navigate the waters of small-town life from this life raft. Tonight she planned to ask for an oar without revealing where she intended to paddle the family canoe.
While Gran stoked the fire, Miranda deposited the “to go” cartons onto the farm table in the great room, then went back to the kitchen for plates and chopsticks.
They took seats across from each other at the scarred wooden table, and for a few moments the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the rustle of cardboard as they served themselves.
Miranda began to relax as they chatted idly. Being with Gran was so much easier than fielding her mother’s fitful attempts at communication, which swung between snippets of unsolicited advice and not-so-silent bouts of parental disapproval.
Miranda did not look forward to the day Joan Ballantyne Harper discovered her daughter had been dumped. And she sincerely hoped there were no pageants for almost-middle-aged women without husbands, for her mother to try to push her into.
She looked up and caught her grandmother eyeing her.
“So what do you hear from Tom?” Gran asked.
“Not, uh, much.”
Make that nothing
. As always the
whys
of it stalked her.
Why
hadn’t Tom shared the problems at Ballantyne and allowed her to help?
Why
hadn’t he loved her enough to stay and face the consequences of his actions?
Why
had he needed lingerie and other women?
“He’s gone inland to find new suppliers.” God, she hated lying to her Gran.
“Tom certainly has an eye for satin and lace,” Gran said almost conversationally.
Miranda froze as the silence stretched out between them; she actually had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from dumping the truth in her grandmother’s lap.
“Well, perhaps in this case no news is good news,” Gran finally said. “Tell me what you’ve been doing at Ballantyne.”
“There are a few things that Tom has,” Miranda cleared her throat and looked away, searching for words that would prevent an outright lie, “left me to take care of.”
“And do you want to talk about those things?” Her grandmother, too, seemed to be choosing her words with care.
“Not exactly.” Once again Miranda longed to lay down her load and go on about her life . . . or what was left of it. But she was the one who’d chosen a man who’d trashed the family business and then run off. With her father unavailable, it was her responsibility to try to clean up the mess. “But I do need to ask you for something, Gran. And I need to ask it on our old terms—no questions asked.”
“You mean like when you took your mother’s Volvo and transported that sow and her piglets in it? Or the time you faked a fever so you wouldn’t have to participate in the seed-spitting competition at the Miss Watermelon pageant?”
“I thought older people were supposed to get feeble and forget things,” Miranda said. “Do you remember every single thing I asked you to keep to yourself?”
“Just the highlights, darling. Your exploits have always helped keep me young, though I must say your life hasn’t been anywhere near as entertaining since you married Tom.”
No, nothing about her marriage to Tom felt very entertaining at the moment. She tried to dredge up an image of him posing for a Ballantyne catalogue, but the image just made her want to cry.
Miranda reached out a hand and placed it over her grandmother’s. “I may have to pledge some personal assets to guarantee something at the bank, and I was hoping you’d sign the house on Hilton Head over to me. It’s supposed to be mine on my fortieth birthday, but it would help to have it in my name right now.”
“If it’s money you need, Miranda, all you have to do is ask.”
“I don’t want your money, Gran. I just need to look a little better on paper right now.” At least she intended to back up her claims with
real
assets rather than fake receivables.
“Well, of course, Miranda. That house is yours, and it makes no difference to me when you
While Gran stoked the fire, Miranda deposited the “to go” cartons onto the farm table in the great room, then went back to the kitchen for plates and chopsticks.
They took seats across from each other at the scarred wooden table, and for a few moments the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the rustle of cardboard as they served themselves.
Miranda began to relax as they chatted idly. Being with Gran was so much easier than fielding her mother’s fitful attempts at communication, which swung between snippets of unsolicited advice and not-so-silent bouts of parental disapproval.
Miranda did not look forward to the day Joan Ballantyne Harper discovered her daughter had been dumped. And she sincerely hoped there were no pageants for almost-middle-aged women without husbands, for her mother to try to push her into.
She looked up and caught her grandmother eyeing her.
“So what do you hear from Tom?” Gran asked.
“Not, uh, much.”
Make that nothing
. As always the
whys
of it stalked her.
Why
hadn’t Tom shared the problems at Ballantyne and allowed her to help?
Why
hadn’t he loved her enough to stay and face the consequences of his actions?
Why
had he needed lingerie and other women?
“He’s gone inland to find new suppliers.” God, she hated lying to her Gran.
“Tom certainly has an eye for satin and lace,” Gran said almost conversationally.
Miranda froze as the silence stretched out between them; she actually had to clamp her mouth shut to keep from dumping the truth in her grandmother’s lap.
“Well, perhaps in this case no news is good news,” Gran finally said. “Tell me what you’ve been doing at Ballantyne.”
“There are a few things that Tom has,” Miranda cleared her throat and looked away, searching for words that would prevent an outright lie, “left me to take care of.”
“And do you want to talk about those things?” Her grandmother, too, seemed to be choosing her words with care.
“Not exactly.” Once again Miranda longed to lay down her load and go on about her life . . . or what was left of it. But she was the one who’d chosen a man who’d trashed the family business and then run off. With her father unavailable, it was her responsibility to try to clean up the mess. “But I do need to ask you for something, Gran. And I need to ask it on our old terms—no questions asked.”
“You mean like when you took your mother’s Volvo and transported that sow and her piglets in it? Or the time you faked a fever so you wouldn’t have to participate in the seed-spitting competition at the Miss Watermelon pageant?”
“I thought older people were supposed to get feeble and forget things,” Miranda said. “Do you remember every single thing I asked you to keep to yourself?”
“Just the highlights, darling. Your exploits have always helped keep me young, though I must say your life hasn’t been anywhere near as entertaining since you married Tom.”
No, nothing about her marriage to Tom felt very entertaining at the moment. She tried to dredge up an image of him posing for a Ballantyne catalogue, but the image just made her want to cry.
Miranda reached out a hand and placed it over her grandmother’s. “I may have to pledge some personal assets to guarantee something at the bank, and I was hoping you’d sign the house on Hilton Head over to me. It’s supposed to be mine on my fortieth birthday, but it would help to have it in my name right now.”
“If it’s money you need, Miranda, all you have to do is ask.”
“I don’t want your money, Gran. I just need to look a little better on paper right now.” At least she intended to back up her claims with
real
assets rather than fake receivables.
“Well, of course, Miranda. That house is yours, and it makes no difference to me when you
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