Leave It to Cleavage Read Free Page A

the third degree, though that was more her mother’s style than Gran’s, and breathed a huge sigh of relief when her grandmother let the subject pass.
    “The Lord does not give us burdens without equipping us to carry them.”
    She definitely knew something. Something that she didn’t want to say and which Miranda definitely didn’t want to hear. Stalling, Miranda dipped her spoon into the soup and brought it to her lips.
    “Mmmm, Gran, nobody makes chicken vegetable like you do.”
    One of her grandmother’s silver eyebrows rose. “I am not vain about my cooking.”
    “No, no, of course not.” Miranda took another spoonful and almost sighed at the warmth and perfection of it. “Though you easily could be.”
    Like she had as a child, Miranda dipped a saltine in the soup and ate most of it in one bite.
    “Lord, you’re half starved.”
    “Mmmph.” Miranda swallowed. “I haven’t had much of an appetite.” Nor could she remember when she had last eaten.
    “Yes, I can imagine.” Her grandmother speared her with a look but didn’t ask what she’d been eating or when Tom would be back, for which Miranda was deeply grateful.
    “You know, sometimes disaster and opportunity are just opposite sides of a single coin. It’s only when we’re tested that we find the motivation to become more than we have been.”
    Miranda reached the bottom of the bowl and the end of the saltines. If anyone but her grandmother had been sitting there, she would have lifted the bowl to her lips to drain the last drop.
    “You’re sounding awfully prophetic, Gran.” She raised her own eyebrow in direct imitation. “But you make a mean bowl of chicken vegetable.”
    Her eyelids were heavy and her stomach felt pleasantly full for the first time in a week. The hurt and horror of Tom’s betrayal was still there, and she had no more idea how to handle things today than she had a week ago, but her Gran was here. She wasn’t completely alone.
    Her eyelids fluttered open as her grandmother stood and lifted the tray off Miranda’s lap, leaving the rose on her nightstand.
    “I think there are things you’ll tell me when you’re ready, Miranda. In the meantime, all I ask is that you remember who you are and where your responsibilities lie.”
    “Wow, Gran.” Miranda yawned and stretched, comforted by her grandmother’s presence and the warmth of the soup now filling her belly. “I’m going to have to nominate you for Town Oracle.” She yawned again. “Maybe Ballantyne should sponsor a Mystical Wise Woman Pageant.”
    Her grandmother bent over and kissed the top of her head, and for a brief moment Miranda was a little girl again, and all was right with her world.
    “Get some sleep, Miranda. It’ll help you mend. I’ll lock up on my way out.”
    For the first time since Tom’s departure, Miranda slept for more than a few minutes at a time. She slept for eleven hours, deeply and completely and without a single dream about Tom—or what his absence would do to her life.
    She woke at 7 A . M . and flicked on the television set. She lay there for a while half listening to the news, letting her mind wander, until the tragic story of a small-town manufacturer grabbed her attention.
    It was widgets, not bras, and the town was called Henryville, not Truro. But the company had been clipping right along for several generations, until the family member running it absconded with a large chunk of the employee pension fund.
    Miranda’s eyes flew open, and she sat straight up in bed as she realized it wasn’t just her and their marriage that Tom had pummeled so mercilessly. She didn’t know what sorts of red flags he’d waved at Fidelity National, but he’d left Ballantyne, her family’s single most important asset, leaderless. If anything happened to the company it wasn’t just her family who would suffer; its three hundred employees would be out of work.
    Miranda threw the covers off, sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the