Leave It to Cleavage (9 page)

Which was why she’d decided to take matters into her own hands.

A glance at the clock on the gym wall informed her she was too late for the shower she’d planned on. Hurrying now, she dropped the basketball into the rack and practically ran to the classroom where the first meeting of the Rhododendron Prep class was being held.

Twenty other girls were already seated and chattering away when she arrived. They looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and pity, like she was some sort of alien life-form that had mysteriously landed in their midst.

Andie’s insides twisted up, but she gave them the same shrug she’d been perfecting on her father, so they wouldn’t know their laughter hurt. They, of course, were dressed in tight skirts and tighter sweaters, or low-slung jeans and cropped jackets. And of course they were mostly small and curvy, not tall and rangy like her.

Andie slid into a vacant desk at the back of the classroom, where she automatically slouched down as far as she could and studied the woman in front of the podium from underneath her lashes.

Truro was a small place, and Andie, like everyone else in the room, knew exactly who Miranda Smith was and what her family represented. Andie had seen her nodding regally at church on Sundays and when she passed by on the street—had even seen her talking to her own dad last Sunday—but Andie’d never come this close to actual conversation before.

Mrs. Smith was tall and lean and looked like she might have a steel rod surgically implanted in her spinal column. Her arms were long and well muscled, and though she was just wearing some kind of black pants and black turtleneck, even Andie, who didn’t spend much time thinking about clothes, could tell they were NOT from the women’s section at Wal-Mart or JCPenney.

Her green eyes seemed to be taking everything in and filing it away for future reference, but the thing that had everybody whispering was her hair, which
used
to be long and straight and now was short and kind of spiky looking.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said. “I’m Miranda Smith, Miss Rhododendron of 1983. I’m also a part-time pageant coach, and my family’s company, Ballantyne Bras, sponsors a contestant in the Miss Rhododendron pageant every year. This class is designed to teach pageant competition. At the end of the eight weeks, one of you will be chosen to represent Ballantyne in this year’s pageant.”

Uh-oh
. Andie pulled out the mutilated course description and reread the things that had brought her here; Comportment, Beauty Tips, and Being Uniquely You looked pretty good, but pageant competition? Her dad thought she was taking extra basketball practice, and that’s the way she planned to keep it.

“How many of you have already been in a pageant?” Mrs. Smith asked.

Half the girls raised their hands.

“All right.” She smiled at them—a blinding flash of white teeth. “How many of you have
been
to a pageant?”

Three quarters of the room responded positively. Andie slouched down further in her seat.

“How many of you have watched Miss America on television and imagined yourself doing that final walk with the crown on your head?”

There were embarrassed giggles.

“It’s okay. You can be honest.”

Every hand in the room except Andie’s shot up in the air. Andie did her best to disappear, which wasn’t easy when you were five ten and a half in a room full of Lilliputians.

“We’re going to cover a lot of ground over the next two months. Next week I’m going to sit down with each of you to help you develop a signature style—that special something that will set you apart. In preparation for that I want each of you to spend fifteen minutes in front of a full-length mirror.”

There were giggles, and Andie guessed that for some of them this would be a decrease in mirror time. It didn’t exactly sound like Christmas and the Easter Bunny to her.

“During that time you are to make a list of your physical assets and liabilities. Try to be honest.”

Andie groaned and Mrs. Smith’s attention swung her way. “I take it you’re not looking forward to the assignment?”

“No, ma’am,” Andie replied.

“You know, pageant competition doesn’t differ all that much from athletics, Miss Summers. All you need is good raw material and the will to win.”

Andie blushed.

“You do like to win, don’t you, Miss Summers?”

Andie nodded slowly.

Miranda Smith nodded back and smiled, which took the sting out of her next words. “Of course, showering helps, too. Please make sure you’ve taken one before you show up next time.”

There were some titters from the other girls, which Mrs. Smith squelched with one eyebrow. Andie sank back in her seat as Mrs. Smith ended the session. She stayed there while the other girls filed out.

When it was just she and Andie Summers, Miranda walked to the back of the room and slid into the adjacent desk. “Yes?”

“Do you think we could sort of skip ahead a little bit?” the girl asked. “I already know my liabilities and I, uh, was hoping to get to the fixing-them part as soon as possible.” She leaned toward Miranda. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m a little behind the rest of the pack.”

Miranda studied the girl, intrigued. “Why don’t you go ahead and list those liabilities for me,” Miranda said. “Just so we’re clear.”

“Okay,” Andie said. “I’m
too
tall,
too
thin, and
too
flat.”

Miranda kept silent.

“There are other smaller things, but I think that pretty much covers the high points.” She was trying for flip, but the anguish in her eyes was clear.

Miranda smiled. “You do realize that those things you just listed as negatives are things other girls would pretty much kill for?”

“Right.” Andie’s tone communicated her disbelief, but interest sparked in her blue eyes.

“You’re tall,” Miranda pointed out, “just like all those poor, underpaid supermodels.”

She let Andie take that one in for a moment.

“And do you know why they have to be tall?” she asked.

Andie shook her head.

“Because clothes look better on tall people. They hang better, move better, show better.”

The scowl left Andie’s face.

“There is no such thing as too tall, unless you hang your head or,” Miranda gave the girl another pointed look, “slouch down in your chair and act like you’ve committed some crime.”

Miranda let the words hang between them before continuing. “Too thin? As long as you’re not emaciated to the point of ill health, which is clearly not the case, there is no such thing. You’re just not displaying your build to good advantage. Do you think Vendela and Kate Moss are sitting at home whining that they’re too tall and too thin?”

Andie shook her head and sat up a little straighter in her chair.

“And as far as your bust goes, well, other than the obvious ribbing I get, given my family’s business—one small liability does not a disaster make.” They both glanced down at Miranda’s less-than-formidable chest. “Luckily, you now have a contact in the bra business!”

Miranda grinned. “To recap . . . you’ve got brains, you’ve got tall and thin, you’ve got great athletic ability, and you’ve got tons of drive.” She studied Andie closely, noting the high cheekbones, the vibrant blue eyes, and the naturally full lips, none of which the girl played up in any way. Her blond hair was thick and had potential, but it just hung there, contributing nothing.

She winced slightly as she imagined Blake Summers escorting his daughter to Stuart at the Truro Barber Shop and telling him to “take a little off the sides.”

Miranda put a finger under Andie’s chin and turned her face from side to side. She had the kind of angles a camera would love and her skin was creamy and free of blemishes.

She took out a piece of paper and started to make a list. “I want you to take this to Lupina at the Lancôme counter at Parisian in Claymore and tell her I sent you. She’ll teach you how to apply the makeup you buy. There’s a beauty supply store in the mall that will have the rest of the things you’ll need.”

She folded the piece of paper and placed it in the girl’s hand. “I promise you nature has given you everything you need already, Andrea. The rest is just cosmetics.”

Blake skipped his usual He-Man Breakfast at the Dogwood in favor of a large cup of coffee to go. He also started his morning patrol a little earlier than usual and extended it to include the beautifully manicured neighborhood of Chimney Crossings, which lay a good bit north of Truro’s main business district, and which happened to be the neighborhood in which Tom and Miranda Smith lived.

It wasn’t a completely conscious decision, and he wasn’t sure exactly what he hoped to accomplish, but he figured the cul-de-sac in front of the Smiths’ house was as good a place as any to watch the sun come up.

The neighborhood was nestled in a valley that had once belonged to a now wealthy farmer and commanded an uninterrupted view of the foothills that led up into the Blue Ridge Mountains. The Smiths’ house was built in a plantation style, with tall white columns and a fan-shaped window above heavily carved double doors. Oversize wooden rockers lined a front porch that stretched the width of the house.

In Blake’s humble opinion, the place called out for a family—or two. It was way too big for a couple; he could hardly imagine what it must feel like rattling around in the place alone.

Taking a sip of coffee, he let his eyes wander up to the second floor and passed a few pleasant minutes contemplating which room might be the master bedroom, and a few more picturing Miranda asleep in it.

He was still enjoying his little reverie when the garage door flew up and Miranda’s bright red BMW began to back down the driveway. Before he’d gotten his coffee into the cup holder, she’d zoomed all the way down the drive and into the cul-de-sac. Two seconds later she was pulling into position beside him and lowering her passenger window.

Feeling slightly silly, he lowered his own window and raised his cup of coffee in silent greeting.

“Good morning,” she said brightly while her garage door slammed shut. “Were you looking for me?”

“No,” he replied easily. “Just, uh, patrolling the neighborhood.” He holstered his coffee and offered his best “I’m here to serve and protect” smile.

“I didn’t realize you did Chimney Crossings in the morning.”

“Well, I like to mix things up a bit. It’s not a good idea to be
too
predictable.” He looked her in the eye. “People start thinking they can get away with things.”

She was dressed and made up and had a briefcase on the seat next to her. When she blushed and lifted a hand to her neck, he realized it wasn’t just her attire that looked different. “You cut your hair.”

“Yes.” She removed her hand from her neck and placed it on the wheel.

“And you’re off to . . .”

“Ballantyne,” she said. “Tom, um, asked me to take care of some things while he’s away.”

“Oh.”

They studied each other for a long moment and he thought he sensed her inner squirm, but he had to admit she looked pretty damn calm on the outside. And remarkably businesslike, too.

“So, if you don’t need anything, I guess I’ll be off, then,” she said, and put her car into gear.

“Yeah, me too,” he replied, doing the same. “You go on ahead, I’ll bring up the rear.”

They played a very sedate version of follow-the-leader back through Chimney Crossings and out onto the two-lane road that wound back to Truro, him sipping his coffee and trailing behind her while she drove with exaggerated care, pretending she didn’t mind having a policeman on her tail. There’d been no real exchange of information, but he’d let her know he had his eye on her, and he thought he’d done a pretty good job of maintaining control of the situation.

He was congratulating himself on his strategy when his cell phone rang. Surprised at the readout on the caller ID, he was trying to decide whether she’d actually called Anne Farnsworthy for his number, as he brought the phone up to his ear.

“Listen, Chief,” Miranda said. “I wasn’t sure if you were planning on following me all the way in to work, but I need to go a little faster—we’re going two miles under the speed limit and it’s costing me time.”

“No problem.” He added a little pressure to his own gas pedal when she increased her speed.

“Oh, and just so you know, I’m planning to drop a letter in the drive-through mailbox up at the post office, and then I thought I’d pick up something to go at the Dogwood, if you need a potty break or anything.”

“Got it.” He smiled and saw an answering flash of white teeth in her rearview mirror.

“Do you want me to get you something while I’m in there?” she asked way too sweetly.

“Uh, no, I think I’m fine, thanks.”

“Okay.” She laughed lightly in his ear. “Just thought I’d check. I’m sure this stakeout business can be really draining.”

He was still smiling over that one when she came out of the Dogwood, knocked on his window, and presented him with two glazed doughnuts and a fresh cup of coffee.

They parted ways in front of the gates of Ballantyne and he tipped a doughnut to her as he drove off. It was the most enjoyable bit of surveillance he’d done in a long time.

That night Miranda called the long-delayed Guild Ball committee meeting to order with a loud rap of the gavel on her mother’s Country French kitchen table. The table, which was new and coordinated perfectly with the rest of her mother’s recently redecorated kitchen, was covered with linen napkins in every conceivable shade of beige.

“You’re joking, right?” Miranda stared at the napkin samples strewn across the oak table. “You didn’t really just spend an entire week deciding between taupe and ecru?”

Angela Johnson bit a Botox-inflated lip. “Do you think I rushed things? There was another very nice cream-colored linen that could . . .”

Miranda bit her own lip. It had been an incredibly long day and she still had to come up with an idea that would halt Ballantyne’s downward spiral. It was all very well to try to appear “normal,” but who really cared what color the napkins were?

“Angela,” she said. “This is not a matter of life and death. It’s a napkin. For wiping one’s mouth.”