Nec Temere, Nec Timide (3.3a)
Chapter 3.3a, 3.3b/Conclusion
(“Ring of Fire” by Johnny Cash)
Title: Nec Temere, Nec Timide (Neither Boldly, Nor Timidly)
Rating: MA (sexually explicit in 3.3b, the finale)
Pairing: Miranda/Andrea
Conclusion Length: approx 9000 words (split between 3.3a and 3.3b)
SUMMARY: Christmas Challenge/Gift request for liz_tempest . Request --"Andy breaks up with Nate after she leaves Runway and becomes a lawyer, a VERY successful lawyer, and is asked by Irv to be the lawyer for Runway and she accepts. Her and Miranda meet again, of course, and realize they are in love. And a VERY happy ending Please! Im all about smut so thats a plus. :)"
DISCLAIMER: The story idea - not mine; Main characters from the book and film versions of DWP - not mine; Real people, places, companies, products - not mine; some of the Elias-Clarke changes - ripped right from Conde Nast changes in 2009 - again, not mine; Miranda’s references to Hillary Clinton interview - see Editor’s Letter, December 2009 issue of Vogue - right, not mine; Story title is the motto of University of Edinburgh - (all together now) not mine. In summary - this whole, rather long yarn is like a ‘Where’s Waldo’ wherein you are challenged to find anything original, whatsoever. ☺
Andy quite literally slept like a baby, waking up every few hours. When Miranda rang her room at half past eight in the morning, she roused the young lawyer from slumber.
“Yes?” Andy fumbled with the bedside phone - dropping it on the bed before frantically digging through the covers to find it.
“Andrea? Andrea?” Miranda looked in the mirror, smoothed a finger over her eyebrow. About to hang up in frustration, she heard the young woman’s voice again.
“Um. Hello?”
“Andrea.”
“Hey, Miranda,” Andy smiled, cleared her throat. She sat up, untangling the bed sheet from around her.
“Were you still sleeping?” The query, laced with incredulity cut through sleepy haze.
“Um, well, yeah. I -“
“Pleasant dreams, I hope.” Miranda’s quiet voice had dropped an octave, sending a delightful tremor through Andy’s semi-somnolent frame. She ran a hand over her face, stimulating a small yawn, which, of course, Miranda heard. Andy froze, waiting for the inevitable retort.
“A living female version of Rip Van Winkle walking the planet. How ironic.”
“Why is that?” Andy massaged her neck, struggling to follow the conversation. Dark chestnut strands of hair fell across her face.
Miranda turned her back to the mirror and crossed to a desk, quite done with the subject and moving on, “Andrea, the papers are signed. I will be leaving to take the girls to the airport just after nine and should be back by 10:30.”
Andy was approaching conscious thought by now. Thankfully, Jennifer’s note with the flight information was in plain view for her to read from.
“That sounds good. The car is scheduled to pick us up at 11:00.”
“Mmm. I’ll let you get back to your dreams about…whatever it is lawyers dream about.”
There was a click of the line before Andy could respond. She replaced the handset on its base and fell back on the memory foam pillows littering the large bed. Laying there, she considered that if she continued to pursue a relationship with the fashion maven, she was going to have to accept the impossibility of Miranda displaying proper phone etiquette.
With a groan, Andy rolled out of bed and went to test out the shower that looked like a decontamination unit for a chemical weapon plant - the large, white tile space full of nozzles and knobs.
A short time later, as she was applying her make-up, a loud knock echoed through her suite. Andy strolled down the small hallway, opening her door to discover Miranda.
“Well, at least you’re up. That’s a good sign.” The white-haired woman handed off a mug as she entered the suite. Andy looked at it, confused.
“Coffee, Andrea.”
“Oh, thank you.”
“You were still getting ready.” Miranda dipped her chin in the direction of Andy’s other hand, clutching a tube of mascara.
“Hmm? Yeah.” Andy took a sip of the coffee, and as she lowered the mug, she looked down, damp hair falling around her shoulders.
“Are those the Marilyn Monroe Ferragamos?” Andy queried, spying the classically designed black and white heels.
“I believe you mean the Viatica Ferragamos. While Marilyn may have made them famous, they aren’t actually named after her.” Miranda gave a small nod to Andy.
“Are you kidding? Half the women at Trump L.A. would kill for them.”
“And what would you do?” Miranda’s voice dropped as she placed a steadying hand on the mug, which Andy had been dangerously tipping while admiring the shoes, Miranda’s outfit, and…Miranda. The shoes complemented the loose-fitting black slacks and Tom Ford black-and-white checker designed blouse. Andy found the outfit understated the woman’s curve of hip, curve of breast - tantalizing in what it didn’t reveal.
Andy shivered as Miranda’s fingers brushed against her own along the cup’s edge. She leaned in, sweeping her lips along a corner of Miranda’s mouth before whispering her response.
“Forget the shoes. I’d kill for the woman wearing them.” Her stomach flip-flopped and her heart fluttered at the small keening sound that emanated from Miranda’s throat. Slowly, they separated, and Andy marveled as she stared into dilated pupils. Shifting her gaze, a lazy grin crossed her face at the sight of a tinge of pink skin along the other woman’s long neck.
“Here are the papers.” Miranda snapped into business mode, reached into her purse, pulled out a bundle to hand off.
“Um, thanks.” Andy balanced the mascara and packet of papers in one hand, coffee in the other. As she juggled the items, she was vaguely aware that Miranda was sizing up her Diane von Furstenberg classic wrap dress in a navy and white print. When she looked up, Miranda was focused on the V-neck of the dress and clearly displayed cleavage, eyes unfocused.
“I need to go.” Miranda suddenly turned, opened the front door.
“Wait, I-,” but the door was already closing as Miranda slipped out. Andy sighed, defeated. She looked at the clock - it was after nine o’clock, which meant the woman was likely headed to the airport run with the twins and their friends. Nonetheless, Andy was starting to become irritated by way Miranda could turn her on and then leave her wanting. She finished her make-up and called Mike’s assistant to pass along that she would have the signed papers back in the office late that afternoon. After packing up her small carry-on bag, and rechecking her make-up, hair, and dress several times in the mirror, Andy glanced at the clock. Seeing that it was approaching eleven, she made her way down to the front desk to check out.
Miranda was already there, directing the bellboy as he rolled her three large suitcases out to the waiting car.
“There you are. Is that all your luggage?” Miranda peered around Andy, brow faintly furrowed at the lack of sizeable baggage.
“Yep.” Andy felt self-conscious as her bag was thrown with ease atop the pile in the trunk of the large Mercedes sedan. The ride to the airport was quiet, and once they were buckled in on the plane, Andy turned to Miranda.
“Aren’t you glad you aren’t in a flying teenage tube of terror?” Andy gave a wide grin, feeling quite the wordsmith.
There was a snort in response. Andy reached over and put a hand on Miranda’s lap, fingers gently caressing through slacks in small half-circles, “I’m glad that you’re flying back with me.”
“Andrea, I,” Miranda’s hand grasped Andy’s from her thigh, shaking as her fingers curled around the younger woman’s palm. She didn’t finish the sentence, but moved Andy’s hand to the plush leather arm rest/console between them and pulled a couple of newspapers out of her black and white Kate Spade handbag. Andy watched as the older woman slid her glasses into place and began to peruse the New York Times. After a moment, the lawyer sighed and pulled out her laptop to review her notes on a nuisance suit involving Asian Runway.
Miranda didn’t take too long to tear through the newspapers. In her peripheral vision, Andy noticed the other woman tuck the papers in the seat’s side pocket and slide out a bright orange folder emblazoned with ‘Versace’. The Editor’s earlier aborted statement was gnawing at her, so she shut her laptop and cleared her throat.
Miranda glanced at her then looked back at the unopened folder, fingering the edges of the cover, but not opening it, either. Neither said anything for several minutes. Andy sat patiently, waiting out the older woman’s silence.
“I’m not looking for some silly mid-life crisis affair.”
“Okaaay.”
Miranda raised her chin to face Andy, taking in the waves of chestnut hair framing the younger woman’s face, the faint trace of freckles across the bridge of Andy’s nose, the large, espresso-colored irises that lulled her into their depths.
“It has taken years to establish Runway as the standard by which all other fashion magazines are judged, because it has attained and maintained a level of perfection by which the fashion industry itself strives for, Andrea. I’ve heard stories come and go over the years about ‘The Dragon Lady,’ ‘The Ice Queen,’ ‘The Devil in Prada.’ Stories in which I terrorize, maim, or even eat staff members. Such myths and have served as a sign that I’ve been doing my job - after all, if they are nipping at my heels, it is because they cannot reach any higher - Runway is the Mount Everest that others only dream of conquering.” She looked out the window, her eyes not focused on the wisps of cloud that swirled by them, but at some scene playing out in her head.
“I’ve finally reached the plateau at the summit, where I can risk a little, where Runway’s success is secure enough that I can use my position, my clout, to truly influence others-wisely, with consideration. Five years ago, I wouldn’t have been able to criticize Condoleezza Rice’s lack of fashion, even cautiously, without worrying how it might affect sales or cause backlash. Now, Runway is secure in its status, and I can pan the current Secretary of State’s horrid sense of fashion - and then coerce her into a six-page spread on the challenges and rewards in her position as she finally breaks free of her ex-Presidential husband’s shadow.” Miranda’s shoulders twitched, “And if readers are a little stirred up, so be it. But,” Now the snowy head turned so that an intense gaze could be directed towards Andy, “I will not frivolously throw away all that Runway is, all that I am. I refuse to end up as yet another old woman chasing after an impossible dream.”
Miranda returned to gazing out the window, her shoulders drooping somewhat, diatribe complete.
“Is Cecilia, is the Board, asking you to…chase after an impossible dream, as you put it?” Andy felt like she was missing something obvious, only she didn’t quite know what.
“No.” Miranda snapped her head around to pierce Andy yet again with icy blue-grey eyes. “You are.”
Andy made a small jump, feeling her seatbelt cut into the thin material of her dress. She knew better than to try and decipher the poker face that had slid into place obscuring the Editor’s message. Unable to read Miranda’s non-verbal communication and fully aware that asking further questions was out, Andy sat there and thought over what she did have to work with - what Miranda had said. She pondered over possible meanings to the ‘I didn’t come this far’ soliloquy and the ‘impossible dream’ phrase. Most of what she had heard she couldn’t see as being about her, but the initial words, what Miranda had started off with…’silly mid-life crisis affair,’ or something along those lines…
Righteous anger started to build up at the thought that Miranda might have, likely had, made assumptions, shallow conclusions, about Andy and her intentions. Miranda had been pushing her away while pulling her close, and Andy wasn’t going to sit there and take it any longer.
“If you were looking for this, for me, to be some mid-life fling, then you are definitely chasing after an impossible dream, Miranda freakin’ Priestly. I am not some toy you can play with and toss to the side, or, some ‘silly crisis’ or ‘affair.’ And I don’t know where you would get the idea that I asked you to participate in such an arrangement, let alone want that myself.” Andy undid her seat belt and went to the small lavatory for a minute to cool down.
When she emerged, Andy contemplated sitting in one of the other two seats in the plane’s small cabin - seats that put space between her and Miranda. This internal debate was interrupted by the instigator herself.
“Andrea. Sit down.” Voice weary, pleading. Following a short pause came a singular word, the clincher, “Please.”
Miranda didn’t use unnecessary words. Extraneous niceties indicating gratitude, greeting, or farewell weren’t even in her vocabulary. The shock, therefore, of hearing ‘please’ fall from the woman’s lips shocked Andy. She sat down next to Miranda.
“Did you just say ‘please’?” Andy squeaked out.
“If I’m going to get looks like that and interrogated for it, then the answer is ‘No.’” Andy raised an eyebrow and her chin to look at Miranda, surprised to see a quirk of the Editor’s lips.
“When I dropped the girls off at the airport, it started me thinking… Andrea, I have no experience in a same-sex relationship, and two failed marriages do not bode well. I am not sure that I can promise a fairy tale ending. If we pursue things further, we’ll both regret it.”
Andy sat there, stunned.
The pilot came on over the intercom to let them know they would be landing momentarily. As their bags were transferred to the Elias-Clarke sedan, Andy realized she couldn’t handle Miranda predetermining her fate and shutting her out just when she thought they were making progress. The older woman quietly climbed into the back seat while the last bags were carried over to the trunk.
“I’ll take that one,” Andy took her bag from the driver. “I’ll be taking alternate transportation.” The driver gave her a quizzical look.
“Ma’am, I’ll send Jake with one of the other cars for you. I don’t think you’ll find another way to safely get back otherwise.”
“Fine.” She watched as he climbed into the car and drove off. She extended the handle on the bag, ensured her briefcase and purse were settled on her shoulder, and began walking across the tarmac to the small, but elegantly appointed building attached to the control tower. The heat radiating up at her caused trickles of sweat to form along her hairline, quickly tickling the back of her neck before she had traveled more than 50 feet. By the time she made it to the building, Andy had a slick sheen along her arms, neck, and face. She went straight in to the women’s lounge to cool down and freshen up while awaiting her ride.
Emerging from the bathroom, Andy found Miranda standing just inside the building’s entrance, the black company car idling outside.
“You do NOT get to walk away from me again.” There was a tremble to her voice, but Andy couldn’t see her eyes or read the expression on her face, as the overly large Louis Vuitton sunglasses obscured so much from view.
“Fine.” Andy circled around Miranda and out the door. She kept her back to the woman while the driver popped the trunk and carefully nudged Andy’s bag inside.
Once the car was moving, Andy flipped a switch along the door panel, causing a glass partition to rise between the front and back of the vehicle, affording her some privacy as she prepared to chew out the Editor-in-Chief of Elias-Clarke’s most revered magazine.
“I’m not the young and innocent assistant anymore, believing in a Disney-esque ‘happily ever after’. While I know perfectly well about your abysmal track record in the relationship department, I also know what I want, and whom I want. I am aware of the counts against us, but believe that anything, or anyone, worth having means getting hurt sometimes. Of course, for quite some time, I didn’t think I would find someone worth getting hurt over. And it’s no secret that you can be a callous, inconsiderate force of nature. Despite that, I want you, Miranda. I want you, because I know you are all those things, but you are also more. You are sexy, smart, and have an incredible heart. It is a given that pursing a relationship with Miranda Priestly is not for the faint of heart - you tempt and aggravate all at once. Somehow, I thought you might see me as more than another opportunity for failure in your personal life. I had hoped you wouldn’t just write me off without even giving your heart, or mine, a chance. Not a promise, but a chance.”
Andy’s anger started to subside a little, and her tear ducts prepared to kick into action, “It just seems wrong that I finally realize I’ve been wanting you, looking for you ever since that day in Paris, five…or maybe six years ago? Only now that I know that I want you and have you within reach, I get turned away.” She took a steadying breath, internally cursing herself for not maintaining her cool.
They were both silent for several long minutes, the faint hum of traffic flowing over the vehicle.
“Six years, eight months, and two…no, three weeks.”
It took Andy a moment for what she heard to work through the layers of hurt and anguish so she could absorb what it meant if Miranda had kept precise track of the length of time since the Paris incident.
She could feel Miranda’s eyes on her, but was afraid once she looked into them, she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears that still threatened to spill over her lower lashes. Andy swallowed back her emotions, steeled herself. Dragging her eyes up, she lifted a hand to Miranda’s chin. Slowly, she leant in to bestow a gentle kiss, keeping her eyes on the woman’s lips, her cheek, her neck - anywhere but those blue-grey orbs which she knew would surely be her undoing.
When Andy pulled back, she realized there was a drop of moisture on her upper lip - a teardrop? But, she wasn’t crying, and she was certain that it wasn’t sweat after she had been sure to do a thorough freshening up at Teterboro’s lavish ladies’ room.
With her heart feeling like it was literally twisting in agony within her chest, she turned her gaze to see faint lines of moisture running down the older woman’s cheeks.
“Hey,” her voice cracked, and the hand still resting on Miranda’s chin wobbled a little.
Miranda grasped that hand, raised it, and kissed a finger with gentle reverence. She kissed another, and a third, then turned Andy’s hand over and placed kisses along the inside of Andy’s wrist.
Andy pulled her arm away, causing Miranda to look up, concern etched across a porcelain face. Wordlessly, Andy tapped a finger to her lips, directing the other woman to where she wished the next kiss to land. Obligingly, Miranda leant in.
The duration of the car ride was spent in gentle caresses, fingers tracing over faces, ears, necks, arms; tickling along necklines, hem lines, and bra straps; cupping, weighing, and massaging breasts; smoothing over stomachs and tugging at hips. When they pulled to a stop in front of work, Andy wasn’t sure how Miranda had come to end up unbelted and sprawled across her lap. She didn’t much care, either.
With not a little regret, they disentangled themselves, pressed out the wrinkles in their outfits, and made their way inside. When they both got on the same elevator, no one in the lobby said a word. Andy went straight to Jennifer’s desk and dropped off the paperwork Miranda had signed. She went into her office to catch up on email communications with the assistants of the other Runway magazines regarding travel and meeting times with the Board the following week.
About an hour later, Mike called her into his office.
“I guess the ‘lay low’ part of negotiations didn’t work.” He continued to make notes along the margins of the document he was reviewing.
Andy blinked in confusion, but quickly recovered, “I suppose that depends.”
Mike looked up at her, his face incredulous, “Andy. It depends? She’s upstairs working. I don’t think you can convince me that such behavior is ‘laying low’ by any definition.”
Andy’s Trump experience helped her to keep her poker face even as her mind reeled as she searched her memory for the ‘lay low’ reference. Then, it hit her. She had forgotten to tell Miranda about staying out of the office.
“Go talk to her. Except for her brief meeting with the Board on Monday morning, she needs to be out of the office until after Wednesday. As per our previous conversation.”
“Mike. I-I need to trade with someone else. I can’t be the liaison for Runway any more.”
With a sigh, he laid his pen down, reclined back in his chair, and gave her a long, evaluative look.
“Sit down.” Andy hesitated then slid into the seat. She reiterated her desire to trade publication assignments with one of her colleagues.
“Bulls-t.” Mike replied. “Why do you think you went with me to see Cecilia? Why do you think you were the one assigned to Runway?”
Andy snorted, “Why don’t you tell me?” Deftly placing the onus on him to explain, she sat back and waited for his response.
Mike ran a hand through his thinning hair and clearly weighed whether to explain or not.
“American Runway is Elias-Clarke’s anchor publication, its foreign offshoots a success beyond our wildest dreams. You are our department’s shining star, Ms. Sachs, thus a perfect match. Not to mention, this will prepare you for the road ahead. I fully expect you to be able to take over the reigns when I retire next year.”
Andy was VERY sure that what she thought she heard couldn’t really be true. And her disbelief must have been obvious.
“You excelled at Trump Enterprises, after Stanford and at Runway, before Stanford. Your ability to shine while working for two, notoriously demanding employers shows that you are more than capable of mitigating the fallout of difficult personalities. So, I find it intriguing that you are sitting here telling me that you can’t do what you so obviously excel at.”
Andy didn’t seem convinced, her eyes cast downward at her hands resting in her lap.
“To state the obvious - Donald Trump is able to work effectively with his children, because they are able to be professionals with each other at work. Whether they just had a fight or just had a ‘Hallmark card’ moment as a family, they set that aside when at work. I know you have history, good and bad, with Miranda Priestly, but bottom line - get over it. Find a way to do your job, and find it fast. Don’t come in here again begging for a reassignment.”
He took a slow breath and looked her square in the eye, “Now go upstairs and get her out of the office. Except for Monday morning’s meeting with the Board, I don’t want to hear about her entering the building again until next Thursday. Go.”
He picked up his pen, cleared his throat, and went back to reviewing the papers on his desk. Andy slipped out of his office, took a deep breath, grabbed her purse, and strode towards the elevators. She had a hard time accepting how much the emotional roller coaster ride the past few days had drained her. Before going upstairs to tell Miranda to go home, she decided a little caffeine boost was in order.
After securing a tray full of beverages, she boarded the elevator going up, hopefully for the last time that day. When she emerged on the ninth floor, she made a beeline for the Art Department.
“Hey, Nigel.”
“Six. I don’t know whether to kiss you or tar and feather you.”
“Why?”
“Well, the Queen Bee is in a good mood after being out of the office for just over a week. That is a never-before-seen phenomena, rarer than Halley’s Comet.”
“Halley’s Comet?”
“Never mind. It’s beside the point, because I could also strangle you. Whatever you discussed on your little trip down to sizzling Miami put a definite smile on her face. But it also made a lot of people nervous. I have colleagues from French, British, Asian, and Brazilian Runway all trying to pump me for information on why the lawyer newly assigned to the Runway family made a special trip to see Miranda. I can’t finish coordinating the October cover shoot if I’m having to constantly tell everyone that I know nothing.”
“Here, have a coffee, Nigel. And, think of it this way, when you tell them you don’t know anything, that’s a good thing. Plausible deniability can be your friend, Nige. Let it in.”
He retorted, “I don’t need to let in any friend that can’t take five pounds from Kate Hudson’s waist.” Setting down the ocular lens, he raised his eyes to stare her down.
“Feeling puckish?”
“No,” he responded as he again leant over his light board. “I’m jealous. You must have met a hot Miami dish over mojitos. It seems wholly unfair that both you and ‘la Priestly’ should return in such good spirits.”
“You’ll be smiling soon enough.”
He gasped and stood up straight.
“Jacqueline getting ousted at last?” He glowed at the possibility. “There is no way she should have been allowed back after the falling out with James Holt last year.”
Andy burst out laughing, “Nigel, Nigel, Nigel. Wait and see.” The whole way across the 9th floor to Miranda’s office, Andy created various mental images of his reaction when he found out about Jacqueline and his possible reassignment. She also pondered what his reaction might be to whom the ‘hot Miami dish’ was that she had, in fact, snagged.
Charity, strangely enough, wasn’t at her desk. Andy gave the area a cursory glance, left one of the beverages and the tray on the younger woman’s desk, and stepped through the double doors to the inner office, the warmth of Miranda’s drink searing into one hand, while her own iced beverage chilling the other.
Miranda’s chair was turned towards the large windows, the sun’s slow descent sending rays of light bouncing off the windows of nearby office buildings and setting the older woman’s silvery white hair aglow. Andy took a deep breath and circled around the large wooden desk, holding the hot cup just in front of the nearest well-manicured hand.
“That was fast.” Miranda murmured, unmoving in her seat. The comment clarified to Andy why Charity was missing.
“I worship at the Church of St. Arbucks almost as regularly as you, Miranda.” The sound of Andy’s voice caught the Editor off guard, and she turned in her chair, staring at the young lawyer standing so close she could smell the familiar notes of cinnamon in Andy’s perfume.
“Miranda, your communion chalice?” She placed the hot beverage on the desk in front of the woman. They stared at one another in silence for a moment. Andy could see that Miranda was struggling between several possible responses.
“I have that conference call with the Board in ten minutes -since I, we, were traveling at the time they originally wanted to talk. Do you need something?”
“Well, yes. I need to tell you that after your call, if the Board doesn’t tell you this themselves, it has been requested that you work from home until Thursday. Several Elias-Clarke Senior Editors and other employees will be negatively impacted by the restructuring meetings next week. It would be to your benefit to be out of sight. I meant to tell you before we got back.” Andy intently studied the ice cubes floating around in her iced latte, as she swirled the straw.
“Well, that will be something I’ll definitely be discussing with the Board during the call. Is that all?” Miranda briefly glanced up through her lashes at Andy, then returned her gaze to her own drink, which she made a point to sip while leaning back in her chair. Clearly, both women were working to keep their discussion on topic. Andy broke down first.
“Actually, I was also wondering if you were free for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” came the immediate reply. “Six o’clock. I’ll have Nora make her legendary lasagna.” Andy almost broke out in laughter. The rapid response was an obvious sign that the older woman had been contemplating the idea of a dinner date as well. Miranda’s fingers restlessly playing with the cardboard sleeve around her cup.
Andy grinned, “Sounds great.” She turned a little, waiting to be dismissed, but the usual ‘That’s all’ remark never came. Seeing Miranda turning her attention to her laptop, Andy figured she was clear to leave. When she got back to her office, the plethora of emails from Brazilian and British Runway staff were reproducing like rabbits, filling up her Inbox with useless queries and endless requests. Almost two hours later, she heeded the sound of her stomach growling and closed up her office for the evening.
Her loft was welcoming in its silence. As she sat back with the latest copy of the Stanford Law Review, her phone’s generic ring tone went off. Not recognizing the number, she hesitated to answer it.
“Hello, this is Andy.”
“Missing anything?”
Startled, she almost spilled her dirty martini, “Well, um, there’s the obvious answer - you.”
A small chuckle warmed her in places that her drink couldn’t touch, “Andrea. You must listen more carefully. I asked if you were missing ‘anything’ not ‘anyone.’”
“Oh.” Andy pondered this while setting down the heavy tumbler.
“Your suitcase was obviously so small, you’ve forgotten it altogether.”
Wildly, Andy cast her gaze around the living room, remembering as she did so, that she had left her travel case in the trunk of the car that afternoon.
“It will be here at the house when you come over tomorrow, as it didn’t seem to have anything you needed urgently enough to remember it…I can have it delivered tonight, if you prefer.”
“Tomorrow is fine. Thanks, Miranda.”
“Very well.” Andy smiled as the phone line clicked.
On to final bit (3.3b) here... http://mirandaminerva.livejournal.com/6098.html