Free Leave It to Cleavage by Wendy Wax

take possession of it.”
    “And you won’t say anything to Mom or Dad.”
    “My lips are sealed.” Her grandmother moved her chopsticks toward the remaining piece of pork and smiled as she lifted it to her mouth. “You wouldn’t believe the secrets I can keep.”
     
    Blake took a beer from the refrigerator and went into the family room, where he sank down into the perfectly worn leather recliner. Gus and Andie were in their rooms, and the only noise was the muffled thump of the bass from Andie’s stereo on the other side of the house.
    In the relative quiet, Blake eased all the way back in the recliner, toed off his boots, and considered the existing pieces in Miranda Smith’s puzzle.
    To date he had one anonymous phone caller, lots of gossip, and Miranda Smith’s sudden interest in her family’s brassiere company—plenty of small things that didn’t add up, but nothing big enough to sink his teeth into.
    Of course the Truro grapevine was busy producing all kinds of theories about the state of the Smiths’ marriage. At the Dogwood Café, odds were being laid on how long Tom Smith would stay away and how much his wife might or might not want him back. No one except his anonymous caller actually considered Tom Smith missing.
    A troubled marriage wasn’t really a matter for the law. But Blake could do some discreet poking around. He could have a little chat with the bank and the airlines; maybe get in touch with his buddy who handled investigations for Visa and MasterCard. Just a little nosing around to get a feel for the situation. If, in fact, there
was
a situation at all.
    Of course, his best potential source of information was Miranda Smith herself. He raised the beer to his lips as he pictured the long legs and the clear green eyes. Then he replayed their encounters at the pool and at church, and the odd look in her eyes when she’d talked about Tom.
    Something was going on, that much was clear. And he was just the man to figure out what it was. All he really had to do was put himself in her path, let her know he was watching, and see what happened. He’d be just like that proverbial penny and just keep showing up.

chapter 8
    T he day of her meeting with Fidelity National, Miranda got up at dawn and drove to Atlanta for a 10:00 A . M . hair appointment. She’d prepared for the meeting as best she could; now she needed a new look to go with the corporate image she intended to present. It was critical that she be taken seriously.
    By ten-thirty the floor around Miranda’s chair was littered with strands of long dark hair.
Her
long dark hair. Just lying there. No longer attached to her head. She forced her gaze up from the dark piles covering the salon floor to the mirror in front of her. Antonio had pulled out a razor and was wielding it with abandon, transforming her long, heavy locks into a short, businesslike hairstyle—the kind favored by news anchors and corporate VPs—the style she’d asked for and which she now sincerely regretted.
    Her gaze stayed fixed on the stranger in the mirror while Antonio spritzed something all over what remained of her hair, poofed up the top layer with his fingers, and whipped the cape off with a flourish.
    “Ees really something, no?”
    What it was was short. Very short. Miranda swallowed. “It’s really, really . . . something all right.” She swallowed again and told herself that grown women didn’t cry over their hair—at least not in public.
    She leaned in toward the mirror and tilted her head from side to side, but her hair was still short. With a last longing glance at the hair she was leaving behind, Miranda followed the stylist to the front desk. Without the familiar weight of hair on her shoulders, she felt naked and exposed. The air tickled her neck and tears pooled in her eyes.
    “Ees very stylish. Very
now,
” Antonio enthused.
    She nodded, her voice little more than a whisper. “And very, very short.”
    “Jes, exactly.” He smiled, pleased,