answered back.
In the Dempseys’ yard next door the birdbath was frozen. In the bare branches of the tree beside it, a squirrel hung by its tail and feasted on the cylindrical birdfeeder, totally focused on its mission.
She’d won countless beauty pageants by focusing that strongly on one event at a time: Win the interview, move on to the swimsuit, then focus on the evening gown. Nail the stage question and let the points add up. That was the way to salvage things at Ballantyne.
Miranda skimmed down her notes until she reached the word “receivables.” If Fidelity National discovered the fake receivables on their own—and if she’d found them there was no way a team of accountants wouldn’t—she’d never get the chance to put the company back on a firmer financial footing. Because there would be no company.
There was also the chance they wouldn’t stop with just putting Ballantyne out of business. Even large financial institutions took the concept of fraud very personally. Fidelity National might not consider the matter finished until
somebody
went to jail.
Okay
. Miranda wrote the words “Stall audit” in big black letters and added three exclamation points. If she could put together the resources to guarantee the line of credit, this might actually be possible. She made a note to schedule a meeting with the bank.
Number two? She thought for a second and wrote “Find Tom” in big block letters and tried to push aside the ache that accompanied it. At night when she lay in bed wondering when he had stopped loving her and why, she was afraid to explore what, if anything, she still felt for him. He had taken such complete control in leaving that her feelings seemed . . . moot and too often contradictory.
One minute she never wanted to see him again; the next she wanted the face-to-face confrontation she’d been denied. But most of all, she craved an ending to this limbo he’d left her in. After her appointment with the bank, she’d meet the attorney she’d been referred to and find out what her options were. Maybe then she could move on.
Number three was a little easier and a lot more enjoyable: dinner with Gran.
Shoving the legal pad aside, Miranda called her grandmother to let her know she was coming, then placed their usual order at Ling Pow’s. She didn’t intend to spill all the sordid details, but she did need a sounding board. And she also needed assets to pledge.
Gran’s cottage was a cozy guest house on the grounds of the home she’d grown up in. After her husband’s death, Gran had passed the big house down to Miranda’s parents, along with the running of Ballantyne, and thrown herself into the renovation of the once derelict cottage. The two-bedroom home sat on the far side of a small orchard and allowed her to set up housekeeping at what she had declared the perfect distance from her daughter: far enough away to maintain her independence and close enough to impose her will . . . at will.
Some of Miranda’s happiest childhood memories had been made in this cottage, where her grandmother’s unconditional love and approval had been a welcome relief from her mother’s more demanding form of affection. When Miranda turned sixteen, she’d been given her own key, and in the years that followed, Gran and her home had provided an important demilitarized zone in the escalating war between Miranda and her mother.
Late each spring Gran decamped for her house near the summit of Ballantyne Bald, where the higher elevation kept the small lake cold year-round and no air-conditioning was required even on the hottest summer days. Her wedding gift to Miranda had been the adjoining lakefront acreage on which Miranda’s small retreat—and Tom’s love nest—now sat.
But Gran spent winters in the lovely stone cottage with its blazing fireplace and old mullioned windows. It was a place for kicking off one’s shoes and curling up for a good read or whispered confidences. Miranda had learned to
In the Dempseys’ yard next door the birdbath was frozen. In the bare branches of the tree beside it, a squirrel hung by its tail and feasted on the cylindrical birdfeeder, totally focused on its mission.
She’d won countless beauty pageants by focusing that strongly on one event at a time: Win the interview, move on to the swimsuit, then focus on the evening gown. Nail the stage question and let the points add up. That was the way to salvage things at Ballantyne.
Miranda skimmed down her notes until she reached the word “receivables.” If Fidelity National discovered the fake receivables on their own—and if she’d found them there was no way a team of accountants wouldn’t—she’d never get the chance to put the company back on a firmer financial footing. Because there would be no company.
There was also the chance they wouldn’t stop with just putting Ballantyne out of business. Even large financial institutions took the concept of fraud very personally. Fidelity National might not consider the matter finished until
somebody
went to jail.
Okay
. Miranda wrote the words “Stall audit” in big black letters and added three exclamation points. If she could put together the resources to guarantee the line of credit, this might actually be possible. She made a note to schedule a meeting with the bank.
Number two? She thought for a second and wrote “Find Tom” in big block letters and tried to push aside the ache that accompanied it. At night when she lay in bed wondering when he had stopped loving her and why, she was afraid to explore what, if anything, she still felt for him. He had taken such complete control in leaving that her feelings seemed . . . moot and too often contradictory.
One minute she never wanted to see him again; the next she wanted the face-to-face confrontation she’d been denied. But most of all, she craved an ending to this limbo he’d left her in. After her appointment with the bank, she’d meet the attorney she’d been referred to and find out what her options were. Maybe then she could move on.
Number three was a little easier and a lot more enjoyable: dinner with Gran.
Shoving the legal pad aside, Miranda called her grandmother to let her know she was coming, then placed their usual order at Ling Pow’s. She didn’t intend to spill all the sordid details, but she did need a sounding board. And she also needed assets to pledge.
Gran’s cottage was a cozy guest house on the grounds of the home she’d grown up in. After her husband’s death, Gran had passed the big house down to Miranda’s parents, along with the running of Ballantyne, and thrown herself into the renovation of the once derelict cottage. The two-bedroom home sat on the far side of a small orchard and allowed her to set up housekeeping at what she had declared the perfect distance from her daughter: far enough away to maintain her independence and close enough to impose her will . . . at will.
Some of Miranda’s happiest childhood memories had been made in this cottage, where her grandmother’s unconditional love and approval had been a welcome relief from her mother’s more demanding form of affection. When Miranda turned sixteen, she’d been given her own key, and in the years that followed, Gran and her home had provided an important demilitarized zone in the escalating war between Miranda and her mother.
Late each spring Gran decamped for her house near the summit of Ballantyne Bald, where the higher elevation kept the small lake cold year-round and no air-conditioning was required even on the hottest summer days. Her wedding gift to Miranda had been the adjoining lakefront acreage on which Miranda’s small retreat—and Tom’s love nest—now sat.
But Gran spent winters in the lovely stone cottage with its blazing fireplace and old mullioned windows. It was a place for kicking off one’s shoes and curling up for a good read or whispered confidences. Miranda had learned to
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