by Wendy Wax
“This is ridiculous!” she shouted.
“Yeah!” He yanked her closer and increased his speed. “But I hate to lose. Let’s move!”
His arm was a vise on her shoulder; she rammed against his rock-hard edges with every step.
The other couple rounded the end marker and began to head back.
“Ow!” She yelped as Blake’s hip rammed into her waist and all five of his fingers dug into her upper arm.
“Can’t you move any faster?” he asked.
“Good grief.” Their thighs knocked as they half walked, half skipped toward the turnaround point. They’d been left in the dust, but had finally managed to find some semblance of a rhythm. She slipped her arm around his waist and held on.
“This race is starting to remind me of our relationship.”
“What relationship?” She shouted as her foot dipped into a hole and her knee buckled beneath her.
Blake hauled her up tighter against his side and lengthened their stride.
“We’ve spent the night together twice and we argue a lot,” she pointed out. “Last time I checked, that was not the foundation for a relationship.”
The couple who’d been about to pass them slowed down to listen. Blake kicked up their pace a notch and they shot past them.
“Don’t be stupid, Miranda. We have enough chemistry to blow up a small country. You don’t walk away from something like that.”
“I’d be happy to walk at all.”
They were skipping toward the finish line now; he’d given her absolutely no choice about that. But she was not going to be led or dictated to. She’d already been there and done that. Testosterone and tingling were not enough.
Miranda dug in her heels and applied the brakes. Through sheer surprise or some law of physics she’d failed to learn in school, she brought them to a screeching halt. Blake shouted in surprise and his body slammed backward into hers. The air whooshed out of her lungs as they crashed to the ground and then tumbled, still joined at the ankle, down the slight incline toward the finish line, where they landed in a much-too-intimate heap.
Enmeshed from the top of their grass-strewn heads to the toes of their tied-together feet, they lay in their own personal pile while something sprang up between them.
Cringing with embarrassment, Miranda lay flush on top of Blake as a crowd gathered around them. She could feel their curious stares on her backside and hear the whir of a motor drive as Clara Bartlett moved in closer to capture the Truro Gazette’s page-one photo.
chapter 28
B lake rolled them onto their sides and reached down to untie the rope around their ankles. Miranda’s breathing was still ragged, and he considered offering mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but he suspected they’d already commandeered enough attention.
“You’re supposed to signal before you stop,” he pointed out as he pulled her to her feet. “I’m pretty sure that’s rule number one in the three-legged race strategy book.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She yanked her hand back and swiped at the seat of her jeans. He considered offering to help with that, too, but her sense of humor seemed to have disappeared when they hit the ground.
The murmuring swelled around them as he followed her out of the circle of onlookers and into the fresh afternoon air.
“Are you all right, Miranda?” Her mother and grandmother claimed places on either side of her and glanced over at Blake suspiciously, as they brushed grass off her clothes and removed twigs from her hair.
“I really don’t think rolling around on the ground with the chief is advisable right now, Miranda,” her mother admonished. “And it’s time to name Ballantyne’s contestant for Miss Rhododendron. Sam sent me to bring you up to the stage.”
Miranda turned back to look at Blake, and he thought for a moment she was going to say something. Instead she bit her lip and hurried toward the stage. Like a massive herd of cattle scenting water, everyone else followed. Andie and her friends formed an excited knot on the far side of the platform, and the older folks left the tent to mill around beside them. The relay contestants surged forward, too, many of them still chewing over the spectacle of Miranda rolling in the grass with the chief of police, and there was an edge to their muttering that Blake didn’t care for one bit. Concerned, he elbowed his way forward and took a position in front of the stage where he could spring into action if necessary.
The music ended as Miranda stepped up to the microphone. A light breeze off the lake teased at the stray tendrils of dark hair on her neck, and her nose looked red from an afternoon in the sun. A large grass stain covered the right breast of her white Ballantyne T-shirt. Only the slight flutter of the sheet of paper in her hand betrayed her nervousness as she waited for the talk to die down.
He watched her carefully, even as he monitored the whispering behind him. Her gaze rested on him briefly and then swept across the crowd toward Andie. Blake braced himself and felt a faint glimmer of unease.
“Thank you all for coming today. We hope you’re having a good time,” Miranda said into the microphone.
There was a groundswell of applause and shouts of “Best one ever” and “Let’s hear it for Ballantyne,” but there was grumbling, too, and an undercurrent of negativity that had Blake scanning the crowd.
“So,” Miranda said. “The time has come to announce the name of the young woman Ballantyne will sponsor in this year’s Miss Rhododendron Pageant, which as you know takes place in August.” She nodded to Sam, and the Mountain Men broke into the opening chords of “Pretty Woman.”
Miranda waited for the song to get established, then she looked directly at Blake and said, “This year, Ballantyne Bras will be sponsoring a talented and multifaceted young woman. It was a difficult decision, one the selection committee devoted a lot of time and thought to.” She paused. “I’m pleased to announce that this year’s contestant is . . . Andrea Summers. Come on up here, Andie, and accept your applause.”
Girls shrieked, not all of them with pleasure. His daughter stood in a circle of shouting teenage girls who were jumping up and down around her like the working parts of a washing machine. Jake Hanson gave Andie a brilliant smile as she made her way up onto the stage.
As he’d been forced to admit at the ball, she looked just like the dog-eared pictures Blake had of his mother. She had the same sleek blond hair, the same bright blue eyes, the same elegant cheekbones. He’d been trying to deny the resemblance since Andie’s childhood, had almost managed to obscure it by turning her into a boy. But there it was, staring right at him.
Andie threw her arms around Miranda and then stepped up to the microphone. His daughter was beautiful; Miranda had been right about that. And as he listened to his daughter speak, he acknowledged that she was a lot more than that. Unlike his mother, her beauty ran deep beneath the surface.
“I’m honored and thrilled to be given this opportunity to represent Ballantyne and Truro.” She looked directly at Blake, and her smile was so full of promise that it broke his heart. “I promise ya’ll I’m going for a full-court press on this. And I promise my father I won’t break any more bones while I’m at it.”
Mary Louise stood to the side of the stage trying to smile through her tears. Her mother looked mad enough to eat nails. “Don’t you worry, Mary Louise,” she said loudly enough to be heard. “We can all see what kind of favoritism is going on here. It doesn’t hurt to have a relative on close and personal terms with the sponsor, now, does it?”
Miranda fixed the woman with a stare as Andie walked off the stage. Blake moved closer and prepared to step into the fray if necessary.
“Well, Miranda Smith knows about beauty pageants all right,” someone shouted. “But why is she making so many changes at Ballantyne?”
There was a more pronounced murmuring in the crowd, and people started to surge toward the stage. Blake glanced up to see how Miranda was handling things and saw that her hands were clenched at her sides, just like his, and her gaze was steady. He fe
lt a burst of pride as he watched her stand her ground.
Most people saw the beautiful package and never bothered to untie the bow and look inside. Which was pretty much what he had been doing right up until the moment she’d told him to take a hike.
He looked now at the real Miranda, not at the dark hair and the green eyes he liked so much, or the long legs and lithe body. Those were nice, more than nice. But they were nothing compared to what lay inside; like his daughter, she was so much more than he’d given her credit for.
Their eyes met and he recognized, clearly, who she was and what she was made of. And realized just how much he wanted to walk up there and tell her so.
He wanted Miranda to resign as president of the Truro Man Haters’ Club and give whatever was between them a chance. Because he cared for her, cared deeply. Might even be in love with her. He could just imagine what she’d have to say about that.
From the stage, Miranda studied the employees and townspeople before her. “You’re right,” she said clearly into the microphone. “There have been a lot of changes. They were made to preserve our company. And the jobs it provides here in Truro.”
There were a few cheers but the grumbling continued. She saw Blake step closer to the stage, and for a mad minute she thought he was planning to rush it and—what? Take her in his arms? Declare his love? She must have hit her head harder than she’d realized during the three-legged race, because her imagination was running wild. Not at all appropriate for a woman who had sworn off men, and this man in particular.
Her mother stepped up onto the stage beside her. Her mother, Miranda thought, had come a hell of a long way. Then her father was there, too.
“What happened to Tom Smith? Why isn’t anyone being held responsible for his death?” The words were hurled at the stage.
“The chief is covering up for her,” someone else shouted. “In this town, Ballantynes can get away with anything.” There was a pause. “Even murder.”
Clara Bartlett scribbled madly, clearly intent on capturing every word for the Truro Gazette.
“Oh, pshaw.” Gran climbed up the stage steps and elbowed her way toward the microphone. Gus clambered up behind her.
Miranda looked down into the crowd. The only one not on the stage was . . .
“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 nowhere 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 t
he 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.