying our labor force in new ways, we can build a better, more solvent company.”

  She’d decided not to mention the fake receivables, in the belief that pledging her own assets had alleviated the risk of prosecution. She glanced over at Reuben Blainsford before continuing. “The figures speak for themselves. Our line of credit will see us through the next six months, and because I believe so strongly in the company and what I want it to become, I’ve pledged personal assets to guarantee that line of credit.”

  Her heart hammered in her chest, and her palms were sweaty, but she kept her gaze level and her hand steady as she paused to take a drink of water. She studied each director, trying to get a sense of which way they would vote, but after her impassioned plea, the only clear yes she saw was Gran. Had her effort not to trash Tom prevented her from making them understand the precariousness of the company’s situation? It appeared she was about to find out.

  “Before we call for a vote, are there any questions?” Miranda asked.

  “Where’s Tom?” Hartley Mellish’s question sent Miranda’s heart plummeting to her knees. It was imperative, at least in her mind, that they look forward and not back.

  “Tom has been away for the last several months. The losses we’ve sustained were a direct result of his leadership. I am the acting president of the company and will remain so unless the board sees fit to remove me. My résumé is in the presentation folder. As most of you know, I have an MBA from Emory, which I am at last putting to use.” She smiled ruefully. “And connections to an important retail chain that could be our salvation.”

  “But where’s Mr. Smith?” Helen St. James got her question in before either Gran or Carly could cut her off.

  “It doesn’t matter where he is. He’s not coming back.” She looked the other woman in the eye without flinching. “I think he’s done enough damage already, don’t you?”

  Helen’s lips pressed into a tight line, but not before Miranda saw the hurt in her eyes.

  “I know,” Miranda said softly, surprised by the pity she felt. “We all expected more of him.”

  “So Tom is not in China looking for suppliers?” Her father’s voice was laced with disappointment and disbelief. His were the hardest eyes to meet.

  Miranda shook her head. “No.”

  “So you’ve been lying all along,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

  Miranda felt his disapproval keenly. “I’ve tried to act in the best interests of this company. Ballantyne suffered huge losses under Tom’s leadership, and he left rather than own up to them. I lied to prevent a panic, while I attempted to come up with a viable solution.” She raised her chin. “And I think I’ve done that.”

  “I can’t believe he just dumped all this on you.” Her father shook his head sadly, and Miranda saw his reluctance to accept the truth about the son-in-law he’d treated like a son.

  “Someone I know once taught me to play the hand I was dealt,” she said, offering him a small smile. “That’s what I’ve tried to do.”

  Gran stood. “I’ve heard enough. I move that we accept Miranda’s proposal and put the weight of the Board behind her effort to reinvent Ballantyne.” She looked around the table. “Do I hear a second?”

  There was a long silence while they studied Miranda. It took everything she had not to fidget.

  “I’m sorry.” Reuben shook his shaggy head. “I appreciate your efforts, Miranda, but I’d have to see more numbers to be sure.”

  The Chicken King gave her a smile. “I think Miranda’s done a bang-up job. And if you all aren’t able to see it, I’d be glad to recommend her to the folks at Tyson. I second Cynthia’s motion. And I vote in favor.”

  Miranda nodded her thanks, but she was having a hard time breathing. She needed one more vote in order to proceed, and one of her parents was going to have to give it. Her mother and father studied each other across the table. Try though she might, Miranda couldn’t remember her mother even attending a board meeting before; she’d certainly never taken exception to any business decision her father had ever made.

  Miranda’s hands fisted at her sides. Years of frivolous living flashed before her eyes, and she wished she could take them back. Why hadn’t she taken herself more seriously? If it all fell down around her ears right now, she’d have no one to blame but herself. She drew a shaky breath and silently promised God all kinds of things if only he’d step in and make this turn out okay.

  Her father opened his mouth. “I have to say . . .” he began.

  Miranda closed her eyes. And promised God she’d never ask for anything else—not even a child.

  “I’mgoingtovotemystockmyself.” Her mother’s words came out in a rush, running together so that it took a moment to understand them.

  Miranda’s eyes flew open.

  Her father’s head shot up. “What did you say?”

  Her mother rose slowly then turned to face the man to whom she’d been married for almost forty years. “I said,” she swallowed, “I’m going to vote my stock myself.”

  Shock registered on her father’s face. Hope blossomed in Miranda’s heart.

  “But you’ve never—” he began

  “No, I haven’t,” Joan Ballantyne Harper said sadly. “I’ve always let others play my cards.” A small smile appeared on her lips. “But I think our daughter has taken some really poor cards and turned them into a remarkable hand. And I think it’s time for me to ante up, too.” Her smile grew as she walked around the table and came to stand behind Miranda and her own mother. “I want to put my vote behind Miranda. I believe she’s exactly what Ballantyne needs.”

  Miranda let out a ragged breath and managed not to yelp with happiness. Evidently, even in Truro, Georgia, the occasional miracle still happened.

  Of course, she’d be even more ecstatic if the first person she wanted to tell wasn’t Blake Summers.

  chapter 22

  B lake found Andie sitting on the bleachers in the school gym. She wasn’t exactly crying, but the expression on her face told him she might start any moment. Her cast rested on her right knee, and her gaze was fixed on the far hoop as if she were meditating, or maybe offering up a prayer.

  “Your cast’ll be off soon.”

  “Yeah,” she said without enthusiasm, as Blake climbed the risers and slid in beside her. They stared at the empty court for a few moments in silence, and then Andie said, “I can’t believe I didn’t get to play in the championship game.”

  “They would have had an easier time of it with you, but they managed to squeak by. The scouts’ll be back.”

  They both contemplated that one for a moment.

  “You know,” she finally said, “the fact that I kind of like the whole pageant thing and boys and all doesn’t mean I don’t want to play basketball.”

  He sighed, but ma
naged to remain silent.

  “And just because Jake’s a guy, it doesn’t mean he’s always thinking about his . . . stinger.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  She rolled her eyes, but scooted a little closer. “Why doesn’t my mom want to be with me?”

  Blake ran a hand through his hair and searched for the right words. How did you explain the unexplainable to a fifteen-year-old girl? He’d rather go back over the whole birds and bees thing. “I always hoped she’d explain things to you herself, but I’m not even sure she understands why her work always comes first.” He slipped an arm around Andie’s shoulders and was reminded, yet again, that she was no longer a little girl. “She grew up poor and neglected and got shuttled from relative to relative. She once told me that the only thing that kept her going was her determination to succeed; to prove they were all wrong not to want her.”

  He thought about his own disappointment when he’d realized his wife just didn’t have room inside for anything else. “But no matter how well she does, it’s never enough. And so she works harder and longer.” He shook his head. “It hurts. I know it does. But she does love you. She just has no earthly idea how to show it.”

  Andie blinked back tears. Like she had as a child, she laid her head on his shoulder.

  “You know, my mother left us when I was eight.” Blake thought about his beautiful mother and her prized Rhododendron crown; it was one of the few things she’d taken with her.

  “For a long time I thought I must be pretty unlovable if my own mother didn’t want to stick around. I never wanted you to feel that way.” He placed a kiss on the top of her head. “A lot of people love you very much. Your mother included.”

  The silence became more companionable. After a time, Andie lifted her good hand and swiped at her cheek.

  “I really like Mrs. Smith,” she said.