Leave It to Cleavage by Wendy Wax

company back on solid footing. She’d hand the mess over to him, and then she’d find a divorce attorney in Atlanta who could tell her how to proceed. No one who knew her would expect her to handle this disaster by herself. Why, it was ridiculous, really.
    At the front door, she told herself she should feel relieved. But she felt like a failure.
    “Hello, darling. Where’s Tom?” her mother asked as she opened the door and ushered Miranda inside.
    Miranda averted her eyes, hoping it would seem like less of a lie later if she didn’t make eye contact now. “He, uh, he’s in China. On business.”
    “Goodness.” She took hold of Miranda’s hand and pulled her toward the stairs. “Your father’s in the living room.” Her mother’s eyes clouded momentarily then cleared. “But I want to show you something first.”
    “Mother, I . . .” All Miranda could think about was laying down her burden. Now, during cocktails, would be the perfect time.
    But her mother drew Miranda up the stairs to her childhood bedroom, where stepping through the door was like stepping into a time warp. The theme was early pageant, and the walls were papered with pageant programs and photos of Miranda in evening gowns, in swimsuits, in the front line during opening production numbers. Above the canopied double bed, lined up in precise rows on specially built shelves, were her crowns, neatly ensconced in Plexiglas cases. Little Miss Truro and Little Miss Sunflower ultimately led to Miss Hayfield County, Miss Sweet Potato, Miss Vine-Ripe Tomato; there were lots of fruits and vegetables over which she’d ruled.
    Under a spotlight set off by itself was her Rhododendron crown, which her mother moved to now.
    “Mother, you really should do this room over. I’m almost forty. It’s time to move on.” What she really wanted to move on to was the subject of Ballantyne. “Let’s go downstairs and . . .”
    Her mother reached into the display cube and removed the Rhododendron crown. “I’ve been thinking about the Guild Ball, Miranda.”
    This was not news. Joan Ballantyne Richards Harper spent a great deal of time thinking about the Guild Ball. She’d chaired the yearly hospital fund-raiser too many times to count, and now had unlimited opinions about how Miranda should handle this year’s event.
    It was the last thing on Miranda’s mind at the moment. She’d canceled several meetings since Tom had left, but vowed now that once she handed Ballantyne over to her father, she’d get things back on track.
    “Mother,” Miranda said, “let’s go downstairs. I could really use a drink, and there’s something I’d like to run by Dad.”
    Her mother’s brow furrowed at the mention of her father, and she caressed the tiara’s centermost rhododendron as if looking for comfort. “I think,” her mother paused as if for a drum roll, “you should reintroduce the tradition of crowning the chairwoman. It would add such drama. And it’s such a shame to leave this beautiful crown unused.”
    Miranda groaned. “Mother, there is no way—”
    “And we’ll get a crown for Tom too. He looks so marvelous in a tux.”
    He doesn’t look too bad in black lace, either,
Miranda thought, as she inched toward the bedroom door. And come to think of it,
he’d
probably enjoy the crown. “You know, Tom’s been traveling a lot,” Miranda said. “I’m not even sure he’ll be here for—”
    “You tell Tom you won’t accept any excuses,” her mother insisted. “A chairwoman never attends the ball without her husband.” She hesitated. “Except that year Adrian Wright accidentally ran hers over with her Suburban.”
    Miranda just nodded while she pictured a Tom Smith pancake. Who knew what Adrian Wright’s husband had been up to before she mowed him down? “Can we go downstairs now?” she asked. “I actually wanted to talk to Daddy about some things at Ballantyne. There’s a serious problem with—”
    “Oh, no, sweetheart,” her mother said.