It's strange, and maybe a little sad, that the house feels no emptier now that Stephen is gone. In fact, the air seems a little lighter, as if a storm cloud has recently passed or Miranda has been holding her breath for eons and now, finally, can breathe again.
Andrea did not accompany them to the townhouse from the airport, though Miranda insisted on dropping her at home rather than leaving her prey to whatever unsavory characters frequent the subway at such an ungodly hour of the night. The girls enjoyed the trip immensely, having never before ventured west of Broadway.
"Andy's awesome," Cassidy said the moment the limousine door clicked shut. "Why didn't you tell us you had a cool friend, Mom?"
"She loves the Harry Potter books," Caroline chimed in. "And did you know she played rugby in college?"
Miranda blinked under the onslaught of questions, entirely unprepared to deal with her daughters' good mood. She had expected tearful accusations about how she'd driven away yet another father figure from their lives. She hadn't expected hero worship. She hadn't expected Andrea.
(No, she hadn't known that Andrea played rugby, nor that she lived in the most derelict part of Hell's Kitchen. And it was possible, despite everything, that she still hadn't quite realized until this week that she had such a "cool friend" in Andrea Sachs.)
"Mom?" Caroline yawns now as Miranda tucks her into bed.
"Yes, Bobbsey?" Miranda feels love heavy in her breast as she brushes a strand of fiery hair from her daughter's face.
"We're glad Stephen's gone. He made you sad."
For a moment, she hates herself. Hates that her daughters were so unhappy, apparently, with her husband, and that she hadn't seen it. She pushes that hatred aside to smile tenderly. "You know what?" she whispers. "I'm glad, too."
This time, Caroline's yawn is wide enough for Miranda to see her back teeth. "I like Andy," she mumbles. "You should keep her."
Miranda presses a kiss to her daughter's forehead. "I fully intend to," she confides to the sleeping child.
With Fashion Week over and her soon-to-be-ex-husband very much gone, Miranda finds herself in the almost unprecedented position of having free time.
On Monday morning, sunglasses firmly in place to conceal the lingering effects of jetlag, she emerges from the elevator, accepts her steaming coffee from a crutch-bound Emily, and strides with purpose towards her office, ready to begin handling the many disasters sure to have sprung up in her absence.
Emily follows at her heels, crutches squeaking obnoxiously against the tile, her recitation of Miranda's daily line-up punctuated by the occasional gasp of discomfort. She finishes with: "—and then you need to get out of the building by 5:30 or Irv is going to hijack you for that event with the male advertisers at that gentleman's club you hate."
Miranda waits for the next item; she frowns when nothing comes. "Surely there's more."
Emily fumbles to look at her notepad without toppling off of her crutches. Miranda's steps falter as she considers pausing out of consideration for the girl's handicap. Scoffing at herself, she quickens her pace instead. A few seconds later, Emily catches up, panting.
"The only other events planned for tonight are ones you declined weeks ago. You can show up to any of them, of course. There's that party at—"
"No," Miranda says. "That's all." She strides into her office, inhaling the familiar aroma of hard work and good taste with satisfaction. She glances at the pile of papers that have accumulated on her desk as she sinks into her chair. After a moment's thought, she calls Emily's name. "One more thing," she says. "Get me the number for a reputable florist."
Emily frowns. "Do you need—that is, I can order anything you want, Miranda."
Miranda's stare is frosty. "Did I ask you to order me something?"
Emily squeaks. "I'll get you that number."
Two minutes later, Miranda is on the line with a happy, chipper voice, the likes of which normally gives her a migraine.
"Two dozen roses," she says for the third time. The florist has the memory of a goldfish. "Delivered to Andrea Sachs at Auto Universe in the Elias-Clarke building. Repeat that back to me."
Finally, mercifully, the girl does so successfully.
"I expect your best roses," Miranda adds sharply. "Beautiful specimens. Roses fit for the cover of a magazine."
"Don't worry, ma'am, all of our flowers are really nice!"
Miranda grits her teeth. "Fit. For. A. Magazine. Cover."
"You betcha. What do you want the note to say?"
Miranda considers. "'Thank you. Dinner tonight?'"
There's a pause on the other end. "Is that all? How about, 'You're the most amazing person. Thank you for everything. Let me take you out tonight.'?"
Miranda pulls the phone away from her ear to stare at it incredulously, wondering whether Emily has grown a sufficient spine to begin playing practical jokes.
"Hello?" the girl says.
Miranda takes a deep breath and reminds herself that this is for Andrea. For Andrea, she can be patient. "No. Write what I told you to write. No more, no less."
The girl sighs, exasperated. "Fine. How do you want to sign it?"
"No signature. She'll know who it's from."
"We'll get it over to her later this morning. I'll take your credit card information whenever you're ready."
Miranda jabs the button to transfer the call to Emily. "Handle the payment for this, Emily," she calls out. "Use my personal funds."
"Yes, Miranda."
Leaning back in her chair, Miranda smiles. Then she glimpses the bizarre expression worn by a model on one of the spreads on her desk and, scowling, prepares to rip someone's head off.
"Thank you for the flowers," Andrea says the moment Miranda picks up the phone. It is 11:15 a.m., and the sound of her voice washes away Miranda's headache so effectively she wishes she could bottle it for future use. "They're beautiful."
Not as beautiful as their recipient, Miranda thinks. Then she realizes what she just thought and frowns.
"Everyone down here thinks Nate must be trying to pull himself out of the dog house," Andrea adds with a chuckle.
Beautiful, Miranda thinks again, and remembers Andrea's face in the limousine on Friday night: the kindness in her eyes, the strength in her jaw.
"Miranda? Are you there?"
"Dinner tonight," Miranda says, repeating the invitation from the card. "Are you free?" She takes a long sip of Perrier to cool the warmth that's flickered to life inside her.
"I wish I could, but I have plans with Nate. I can do tomorrow, if that works for you."
Nate, Nate, Nate. Miranda is so sick of hearing that name. It was bad enough when Andrea refused to go to Paris because she didn't want to confuse their friendship by working for Miranda. Andrea turning down Miranda's offer to spend time with that fry cook suddenly seems ten times worse.
Her stomach hurts. It feels as if her insides have been twisted into knots. She realizes, in horror, that she is jealous.
"I'm busy tomorrow," she snaps. "I have to go." She hangs up before Andrea can object.
She clutches the arms of her chair, staring at nothing, and considers what she knows:
1. Andrea is her friend. She values that friendship more highly than any other in her life. The thought of doing to Andrea what she did to Nigel makes her vaguely ill.
2. She envies a nobody, a wannabe Emeril, for having a stronger claim to Andrea's time.
3. Apparently, she is attracted to Andrea. Physically. A lifetime spent surrounded by models, and now, for the first time, Miranda finds herself desperate to know what it feels like to hold another woman close.
Taken together, and considered as dispassionately as Miranda can manage, these facts point to one inescapable conclusion: Miranda has feelings for Andrea Sachs. Romantic feelings.
There are other things, however, which she also knows to be true:
1. Andrea is trying to work it out with her boyfriend, the man she lives with, a man she has been committed to for quite some time.
2. Andrea is roughly half Miranda's age. (Less than half, her conscience supplies helpfully.)
3. Andrea is a brilliant, driven writer with limitless potential. Though she thinks she relies on Miranda for inspiration, the truth is that she will soar, eventually, with no help at all. Just ask The Cincinnati Monthly's no doubt ecstatic editor-in-chief.
4. Miranda has two children, is a woman, and has barely begun what will be a lengthy and uncomfortable second divorce. She would be a catch for a wealthy man who needed a feather in his cap, or a magnate seeking a partner with whom to impress and overpower elite society. She is not a catch for a young, ambitious woman who still believes it's possible to have it all.
It simply couldn't work, Miranda thinks regretfully. There is no version of this story where she and Andrea end up happy together, walking through clouds of flower petals in Central Park as an officiant waits to conduct some sort of ceremony.
She has Andrea's friendship and genuine affection. To hope for more would be avarice.
She takes these newfound romantic feelings and places them in a box. She nails the box shut. She wraps a thick towel around it. She drapes it in chains, which she then padlocks. She paddles it out to sea and, without hesitation, drops it into the deepest part of the ocean.
There. Done. What a silly notion, to think she could be in love with Andrea Sachs.
Still, when Andrea calls a few minutes later, no doubt intending to continue their aborted conversation, Miranda does not answer. She stares at the phone and listens as it rings and rings and rings.
On Wednesday, Andrea Sachs makes her first appearance in the Runway offices since that terribly attired interview all those months ago.
Miranda is in a relatively pleasant mood as she rides the elevator, remembering how delighted her daughters had been to go to Peter Luger for steak the night before. That good mood gives way to blank surprise when the doors part to reveal Emily and Andrea arguing with their backs to her, each holding a steaming Starbucks cup.
"—out of here, immediately, or I shall have Security force you out," Emily is saying, trembling with impatience, or perhaps rage.
"It's really not what you think," Andrea says. There's a hint of laughter in her voice which shows that she, at least, is not taking this confrontation seriously.
Emily is so incensed that she hasn't noticed Miranda's arrival. "Look here, you, Miranda rejected you once already. Most people take the hint after the first time. Don't be stupid enough to make her do it again. Miranda Priestly has been known to make seasoned Marines cry." Emily sounds almost proud about that last bit.
Andrea twists her head slightly to quirk an eyebrow at Miranda, who absolutely does not experience any butterflies in her stomach at the smile that plays along the other woman's lips. "Is that so?" Andrea says in a tone of polite inquiry.
"She'll make you regret being born," Emily goes on, really picking up steam now, gesturing with the coffee cup for emphasis. "She'll see to it you never find a job in New York again. Look, I don't blame you for wanting the job a million girls would kill for, but you're simply not good enough. Now, leave."
She gives Andrea a little shove, and that's when she catches sight of Miranda watching them with absolutely no expression.
"Miranda! Don't worry, I was just getting rid of—"
"Andrea Sachs?" Miranda says, nodding her thanks as she accepts the coffee Andrea proffers.
Emily trips over thin air, barely catching herself on a crutch. She gapes at Andrea. "You—you're—you are—Andrea—"
"Sachs," Andrea finishes for her agreeably, eyes gleaming with mischief.
"Oh," Emily says faintly. "Of course. Andy Sachs." She glances at Miranda. "I feel rather foolish now."
Andrea pats her on the arm. "Don't. Miranda didn't remember my name either."
Not liking this turn of the conversation, Miranda reclaims control. "Was there something you needed, Andrea?"
The younger woman's smile falters. "Yes, actually. Do you have a minute?"
Emily opens her mouth, no doubt to rattle off the seventy-five items that desperately need Miranda's attention first thing this morning.
"Of course," Miranda says.
Emily's mouth snaps shut. Her stare turns frankly incredulous.
Miranda tilts her head in the direction of her office. "Come. Emily, we're not to be disturbed."
"Yes, Miranda."
Miranda wonders whether Andrea can feel Emily's glare on her back as they walk away. Perhaps she does; she waits until they are safely ensconced in Miranda's office with the door shut before chuckling. "You've got a real guard dog there. For a minute, I thought she was going to toss me out the window with her bare hands."
"Emily is fiercely loyal," Miranda concedes, sipping her scorching coffee. Perfection. "It makes up for the many other areas in which she falls tragically short." She regards Andrea over the rim of her cup. The younger woman is wearing a black pencil shirt. Classic. It pairs nicely with a maroon blouse, which Miranda takes a moment to study. It isn't one of the pieces she picked out, yet it looks familiar. Ah, yes—it was featured in Paris at a show for a new designer. Douglas must have brought it back. It suits Andrea very well.
"Tell me, what could possibly merit a visit from Andrea Sachs to my humble office?"
Andrea snorts in acknowledgement of the jest, but there is little amusement in her expression. "You've been avoiding me."
Miranda inhales sharply. "That's absurd."
"Miranda, you haven't taken any of my calls for two days straight."
"I'm a very busy woman," she says with a touch of scorn. "Much as I might wish I could drop everything for a chat whenever you feel like talking, I can't."
"Bullshit." Andrea pronounces the word so firmly, with such precision, that its meaning takes a second to penetrate.
Miranda scowls. "Excuse me?"
"Don't use one of your Stephen excuses on me, Miranda Priestly," Andrea says, stalking forward to lean into Miranda's personal space. "Tell me you don't want to talk to me—fine. Tell me you're annoyed by something I've done—great, hopefully I can fix it. But don't freeze me out. Don't blame work, not when we both know that you are more the master of your own destiny than anyone else in this building—maybe this entire city."
Miranda brushes the pads of two fingers across her left cheek, wondering whether her flush is visible. As usual, Andrea has seen right through her.
The woman is dangerous, she remembers. She should continue to put distance between them. She should push Andrea away.
"I regret that I couldn't do dinner last night," she says instead. "Are you free tonight?"
She wishes she could touch the smile that blooms on that lovely face in reply.
It isn't until that afternoon that Miranda remembers she promised her children that they would attempt a home cooked meal tonight. It's something their therapist recommends, in light of the pending divorce. "Quality time," the man calls it, and if she didn't know better she would think he got his license from a fortune cookie.
When she calls Andrea to reschedule dinner and, furious with herself, explains why, the other woman laughs. "You in an apron? Now, that's something I'd like to see."
"Then come over," Miranda says, and wonders from whence this new impulsiveness has sprung. "I can't promise the lasagna will be edible, but your presence might be enough to distract my daughters while I place a discreet call to Luigi's."
Andrea laughs again, a wonderful sound. "You're on. Though I highly doubt any clandestine calls will be required."
"If you don't mind waiting until 6:30, I'll give you a ride to the townhouse."
"That's perfect. I can use the extra time to work on the submission letter for my article. I'm really glad you liked it, by the way, if I didn't say so already."
"Well. Good. 6:30. I'll see you then."
Although she and Andrea have ridden together in the backs of cars on multiple occasions—last time with Caroline, Cassidy, and Cara piled on top of them—this time feels different. Have her knees always bumped against Andrea's when Roy takes a slightly too-sharp turn? Has Andrea's hair always carried that enticing aroma of vanilla and lavender? Has there always been that light dusting of freckles across her cheekbone?
"—they doing with everything?" Andrea asks.
Miranda pauses. She hasn't been listening. "Hm?"
"The twins. How are they handling everything?"
"They're extremely resilient," Miranda says, proud of them, always. Her lips quirk as she adds, "They'll be over the moon to see you tonight. Apparently, you are 'cool'."
Sure enough, when Miranda opens the door to the townhouse, she's greeted by the usual stampede of girls and very large dog, Cara trailing behind wearing an expression of polite welcome. The girls greet Miranda happily enough, but when they catch sight of Andrea they let out a squeal that makes Miranda's eyes water and hurl themselves at their visitor. Even Patricia seems more interested in investigating the intruder than greeting her master. Miranda searches her feelings and finds not a shred of envy; not with the girls so happy and Andrea grinning with effortless kindness.
They drag Andrea into the kitchen, one girl clinging to either hand, and plunk her down on a stool at the massive marble island.
"Want something to drink, Andy?" Caroline says eagerly. "Water, or juice, or—"
"I will handle Andrea's beverage," Miranda says, shooting Andrea a wink as she retrieves the corkscrew from a drawer. She can't remember the last time she winked at someone. This might have been a first.
She and Stephen were saving a bottle of Chateau D'Yquem for their anniversary. She expertly uncorks it and pours two glasses. "Salut."
"Cheers," Andrea says, clinking her glass against Miranda's.
"Us too," Cassidy insists, so they repeat the toast with the girls' juice glasses and drink.
"Girls, why don't you and Andrea get better acquainted while I cook," Miranda suggests. She leaves Andrea to their tender mercies and goes to rummage through the pantry to unearth her apron. Finding it tucked away in a corner, she pulls it on over her DKNY blouse and swiftly ties the strings behind her back. When she emerges, the twins are in the midst of bragging about their third-place science fair project. They neglect to mention that Emily and Emily II did most of the work.
Andrea is nodding along, doing a good impression of finding their chatter interesting—or, wonder of wonders, perhaps genuinely interested—and then she sees Miranda and lets out the loudest guffaw Miranda has ever heard.
Miranda smirks, striking a pose to show off her apparel to its best effect. Never let it be said that she failed to dress for an occasion.
"What were you expecting?" she asks dryly. "Valentino?"
"Anything but that," Andrea says, tears leaking from her eyes with the force of her laughter.
Caroline bounces up and down in her seat. "Isn't it great? We made it at school last year. Mom's never worn it before."
The apron is bright orange, aside from the green stitching across the front that says, "World's Most Fashunable Mom".
"It's perfect," Andrea gasps, slinging a careless arm around Cassidy's shoulders. "Your mom really loves you, you know."
A tiny glint in Cassidy's eye makes Miranda wonder, for the first time, whether the spelling error was intentional.
"Yeah," Cassidy says smugly. "We know."
Though Miranda meticulously follows the instructions in Julia Child's lasagna recipe, she must concede defeat when the smoke detector goes off for the third time.
"Get the girls to show you their rooms," Miranda mutters to Andrea as Caroline and Cassidy wrestle the stepladder back into the closet. "I'll call in an order."
Andrea smirks and bumps her companionably with her elbow. "No need. I live with a chef, remember?"
In fact, for the past forty-five minutes, Miranda has blissfully forgotten that fact. "You know how to make lasagna?" She's no longer surprised by anything Andrea is capable of.
"No. I know how to make something way better." She raises her voice. "Girls! Give me a hand in here."
She squeezes Miranda's arm and steps away as the girls barrel back into the kitchen. The most important recipe for any culinary expert, she confides to all three spellbound Priestlys, is a grilled cheese sandwich. "Not the kind you're picturing, Cassidy," she says, rooting around in Miranda's fridge. "This sandwich requires love. It requires a delicate touch. It requires—ah ha!—" she emerges holding three blocks of cheese "—the kind of ridiculous, overpriced cheese people like your mother buy to keep Whole Foods in business."
She proceeds to expertly whip up four sandwiches. "Close your eyes, Miranda," she warns repeatedly; each time, as soon as Miranda obeys, the hiss of too much butter on the pan assails her ears. Andrea plates each sandwich, then lets herself into the pantry, spends a very long time scouring it from top to bottom, and finally unearths a nearly expired bag of Low Sodium Baked Zucchini Chips. She shoots Miranda a mournful, betrayed look, but proceeds to pour a generous helping of chips onto each plate.
"Bon appetit!" she proclaims, and announces that they should eat at the kitchen counter instead of the formal dining table. "This is comfort food, kiddos," she tells them. "It tastes best in the kitchen, eaten with the people you care about."
The reverence on the twins' faces after they take one bite of their sandwiches tells Miranda they have fallen in love with one Andrea Sachs. She knows the feeling.
For dessert—because Andrea insists on dessert—Andrea and the girls split a bag of Skittles from Andrea's purse. Then Andrea insists on washing the dishes herself, over Miranda's protestations that this is why they have a housekeeper.
The younger woman shushes her, gives a sly wink of her own, and says, loudly, "It'd be a lot easier if I had someone to dry for me, though."
"Me!" Caroline says.
"No, me!" Cassidy's hand flies into the air.
"I think I can make room for both of you," Andrea says generously, ushering them towards the sink.
And Miranda watches in pure amazement as her daughters leap to perform a chore for the first time in their lives.
Later, when the twins are yawning and the wine is long gone, Andrea reluctantly begins making noises about needing to go home. Miranda calls a car for her—over Andrea's protestations, this time—and when Roy pulls up a short while later the twins each give her a tackle-hug before heading up to bed.
"I had a really great time," Andrea tells Miranda, smiling with steady sincerity.
Miranda wonders how Andrea would react if she were to kiss her, right now. Surely it would mean the end of this precious friendship.
"As did I," she says instead. "I think it's safe to say you've managed to charm all of the Priestlys—a feat previously believed to be impossible."
Patricia, as if in agreement, sniffs Andrea's shoes and licks her exposed ankle.
Andrea chews her lip for a moment, debating something. Apparently coming to some sort of decision, she says, "It's my birthday next week."
Thanks to Douglas, this is not news to Miranda, who has already arranged a small present for the other woman. Her heart beating a little faster, she waits to see where Andrea is going with this.
Andrea shifts her weight from one foot to the other, nervous. "My friends—my other friends—are throwing a little get together. Nothing big. Just after hours drinks and food at Nate's restaurant. If you want...if you're free...it would be nice if you could come."
After meeting Douglas and learning that he had not known about Andrea's friendship with her, Miranda has wondered, occasionally, whether Andrea regards her as somewhat of a dirty secret. "You want me to meet your other friends?" she asks. "It's been a very long time since I've fit in with a crowd of twenty-somethings."
"It's just going to be Doug, Nate, Lily, and me. Not exactly a crowd." Andrea rubs her chin. "I didn't invite you before because I figured you wouldn't want to come, but after today I feel kind of guilty for selfishly keeping you to myself."
"Oh?" Miranda isn't sure how else to word her question. You're not embarrassed by our friendship? You want me to be a larger part of your life?
Andrea reddens. "Nate is my boyfriend, and Lily and Doug are our friends—our shared friends. I guess I've liked having you all to myself. You're very important to me, Miranda." Without breaking eye contact, Andrea absently reaches down to scratch Patricia's head. "Will you come?"
"Call Emily tomorrow and have her put it on my calendar," Miranda says. She wants to touch Andrea's hand; she clenches her fist at her side. "I wouldn't miss it."
Beaming, Andrea darts forward and presses a quick, friendly kiss to Miranda's cheek. Her lips are soft and dry. The contact is sweet, but too fleeting. Blushing even harder, Andrea whispers, "Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Miranda murmurs, and watches until Andrea is in the car; until it disappears from view.