chapter 1

Miranda Smith was looking for a stamp when she discovered just how good her husband looked in ladies' lingerie.

It was 5:30 P.M. on the coldest January 8 on record, and the Truro Post Office was already closed. But for Miranda—who was now conducting a room-by-room search—the stamp was no longer postage, but a symbol of every New Year's resolution she'd ever made. And failed to keep.

One week into the new year she'd already given up on becoming a better daughter and reading her way through the classics. She wasn't going to wimp out on the only resolution she still had a chance of keeping.

Somewhere in this five-bedroom, four-bath, six-thousand-square-foot home—which she'd just tossed like a petty thief looking for loot—there had to be enough postage to get her credit card payment in on time.

Miranda stood in the foyer outside Tom's study, debating her next move.

With less than twenty minutes to get ready for dinner at her parents', she should be heading upstairs to shower and change, not preparing to strip-search another room.

It was just a stamp, she told herself as she turned toward the stairs; paying an occasional late fee was not cause for shame.

Placing a hand on the banister, she took the first step. On the next step she decided next year's resolutions would include buying stamps regularly, which would definitely enhance her chances of eliminating late fees in the future. Or maybe she'd just pay the whole damn lot of them on-line.

As if she'd be making resolutions next year when she'd folded so easily this year.

The thought stopped her in mid-step, turned her around, and propelled her back down the stairs, determined to find a stamp or die in the attempt.

Marching through the foyer and into the study, Miranda snapped on the overhead light and crossed to Tom's desk. Finding the desk drawer slightly ajar, she pulled on the knob, gritting her teeth in frustration when it didn't budge.

Beyond impatience, Miranda wrapped both hands around the knob and yanked with all her might. The drawer sprang free and sent a packet of photos, which must have been holding up the works, spilling across the floor.

Miranda crouched down to gather them up. She duck-walked across the floor, cramming the photos back into the envelope, muttering to herself, and trying to figure out where else she might find postage in the next thirty seconds.

Until she actually looked at the photo in her hand. The one of her husband, the former linebacker, in a red satin bustier and matching bikini panties.

Her first clear thought was that there had to be some mistake. As president of Ballantyne Bras, her husband was expected to supervise the design, production, and sales of a comprehensive line of women's undergarments.

He was not supposed to wear them.

And yet here he was in a black lace teddy. And a fuchsia merry widow—with some woman's hand on his rear end.

Miranda squinted at the hand, trying to recognize it, but other than its French manicure and obvious familiarity with her husband's derriere, it could have belonged to anyone.

The next photo revealed Tom in a cream-colored thong that looked as if it had been custom made for him. Her head began to pound as she realized it probably had.

Unable to tear her gaze from the sight of Tom's rugged torso sheathed in such feminine trappings, Miranda gathered up the rest of the photos and pulled herself up into the chair.

She thought of all the times she'd seen her husband smile and wink and say "Hi, I'm Tom Smith, and I'm in ladies' underwear," and never imagined he was telling the truth.

Or that he looked as good in it as she did.

Drawing in one shaky breath and letting out another, she dragged her gaze from the photos to stare out the study window. Porch lights twinkled from the house across the cul-de-sac, and she could see snowflakes beginning to fall in the arc of a street lamp, though it was hard to fully appreciate the winter landscape with her brain so full of the vision of Tom decked out in Ballantyne's biggest sellers.

Her thoughts moved slowly, and she felt strangely detached, as if someone had swabbed her with Novocain. There was no sharp stinging pain, no specific point of impact, only a spreading ache of hurt and disbelief. And the sixty-four-million-dollar question: How could she not have known?

In this town where her family's business had been the largest employer for more than a hundred years, someone should have known . . . and blabbed. And yet until a moment ago, she would have sworn her husband's only interest in ladies' underwear was manufacturing it.

The images ricocheted through her brain, bouncing off each other, raising more questions she couldn't answer.

Who had taken the pictures? Who did the female hand belong to? And how could a man who'd spent much of his waking life in a jockstrap and cleats look so good in a pale pink corset with tiny rosebuds down the front?

Miranda laid the pictures out on the desk. This was her husband. The man she'd met her first miraculous year of business school at Emory University. The man her family had deemed perfect for her . . . and whom she'd married fifteen years ago in the biggest wedding Truro had ever seen. The man she'd been trying to have children with for most of those fifteen years. The man who'd turned out to be somewhat . . . less . . . than she'd expected, but with whom she'd fully intended to grow old.

Icy tendrils of fear and dread wrapped themselves around her as she realized that no matter what happened next, her life would never be the same. If her husband wasn't who she thought he was, then who did that make her?

She fanned the photos out as a card player might, forcing herself to look at them again. Lifting the last one to the light, she studied the disembodied woman's hand resting so possessively on her husband's bare buttock, and a hot flash of anger melted some of the ice.

Another woman had fondled her husband's naked buns while he was dressed in women's lingerie.

Her stomach clenched, and she asked herself again how this could have happened. It was normal for married people to fall into their individual routines, normal for the excitement to dissipate after so many years together. It was not normal to miss something as big as this.

Had there been a "Gee, honey, I hope you don't mind but I really get off on dressing up in women's underclothes—which is really convenient since I run your family's brassiere and lingerie business—and I especially like to do this with other women's hands on my butt"?

Had she smiled over the morning paper and her to-do list for the Ladies' Guild and Miss Rhododendron Prep program and said, "That's nice, Tom. Can you pass the preserves?"

She sat, still numb, staring out the window trying to see . . . something. Trying to imagine what in the world she was supposed to do now.

Copyright © 2004 by Wendy Wax