Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (20 page)

Only the best for Gordon Knox.

“What made you finally do it?”

“Impulse.”

“You mean you didn’t call him first? E-mail? You’re just showing up out of the blue?”

“Fitting, don’t you think? Same way he left.” Matthew’s seat belt cut into his chest. He reached for the release and freed himself from the buckle’s stranglehold, then opened his window to let in fresh air. “Look, I asked Cee to put you on for moral support. But if you haven’t got any to give—”

“All right, all right. If nothing else, I’m glad you’re . . . making an effort, even if it comes as a shock.”

Shock? He could empathize. “I don’t know why I’m here. I have no desire to see the man.”

“But he wants to see you. Who knows, maybe it’s a good thing. Just try to approach it with a clear head. Lay the past aside as much as you can. Hear the man out.”

Right. He could do that. Couldn’t he? “Thanks, bro.”

They hung up, and Matthew eyed the house again. Jase was right. He should’ve called. He should’ve formulated a reason for being there. Was it to spew years of pent-up frustration or to seek reconciliation? Both? His forehead dropped forward to bump the steering wheel. Clear head? Hardly.

But he’d come all this way . . .

He reached for his door handle, but before he pushed the door open, a couple emerged from the home.
Dad.

Gordon Knox wore a dinner jacket over stylish jeans, the woman on his arm in a long dress and black coat. Walking behind the couple was a teenage girl, colorful bag slung over her shoulders and knee-high boots clacking against the porch steps. Laughter trailed their walk to the black SUV in the driveway.

Matthew felt the air seep from his lungs.

Suddenly, Gordon Knox looked over, eyes scanning the street and locking on Matthew. Matthew was tempted to duck his head back into the car and roll up the window. But curiosity—or maybe stubbornness—kept his focus in place.

Five seconds stretched into ten.

His father took a step forward. “Matthew?”

He couldn’t find words. Why had he thought this was a good idea? But he’d driven all this way . . .

His father said something to the woman Matthew assumed to be his new wife, then crossed the street, slowing as he reached Matthew’s Jeep. “It is you.”

“Jase gave me your address.”

“I’m glad. Although a call would’ve been good. Did Jase give you my number? We’re already late for dinner.”

Matthew nodded.
Dinner. Right.

“But listen, I’ll be in Asheville for a conference next week. Jase told me you’re in the area. Could we meet?”

He felt like a fool. An angry, tired idiot who’d just trekked half a state for a thirty-second conversation with a man who now acted as if the past didn’t exist. “Okay.”

“Okay. Give me a call.”

His father tapped the car’s rim, gave a small wave, and crossed the street.

Okay
 . . .

Matthew shifted into Drive and sped down the road without a look in his rearview mirror.

Miranda fluffed a pillow and gently slid it under Blaze’s casted arm. He leaned back against the pile of pillows she’d already assembled on her bed behind him.

“I would’ve been fine on the couch,” he said, eyes closed
and his usual crooked grin in place. “I’ve already caused you enough trouble. I didn’t need to take your bed, too.”

She sat on Grandma’s rocking chair. “You caused me trouble? Blaze, you quit your catering job, packed a suitcase, and moved to my place in the middle of nowhere. You’ve put up with interviews and photo shoots, and now you’re covered in bruises and suffering a broken arm. All because of me.”

One eye cracked open. “Not because of you. Because somewhere between the most radical hike ever through the Andes Mountains a few years ago and now, I lost my tree-climbing finesse.”

His golden skin seemed darker in the dim light of her bedroom, and a day’s stubble covered his cheeks.

“The Andes Mountains, huh.”

“Yeah, that was the last time I scaled a tree. Made it all the way up that time.”

She brushed a lock of black hair from his forehead. “What haven’t you done, Blaze Hunziker?”

For once, he didn’t have a reply. Not a funny anecdote or unbelievable story about his crazy adventures. Not even a joke or teasing endearment. She inched her rocking chair closer to the bed. “I realized today how little I really know about you. I have all these basic facts we memorized, but there’s a lot more, isn’t there?”

No response, only a breezy sigh. He sank farther into the pillows.

“When you were all fuzzy on meds, you mentioned a brother. And when we first met, you said you didn’t have siblings . . . anymore. What’s your story?”

When he still didn’t respond, she figured he’d fallen asleep and rose, careful not to knock into the bedside stand. She stood in the center of the bedroom, torn between turning in early down on the couch and waiting up for Matthew’s return.
That is, if he did return. But surely he’d at least come back for his things in the cabin.

“Hey,” Blaze’s voice floated from the bed.

“I thought you were asleep.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose and his eyes fluttered open. “I’ll tell you my story someday. But first, I think you need to figure out your own.” Gone was the usual spark of playfulness in his voice.

“What if I don’t know how?” She surprised herself with the question.

He shifted under Grandma’s quilt. “How’d you learn to build houses?”

“What?”

“And how’d you learn how to do all that sweet stuff with wood?”

What did that have to do with anything? “Well, my grandpa taught me a lot, and of course college, internships, working in Brazil. But a lot of it, honestly, came naturally.”

He shifted his broken arm. “So, instinct. Go with your gut. You’ll figure it out.” He closed his eyes with a smile. “’Night, dumpling.”

She stared at him, watching the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing heavied with sleep.
“Go with your gut. You’ll figure it out.”
How many times had she done just that and found herself in a major mess?

No, she couldn’t count on her own logic or emotions to figure out where to go from here. She needed help, guidance.

Miranda tiptoed to the door, leaving it open a crack before descending to the first floor. Hunger tugged at her stomach. In the pantry she found a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter. She pulled them both from the shelf, then thought twice and replaced the bread. She grabbed a spoon from the silverware drawer and twisted the lid from the jar.

This had always been her comfort food. Grandma Woodruff used to hand her a spoon, hold out an open jar, and say, “Dig in, darling. Peanut butter is good for the soul.”

No, you were good for the soul, Grandma.

If only she were here now. Miranda burrowed her spoon into the Skippy jar, trying to conjure up more memories of Grandma, but years had blurred so many of the mental images.

The Bible!
Right after Grandma died, whenever Miranda had wanted to feel close to her, she’d pull Grandma’s Bible from the bookshelf. Read the notes in the margins, skim the highlighted verses.

She plopped the spoon in her mouth, abandoned the peanut butter jar, and retraced her steps into the living room. There it was, Grandma’s Bible nestled between
A Tale of Two Cities
and her boxed
Chronicles of Narnia
set. She slid it from the shelf, grabbed a blanket from the back of the living room couch, and then padded to the front door and slipped out.

Moonlight cast a halo around her mountain clearing and spread a sheen over the grass underfoot, still damp from an early-evening rain. With the Bible under her arm, Miranda pulled the spoon from her mouth, sticky peanut butter coating her tongue. She rounded the house, coming up on the unfinished part of the house, tarp flapping in the breeze.

Wood beams and a cement foundation created an empty frame.
Someday . . .
She placed the spoon between her lips like a sucker and hoisted herself onto the cement floor of the incomplete structure. An animal—maybe a squirrel or a chipmunk—rustled through a nearby tree.

She settled, her back against a thick beam, blanket over her knees, Bible in her lap. Now what?

“Psalms, honey. When you’re feeling lost or confused, flip open to the Psalms and let David’s prayers be yours.”
Grandma’s voice again, so clear tonight. Would she ever hear God’s voice as clearly as the voices of her past?

She opened the Bible at the middle. Started reading. Read aimlessly for five minutes, maybe ten. Why couldn’t she find the comfort in this book her grandmother always used to? Wispy clouds trekked across the sky, muting the light of the moon, blanketing the stars. When she looked back down, her eyes landed on Psalm 138:8.

“The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me; your love, O Lord, endures forever—do not abandon the works of your hands.”

Abandon the works of His hand. The way she’d abandoned this skeleton of a home addition? A mountain wind skidded through the framed room, scuffing her cheeks and tangling her hair. The crinkle and slap of plastic tarp whipping against the frame filled the silence.

“The Lord will fulfill his purpose for me.”
But would He really? Especially when she’d built the foundation of her identity on a lie?

I want to believe your love endures forever, God. But the woman I’ve become can’t possibly be the person you intended.

She’d trapped herself. And how could freedom from her false identity possibly be worth the cost? Her show, her career, her reputation, her crew . . . all would suffer if she fought against who she’d become. She closed the Bible.

The sound of tires on gravel cut into her solitude, joined by the harsh yellow of headlights. Matthew.

Maybe I won’t have a choice. Maybe Matthew will force me out of the lie.

Quiet hovered after he cut the engine. Did he see her sitting there? A lonely figure in a hollow room.

She heard the clank of his door shutting, then footsteps swishing through wet grass and leaves. She sucked in a breath as he moved toward her, the urge to flee what would surely
end up as an interrogation battling with her desperation to know. . . .

Would he tell?

But of course he would. How could he not?

He pulled himself onto the raised foundation, blocking the light of the moon. “Why?”

Just that one word made her wish she’d gone with her first impulse and escaped into the house. “Could you not stand over me like that? It makes me feel . . . small.”

He lowered to the cement, legs dangling over the side. Now, in the pale moonlight, she could see the pinch in his eyes and the set of his jaw.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come back.”

“Yeah, well, I follow through on my assignments. You’re my assignment. So.”

The way he said the word
assignment
sent the message loud and clear. It’s what she should’ve expected. Didn’t mean it didn’t sting.

“You and Blaze aren’t married.”

She shook her head.

“You’re faking it.”

Nod.

“For the show.”

Another nod.

He turned to face her. “So now it makes sense why you couldn’t produce a marriage certificate. Seems like a long-shot gamble to me. You really didn’t think someone would eventually figure it out? How long were you going to keep it up? How’d Blaze get drawn into it? And why didn’t you just drop the ‘I’m married’ act years ago? Men probably would’ve flooded North Carolina for a chance at you.”

His rapid-fire questions shot holes in her ability to put up a defense. “There’s more to the story, Knox.”

“Then tell me.” The command felt more like a plea. “Why?”

She thrust the Bible off her lap. “Because I wanted to, all right? I like my show. I like my success. I like the person I am when I’m wowing viewers.”

It was time she admitted it. It was easier to lie about who she was than face what she wasn’t: Wanted. Enough. A worthy daughter . . . wife . . .

A mother.
Oh, how long it’d been since she allowed that word space in her heart.

Now she stood. Let the self-righteous journalist feel small for once. “That’s the answer to your question, Matthew. I wanted to. Because I like people thinking that, at the end of the day, I’m going home to a handsome husband who adores me, rather than an empty house that only reminds me of the man who discarded me and our . . .” No, she couldn’t go there.

But did he see it wasn’t all coldhearted and calculated? Oh, it probably didn’t make a difference in the end, not to his story. But something in her needed Matthew to
know
.

“I wanted the country to believe about me what I couldn’t believe myself—that I’m worth holding on to.”

“Miranda . . .” But he didn’t finish. Just lowered his head in a move that spoke judgment.

Okay. She jumped to the ground, turned her back, started to walk away—leaving her Bible, her blanket, the last of her hope. Except . . .

Except, no. She had to at least ask. Fight. Be strong.

She whipped around. “Please don’t tell, Matthew. I have no right to ask, I know, but please. Or at least, if you’re set on it, give me a few days to prepare. Consider this me begging. I’ll do anything.”