Leave It to Cleavage (12 page)

Miranda fought back the twinge of regret at the thought of parting with such prized possessions and focused on the sweet feeling of relief.

“Grady Harris,” she said out loud as she went to hunt down his business card, “this is going to be your lucky day.”

Andie finished basketball practice and left school for the short walk home. Lights glowed in the neatly tended houses she passed and smoke curled up from chimneys. Everything was brighter and cleaner here than in Atlanta, and though she’d complained bitterly at first about the slowness with which everything happened in Truro, she’d gotten kind of used to the more relaxed pace and quiet friendliness. Everybody knew your business, but they didn’t rub your nose in it too much. Here she was the chief’s daughter and Gus’s great-grandchild. Her mother called it Hicksville and refused to set foot in it, but Andie kind of liked it here. Not that she planned to mention that to her dad any time soon.

At the corner of Dogwood and Digby she heard someone coming up behind her and turned to see Jake Hanson eating up the sidewalk between them.

“Hey, wait up,” he shouted, and like an imbecile Andie looked all around her. She barely managed to resist pointing at her chest and saying, “Who, me?”

He smiled again when he reached her. “Where ya headed?”

“Home,” she said, only her voice got caught in her throat and it came out sounding more like “om.” “I mean,
home
. I’m going home.”

He smiled but didn’t laugh, and she liked the way his eyes twinkled without making fun.

“Want some company?” he asked.

“Okay.” Shrugging, she turned, and Jake fell in beside her. For once she was the one who had to take longer strides to keep up.

While they walked down Cedar Avenue, Andie tried to figure out what was supposed to happen next. She considered trying to make chitchat like she’d seen Mary Louise and her friends do with boys, but her mouth was too dry.

“You have practice today?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Okay, it was only one word, but at least she hadn’t tripped over it. Andie licked her lips and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

“We’re playing the Bobcats next week.”

She snuck a peek at him and her brain shouted at her to say something but it didn’t tell her what. “I, uh,” she cleared her throat, “I saw their shooting guard at the playoffs last year. He’s got a great hook.”

“Yeah, we came out ahead the last time we faced them, but it was close.”

Okay, this wasn’t so hard. This was basketball. She’d been talking sports with her dad since she was five.
“How, um, how many points do you think they’ll score against you?”

Jake flashed really white teeth at her and then, miracle of miracles, he started to talk. For the next ten blocks he covered their chances to win district, and what he thought of every adversary he’d ever faced. He never bragged, and he even laughed at his own mistakes, which Andie really liked. Without realizing it she began to relax, so that when he asked her opinion she was able to answer freely. Before she knew it, they were having a conversation.

Too soon they were on Main Street and approaching the police station. Normally, she stopped in to say hi and get a snack from Mrs. Farnsworthy, or a ride home with her father. Today he was standing out front talking to the mayor. His eyes narrowed as she and Jake approached. Then his mouth stopped moving. The mayor turned to see what he was staring at.

Andie’s cheeks went hot and her toe caught on an uneven place in the sidewalk. Jake automatically reached out and grabbed her arm to steady her. Real shock registered on her father’s face.

Andie didn’t know what to do. After a quick moment of silent prayer, she fixed her father with a stare that said, “Don’t embarrass me or I’ll never speak to you again,” and slowed just a little.

“Hi, Chief. Hi, Mayor.” Jake’s tone was as casual as you please, but Andie could hardly breathe. She kept her gaze on her father, telegraphing her single all-important message, praying that just this once he wouldn’t feel the need to haul her over and put her through the third degree.

His lips parted as if to speak, and from behind Jake’s back, Andie silently, but adamantly, shook him off. She wanted to yelp with relief when he pressed his lips back together and did nothing more than nod politely and raise a lone finger to the brim of his hat.

Andie kept walking. As they passed, she lifted one hand in a very small wave. “Hi, Mayor. See you at home, Dad.”

She could feel her father’s gaze on her back all the way to Morrison, but he didn’t shout after her to come back or demand to know what she was doing walking with a boy. Andie vowed to put an extra dollar in the collection plate on Sunday now that she had proof there was a God.

On Friday evening Miranda made it home from her Rhododendron Prep group just before the caterer was due to arrive.

She raced around the house stashing things out of sight, wiping down countertops and laying a fire in the fireplace, then dashed upstairs to shower and change. By the time the committee members began arriving, her house looked like her house again. Her antiques, many of which were putting in their farewell performance before heading off to auction tomorrow, shone from a recent application of lemon oil. A fire flickered in the fireplace and a Norah Jones CD played softly from the sound system.

While a server passed samples of suggested hors d’ oeuvres, Miranda moved from group to group, a bottle of wine in each hand. As she circulated, she encouraged everyone to try each of the appetizers, took note of their opinions, and pushed the wine at every opportunity. Getting this group to talk freely about their bras was going to require serious priming of the pump.

Soon the buzz of excited female conversation filled the room.

“Red or white, Angela?” Miranda asked.

“Goodness, I never can decide.”

“Maybe the white, then. There’ll be plenty of opportunity to try the red when we sample the entrees.”

“Red? But what if somebody spills it. Maybe I
should
choose a darker napkin. What if . . .”

“Angela,” Miranda said calmly, “I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but we don’t have to return the napkins in the same condition we get them. It’s okay if they get dirty.”

With a relieved smile, Angela tossed back her glass of wine with a speed that spoke of more experience than Miranda would have suspected. Without comment, Miranda continued working the room. She filled glasses and made chitchat, subtly introducing her thoughts and suggestions to the committee heads. The decibel level rose with each bottle of wine consumed, and when the committee members began threatening to undress in order to compare plastic surgeons, Miranda knew it was time to sop up some of the alcohol with food.

“Okay, everyone,” she said, “be sure to take at least a taste of everything so we can get a vote tonight.”

In the dining room the ladies flirted with Henri, whose European good looks and accent had helped make his catering business the most popular in three counties, then took their plates into the great room.

Angela Johnson stood and raised her wineglass. “I want to propose a toast to Henri,” she proclaimed, her normal reticence discarded several glassfuls ago.

The crowd cheered.

“So here’s to Henri.” She smiled gleefully. “His sausage is first rate.”

Titters greeted this drunken observation.

“And there’s nothing wrong with his prawns, either!” a voice from the back added.

Miranda swung her gaze around the room. Women lounged on every available flat surface, and every one of them was stuffed to the gills with fine wine and good food.

“How about a nice round of applause for Henri and the fabulous food he prepared?” Miranda said.

Henri gave a small bow and blew a kiss to the crowd. There was a heartfelt round of applause, a few woo-woo-woo’s.

“Girls . . .” Miranda began.

“I want him to do something French.” Angela’s finely rechiseled features were flushed with wine and unnatural exuberance.

“Yeah. Me, too!”

Henri’s smile faltered.

“Right,” Miranda cut in. “Why don’t I recap our menu choices while Henri packs up?”

“Merci, mesdames.” He offered them a final wave, but his eyes darted about. Miranda suspected he was looking for possible escape routes.

Angela popped up again. She swayed to her own rhythm as she offered up a personal cheer. “Oh, Henri, he’s so fine. He’s so fine he blows my mind. Oh, Henri!”

“Sit down, Angela. You’re embarrassing yourself,” Miranda whispered.

“They’re completely inebriated,” Carly observed.

“And we’re drunk, too!” someone shouted.

Henri fled and the crowd sighed in unison as the kitchen door closed behind him.

Deciding she’d better get to the real purpose of this meeting before her focus group became completely unfocused, Miranda raised her voice so she could be heard above the din. “Ladies,” she said, “there’s more wine if anybody wants some. But the time has come to talk about bras.”

chapter
11

T
he room fell silent. Then Rebecca Wyndham reached for the bottle of white wine. “We thought you were joking about the bra thing.”

“Nope, no joke,” Miranda replied easily.

“I mean, what could we possibly tell you? Your family is in the business.”

Miranda took a sip of wine and thought about that. “True. But I’m not asking you how to manufacture the bra. That’s my problem. I want to know what you think would make the bra you wear . . . better.”

There were murmurs, but it was clear no one wanted to be the first to speak.

“Okay,” Miranda said. “How many of you own at least one Ballantyne bra?”

All hands went up, and Miranda wondered if they were afraid she’d insist on proof.

“Okay, then, let’s just think of this as a customer survey. All I want to know is what you’d like to see in a bra. If you could design your own, what would you include or get rid of?”

Miranda saw Carly open a notepad and set it on her lap. They were all pretty much looped, so she figured it would only be a matter of time before somebody found the courage to speak out. She sat quietly and waited.

Marjorie Kendall, who sat in a corner of the couch, glanced down at her chest, which was even flatter than Miranda’s. “I’d pay big money for something that stimulated growth.”

There was laughter, but Miranda was too relieved to have someone speak up to let anyone stop the flow. “Try being this flat and born into the bra business. I’m lucky my parents didn’t try to give me back!”

This drew more laughter, which Miranda leaped on. “It’s like being a Hemingway and not knowing how to read.”

“You should try being on the other end of the spectrum,” Vivien said as she took a swig of wine.

Miranda looked more carefully at the entertainment chair, who appeared to be somewhere around a 38 double D. “So you’re looking for something that—”

“I’d kill for real support without underwire. And just because I’m big-breasted doesn’t mean I want to wear something that looks like prison-matron issue.”

“No kidding,” Gloria said. “I have dreams about a front closure that doesn’t pop open when you accidentally squeeze your boobs together.”

“Yeah.” Vivien grinned. “Happened to me last Sunday when I bent over to get something out from under the next pew. You should have seen the reverend’s face.”

Everybody laughed, but they were laughing
with
each other. Miranda couldn’t help smiling herself. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Angela reach for the button of her blouse. “Ang—” she began.

“Do you all want to see the pair Malcolm bought me for my birthday?”

“No, thanks, Angela.” Miranda purposely broke off eye contact, afraid the other woman would take any scrap of attention as a sign of encouragement. She took a sip of wine and knew real relief when Sheila Taylor spoke.

“I just want a bra that’ll keep my boobies from banging into my knees when I walk.”

Laughter.

“I don’t need them up around my neck,” she continued. “I just want them off my lap when I’m at the dinner table.”

More laughter. Miranda looked over and spotted Carly scribbling like mad.

Angela stood and reached for her buttons again. “Anybody want to see four thousand dollars’ worth of perky?”

Miranda reached out and gently pushed her back down into her seat.

“Right, so let’s recap, shall we?” Miranda began. “Everybody seems to want soft, comfortable, and supportive.”

“And that’s good-friend supportive,” said Karen. “Not maniacal-mother supportive.”

“I don’t even need support anymore,” Angela crowed. “I’ve got my own built right in.” She took another gulp of wine while everyone watched, fascinated. “You should see these suckers!”

“And pretty,” someone else chimed in, drawing attention away from the eager-to-undress Angela. “I want comfort that’s pretty; not flowery, but nice. Nobody does those two things really well together.”

“I want something that lifts
and
pushes me up.”

“And I like lace, but it has to be lined so it doesn’t scratch.”

“Oh, yeah. And don’t forget the matching panties.”

“Nylon uppers with real cotton crotches.”

“I like straps set in the middle.”

“And I need elastic, the double-wide kind.”

The suggestions came fast and furious, and no two suggestions were the same. The specifics they wanted were almost as endless as Angela’s determination to bare her breasts.

Miranda tried to imagine how Ballantyne could possibly find a way to make everyone happy when everyone had a different set of requirements and fantasies. The only way to make each woman happy would be to build her a bra by hand.

Like the one Carly had designed for herself, and the totally different one she’d designed for Anna in shipping.

It was then that the lightbulb went on. She closed her eyes and visualized the individual components of the bras Ballantyne currently manufactured. Then she visualized each of those components made available like options on a car. So that a woman’s bra was built just for her, like a custom vehicle.