by Wendy Wax
Blake froze. Once again, he’d rather teach a course in stamens and pistils than delve into his relationship—or lack of one—with Miranda.
“You like her, don’t you?”
“Um, yes, she’s very nice.”
“No, I mean like her, like her. The way I like Jake.”
“Well, now, I—”
He looked around, but there were no holes in the gym floor to crawl into, then gave her a minute to accept the fact that he wasn’t going to answer. “So,” he said by way of transition. “Have you asked someone else to be your escort for the ball?”
“No.”
“I’m sure there are lots of boys who’d like to go with you.” He’d finally accepted the idea of her going with a boy. He just wanted that boy to be short and homely and totally lacking in social skills. The direct antithesis of Jake Hanson would be about right. A eunuch would be perfect.
“Grandpa offered, but I think Mrs. Richards already invited him.”
“I’d be happy to escort you, sweetheart. I haven’t been to a dance in a while, but I think I still remember how to shag.”
Andie rolled her eyes, but at least he’d made her smile. “Only old farts do the shag, Daddy. If you’re going to come with me, you absolutely cannot dance.”
Blake stood and offered Andie his arm. “Gus and I will take you shopping for a dress. Then we’ll be quite the elegant couple,” he said with a straight face. “And you don’t have to worry about me not having the right clothes. I’m pretty sure I still have the blue velvet tux I wore to my high school prom.”
Now that Miranda actually wanted to run into him, Blake Summers was nowhere to be found. She looked for him at Hyram’s and at the counter of the Dogwood, but he was either avoiding her or visiting another planet. She tried to tell herself that what they’d shared was just sex, a much-needed weekend of R&R, but she was not feeling at all good about her impact on men.
Perhaps not too surprisingly, Blake appeared as soon as she stopped looking for him. It was the Thursday evening before the Guild Ball, and Miranda and the members of the decorating committee were in the process of turning the Masons’ Hall into a full-fledged faux garden. Green indoor/outdoor carpet had been laid and wrought-iron fencing used to create flower beds around the perimeter of the room.
One minute she was sorting clay pots for the planned terrace; the next she was staring into Blake Summers’s face. Andie stood next to him.
It was embarrassing the way just being near him made her heart pound. She’d replayed their night together so many times that seeing him clothed came as something of a surprise.
“Look, Mrs. Smith.” Andie held out her right arm and raised her sleeve. Her hand and lower arm were unnaturally white, but they were no longer covered in bright orange.
“You got your cast off. That’s so great.”
“Yeah.” Andie flexed her fingers and smiled. “It was getting awfully itchy in there. I’m glad to have my hand back.”
“Congratulations.” She kept her gaze locked on Andie, but every ounce of her being was aware of Blake. “Why don’t you help—”
“Someone else,” Blake cut in smoothly. Taking Andie by the shoulders, he turned her toward the group of girls on the far side of the room and gave her a gentle push.
He took a step toward Miranda and the rest of the room receded. He was standing so close she could smell the woodsy scent of his aftershave. A flush of heat shot up her neck and stained her cheeks. Only he could do this to her.
“I’ve been trying to find Tom,” he said.
“Oh.” She braced herself to hear that her husband was shacked up with some woman on the other side of the world, or modeling women’s underwear for an underground fashion magazine. Or that Blake had already forgotten about their weekend at the Ritz.
“I promised myself I was going to stay away from you until I found him, but the man seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.”
“Oh.” She looked up into his blue eyes.
“In fact, there’s no evidence that he ever left the country. I can’t find him on an airline manifest anytime in January. And given the amount of money he had apparently taken out of your joint accounts, he could have bought a whole slew of airline tickets.”
Miranda winced.
“You know, you could have actually told me things instead of forcing me to find everything out myself. I shudder to think what else you might have decided wasn’t important enough to mention.”
“Could he have just driven somewhere?” Miranda did not want to discuss her sins of omission; she was teetering between relief that Blake had not taken their weekend lightly and confusion over what so much difficulty in finding Tom might mean. So far, Harrison Maples hadn’t fared any better. “I saw a story about a man who had two wives and two separate families living within a twenty-mile radius of each other.” Her stomach twisted into a knot. It was bad enough knowing Tom had probably fooled around with Helen St. James. What if he had another wife somewhere? She swallowed. What if he had a child?
“I don’t know, Miranda. But something definitely doesn’t feel right. I’ve filed a missing persons report and I’ve entered him into the National Crime Center computer. If it was his intention to disappear, he’s done a hell of a job of it.”
Miranda’s brain raced. Legally, she could file even if they couldn’t find Tom or serve him with papers, but she’d feel a lot better if she could look Tom in the eye and ask what had happened. Divorcing someone you couldn’t find felt an awful lot like winning because the other team had to forfeit; you got what you wanted, but without the satisfaction of beating your opponent.
Blake looked down at her and Miranda felt the intensity of his gaze ripple through her. “I’m going to talk to the PI you hired and see if we can’t work this between us. This staying away from you is not going to cut it. I want you free and available.” He leaned in closer. “And I wouldn’t mind naked, either.”
Miranda felt a thrill shoot through her. It was almost enough to make her forget that just two nights from now she was going to walk up on that stage, sit in the throne they were moving into position, and rule over the faux palace garden they were creating. Alone. She could have refused the crown and the throne, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to back down.
“You are going to let Andie come get dressed for the ball with me, aren’t you?” she asked now. “At the moment it’s the only potential bright spot on Saturday’s humiliating horizon.”
Andie’s new ball dress lay in the center of Miranda’s king-size bed. Miranda circled it slowly while Andie looked on anxiously.
“Okay,” Miranda finally said. “It’s, it’s . . . interesting.” She thought about the perfect ball dress hanging in her closet and wished she could give it to Andie right now. But she couldn’t do that to the two men who had braved three junior departments in their quest for the perfect gown. Blake and Gus had beaten her to the punch and this was the unfortunate result.
“It’s got so many flowers.” Andie worried her lip between her teeth. “And doodads.”
That it did. Miranda narrowed her eyes, trying to imagine the dress without all the distractions.
“I know they meant well, and I don’t want to hurt their feelings,” Andie said. “But . . .”
“It’s not what you were hoping for.”
“No. It was so frustrating. Every time I liked a dress, one of them found something wrong with it.”
Miranda murmured sympathetically, but her mind was on the dress. Andie was right; it definitely had too much . . . stuff.
“The black ones were too sophisticated. The strapless ones were ‘asking for trouble.’” She mimicked Blake’s voice so perfectly, Miranda had to laugh.
“Then they had this loud debate in the middle of Dillard’s dress department about whether I should be allowed to dance with a boy if one actually asked me. I wanted to die.”
Miranda nodded in sympathy.
“This was the only one they could agree on. And that’s becau
se it looks like it was designed for a ten-year-old.” Andie groaned. “I mean, look at it. Give me a bonnet and cane and I can lead a flock of sheep.”
Miranda looked. The dress had two very distinct parts. The undergown was a sleeveless floor-length sheath made out of an ice blue taffeta that would set off Andie’s blue eyes and blond coloring to perfection. The sheath was simple and elegant, with spaghetti straps and a scooped neckline—not all that different in line from the dress Miranda had chosen for her. The overdress was a disaster.
“Here.” Miranda scooped the dress off the bed and placed it in Andie’s arms. “Go put it on. I have an idea.”
They stood side by side in front of the full-length mirror.
“Oh, God,” the girl wailed. “I look like an FTD bouquet.”
“There are a lot of flowers,” Miranda agreed. In fact the chiffon overdress, which covered every scrap of skin the gown left bare, was covered in them. A row of ice blue bows circled her hips and held the chiffon in place. When Andie raised her arms the bell sleeves made her look like she was doing a Dracula impression.
“Picture it without the chiffon,” Miranda said.
“What?”
“The blue taffeta underneath is beautiful. It’s just right for your figure. If we removed the floral chiffon . . .”
“Can you do that?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“So I’d still be wearing the dress my dad bought me.”
“Technically . . . yes.”
“Is it complicated?” Hope shone in Andie’s eyes; Miranda would have sewn a new gown from scratch to keep it there.
“No. All I have to do is remove the bows, they’re what’s holding the chiffon in place. I don’t think we’ll miss them, do you?”
“Nope.”
“And I can cut a big rectangle out of the chiffon and stitch it around the edges to make a wrap.”
“Awesome.”
Fifteen minutes later the overdress had been surgically removed, and Andie stood in front of the mirror in the taffeta sheath. The dress clung to her slim figure, and its thin straps emphasized the graceful slope of her shoulders and the long column of her neck.
Miranda took the chiffon overdress into her sewing room and came back ten minutes later with Andie’s new wrap. Slipping it around the girl’s shoulders, she showed her how to twine it through her arms for a careless look.
“Is that really me?” Andie breathed.
“It most certainly is. And we’re just warming up. We have appointments at Chez Nous for hair and nails. Then we’re going to come back here, put on fresh faces, and suit up. I’ll let your dad know you’ll meet him there.”
Andie brightened further. “Once I’m at the ball it’ll be too late for him to try to change anything.”
“Now you’re getting the idea,” Miranda said. She waited for Andie to change back into street clothes and then slipped her arm companionably around the girl’s waist. “When you’re dealing with the opposite sex, sometimes it’s smarter to maneuver around their defenses instead of trying to plow through them. There’s less bloodletting that way.”
By 5:00 P.M. they were back at Miranda’s, coiffed, buffed, and ready to apply the finishing touches. Showered and gowned, they giggled in front of the lighted mirror while Miranda did Andie’s makeup, carefully explaining each item as she applied it—thoroughly enjoying passing on the knowledge gleaned in front of decades of lighted mirrors. The girl’s cheeks already glowed from their outing, and her blue eyes shone with excitement. Miranda kept the painting to a minimum, simply blending and highlighting so that her natural assets stood out. Then she brought out the necklace and earrings she’d bought for Andie in the Atlanta boutique and helped her put them on.
“Oh . . . my . . . gosh,” Andie breathed when Miranda pronounced her done. “Is that really me?” she asked again.
“It is.” Miranda slipped into a black strapless gown and fastened diamond studs at her ears, but her own appearance seemed unimportant compared to the transformation she’d wrought in Andie. For her, the evening was a trial to be gotten through, one more test of her newfound resolve.
“You are absolutely beautiful.” Miranda smiled. “And I sincerely hope your father’s going to forgive me for it.”
chapter 23
M iranda stood between her mother and grandmother in the Guild Ball receiving line, taking the shots aimed her way and smiling so brightly she was afraid her face might crack.
“Thank you, yes, the hall really does look like a garden, doesn’t it?” she agreed for the hundredth time, happy to be telling the truth about something. With stage lighting that included an overhead projection of the night sky and painted backdrops courtesy of the Truro Theatre Company, the room had been transformed. A faux-brick patio with a container garden served as a second stage for the band, and Grecian columns and statuary formed a walkway that led to the throne on the center stage. Her Miss Rhododendron crown sat on a gilded table beside it.
If she didn’t know that in a matter of minutes she was going to have to ascend the steps to that throne and become the first Guild Queen since the husband-flattening Adrian Wright to do so without a king by her side, Miranda would have been relishing the ball’s success.
“Hello, Button.” Her father kissed her on the cheek and squeezed her hand in his. “You’ve done a wonderful job. As always.” He held her hand and looked her in the eye. “The three of you took me by surprise at the meeting last week, but I was very proud of you.” He glanced at his wife, who was chatting with a guest to Miranda’s left. “I don’t know what’s come over your mother, but I kind of like it.” He gave her hand a final squeeze. “I’m here if you need me, and . . . well, your mother told me ‘Button’ probably wasn’t the best nickname for the president of the company. I guess she has a point.”
She bussed her father back on the cheek, touched. “Oh, Daddy, you can call me Button any time you want,” she said with a smile. “As long as you’re voting my way and you keep taking care of yourself. I’m counting on you to be around for a long time to come.”
Her father moved on to her mother and she saw them lean toward each other and kiss. Watching them, she offered up a prayer that one day someone would love her like that. She thought, as she did too often lately, of Blake Summers, then pushed the thought away. When her gaze strayed to the crowd in search of him, she chided herself and pulled it back.
The receiving line broke up and Miranda was alone. Around the garden, gowned women and their tuxedo-clad escorts chatted and danced. Vivien Mooney walked up to whisper something to the bandleader, and Miranda knew that the crowning ceremony would begin soon. She was heading toward the ladies’ room to freshen up her makeup when she spotted Blake walking toward her.
He looked magnificent in the black tuxedo and crisply pleated white shirt. As he approached she felt a familiar stir of anticipation that bordered on . . . well, okay, it might have been lust. This man moved her in a way she didn’t understand and was afraid to explore. She was trying not to think about how good he looked without any clothes at all when he came to a halt in front of her. He didn’t speak at first but took her by the arm and propelled her away from the crowd.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m calming down,” he said, although it didn’t look as if that were the case at all. “And I’m telling myself you weren’t just tweaking your nose at me, that there’s a reason for what you did.”
“What in the world are you talking about?” Miranda asked through the public smile that was still plastered on her face.
“I’m talking about my daughter. And that dress.” He ran a hand through his already rumpled hair, then pointed toward the stage. “She looks exactly like my mother. And she has a whole hiveful of boys buzzing around her.”
Andie kept her shoulders back just like Miranda had told her and was very careful not to slouch. She knew from Miranda’s mirror, and the eye-widening that took place every time someone caught sight of her, th
at she had broken through some invisible barrier and taken Truro by surprise. The other girls, who’d been buzzing with self-importance in their juvenile ruffles and bows, fell silent when she approached. The boys looked equally stunned.
Only Jake commented on her transformation. “Wow, Andie,” he said, stepping forward and welcoming her into the group. “You look great.”
“You look pretty good yourself,” she said. And he did, in his simple black rental tux with his dark hair curling just above his broad shoulders. “ML.” She nodded regally, for once feeling that her height was an advantage somewhere other than on the court. The other girl barely reached Jake’s shoulder and wore a pink cap-sleeved dress with an unfortunate ruffle that wound from her waist across her thighs.
Andie was admonishing herself for being so uncharitable, when Steve Carrington and Earlene Johnson arrived. Steve clapped Jake on the shoulder and the couple stepped into place next to Mary Louise.
“Ahchoo!” Mary Louise sneezed, and the massive ruffle quivered.
Earlene leaned across Steve. “Do you need a Kleenex, ML?”
“Ahhhhhchooooo!” Mary Louise doubled over with that one. Earlene fished in her bag for a tissue and ML sneezed again. As a group they watched Mary Louise’s face begin to swell.
“Oh, no!” she wailed. “Is somebody wearing Libido?”
She sniffed and stared at Jake accusingly.
“It’s not me, ML. I gave that bottle away to . . . Jake’s voice trailed off and he winced. “Steve. I didn’t know he was going to be here tonight, or I would have warned him.”
“Ahhhchooo!”
Tears ran down Mary Louise’s cheeks. Andie knew she should feel bad for her, but there’d been a few too many catty remarks to feel truly sympathetic. “Do you want me to look for an antihistamine?” she asked.
Mary Louise’s eyes were starting to disappear into the swollen blob of her face. “No, somebody find my mother. Oh, God, I look like Miss Piggy when this happens.”
“Do you want me to try to find Doc Pritchard?” Jake asked.