Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (31 page)

Matthew met Jase’s eyes in the mirror. “But—”

“No buts. And me. When I brought Izzy and Celine home, you were the one who listened when I had trouble adjusting to such a huge life change. You’re the one who learned ASL with me, who accepted my new family as your own. And don’t think I don’t know you encouraged Randi Woodruff to buy that print last week.”

At Randi’s name, Matthew hung his head.

“And speaking of her,” Jase continued his speech. “You were her friend when she needed one. She told Izzy as much. You kept her secrets.”

Except not entirely. Jase didn’t know about that flash drive sitting on his bedside table with the article Dooley expected.

“Underneath your dogged reporter exterior, brother, you’ve got a noble heart and a sensitive spirit. If you won’t take my word for it, take Izzy’s.” Jase’s expression turned sheepish. “I told her what you told me last week, all about Randi Woodruff’s fake marriage. She
ah-ha
’d like it wasn’t even much of a surprise. She’s the one who told me I had to talk some sense into you today.”

Matthew’s first smile since leaving North Carolina found his lips. “She is a good judge of character. She married you.” And as if on wheels, the weight of emotions so heavy they physically hurt began a slow roll. “I wish I knew what to do next.”

Jase gave him a hearty pat on the back. “I’ve got an idea. Let God back in. And trust that whatever He’s got in store for you next, you’re up to it.”

Minutes turned into miles until Miranda found herself standing in front of the church. Blaze’s words had followed her all the way to the church, the humming of the wind their soundtrack.

Accusations, they’d seemed. But now?

As she heaved open the heavy wood door, felt the rush of quiet pull her in, the truth hushed over her.
Blaze is right.
She’d lost the core of her identity under layer after layer of self-donned façades.

Randi the tomboy.

Randi the happily married.

Randi the celebrity.

Randi the . . .
rejected.

She lowered into her pew, halfway down the aisle.
What happened to Miranda?
And should she even be here, in a house of worship, when the house of her heart was in such disarray?
God, how do I clean up the mess?

So many times she’d perched in this same pew, in this little church tucked into its mountainous nook, always hungry for the touch of the God her parents served but mindful of the wall her sins built.

Suddenly the sound of movement, shuffling feet, jutted into her solitude. Someone slid into the pew beside Miranda, the bench creaking from the weight.

A whisper. “We had a feeling we’d find you here.”

Mom?
“How’d you know?”

“He may not be your husband, but he knows you. Look.” She pointed to where Blaze moved down the side aisle toward their row.

Miranda’s brow furrowed.

And then, more footsteps. Joni Watters settled into the pew in front of Miranda. Others, folks Miranda had never met, dotted the sanctuary. And was that Jimmy and Audrey walking down the aisle now?

Miranda leaned close to her mother. “I’m confused. What’s going on?”

“Looks like church to me.”

“Their services are in the morning. That’s why I come in the afternoon.”

“Hush,” her mom said, just as Blaze took his seat on Miranda’s right.

“We should leave. I don’t fit here. If they all knew—”

“We know more than you think, Miranda,” Joni said over her shoulder as a man, probably her husband, took his place behind the pulpit. “We’ve got TVs. We read newspapers. Believe it or not, some of us are even so technologically inclined as to read blogs. Now pipe down and listen. Whatever it is that’s kept you from joining the services all these years, we can handle. Talking in church . . . not so much.”

Joni straightened, and Miranda leaned back against her seat. Was this a joke or something?

“Who am I?” Pastor Watters said from the pulpit. “It’s the question many of us start asking as adolescents. And where we find the answer makes all the difference. Today I’m going to tell you where to find that answer. It starts right there.”

He pointed to the stained-glass face of Jesus, its reflection casting a rainbow of color over the front of the church. Miranda’s mom clasped her hand.

Miranda glanced at Blaze and met his wink.

This wasn’t a joke at all, was it? They were doing church. For her.

“Some of you knew Old Hez, a long-time member of this congregation. And you may know he crafted this pulpit.” The pastor tapped the side of the wood structure. “What you may not know is that I spent hours helping Hezekiah strip the ugly pulpit we used to have to make this one. His arthritis was bad, but he was determined.

“Originally this thing was so overly stained it almost glowed in the dark.” The pastor stepped from behind the pulpit as his audience laughed. He leaned against its side. “You could hardly tell what kind of wood it was under the stain.”

Miranda leaned forward, gaze tracing every detail of the pulpit now. They would’ve used a coat of stripper first to soften the old stain. Then probably a stiff bristle brush or scraper. Finally, a lacquer thinner . . .

“When we wiped off the last of the stain, I wasn’t sure what to think,” Pastor Watters said. “Suddenly I could see nooks and grooves I hadn’t noticed before, some from our own scraping, I’m sure. But Old Hez, he saw something else entirely.”

The pastor paused, and Miranda felt her breath catch.

“He said, ‘Pastor, you were ready to get rid of this old pulpit because all you saw was that ugly stain. But all along, underneath was a sturdy, strong wood. The kind of wood that’s made to last. Just took a little stripping away for you to see it.’”

The pastor stepped down from the stage. “Here’s the thing, friends: Hez saw the beauty all along, even when the curve of the wood’s grain was hidden behind a stain.”

All right, God. I’m listening.

“And it makes me think, what does God see in us that we don’t? That matters. Because when all the stuff we’re hiding behind is stripped away, it’s what He sees that’s left. So what does He see?”

His creation. Forgiven. Whole. Enough.

Miranda couldn’t hold in the tears gathering in her eyes. Didn’t even try.

He was actually doing this. Willingly. Waiting for Delia Jones.

Matthew sat on a cold cement bench outside the Minnesota Zoo, the collar of his jacket flipped up to his chin. Was it really just over a month ago he’d attended the fund-raising gig here? That fiasco seemed forever ago.

Seemed like yesterday.

The snap of heels against cement drew his attention. She stood in front of him wearing a trench coat cinched at her waist and hair slicked into a severe ponytail, sharpening her already high cheekbones. “Hi, Delia.”

“You came. I’m impressed.”

He smiled despite her sarcasm and scooted to make room on the bench. After a guarded moment, she lowered beside him.

“If this is about the article with my dad, I did call him the other day. It’s too late to do his campaign any good, but he’s still interested.” Gordon Knox had lost the election this past Tuesday, but Matthew had a feeling the man already had his eye on the future.

It hadn’t been all that pleasant of a phone call—certainly not easy, but necessary.

“That’s not why I asked to meet. I’m going to give it to you straight, Knox.” She folded one leg over the other. “I couldn’t just let the Randi Woodruff story go.”

Matthew swallowed a gulp. How long until the day when every mention of Miranda’s name ceased to pinch a nerve? “Please don’t tell me you’re releasing those photos.”

She shook her head. “Not exactly. You know what happened at the gala with the two guys standing, right? I recognized the husband. The other, I didn’t. So I did a little checking. Name’s Roberto Pontero. He’s—”

“Miranda’s former fiancé. I know.”

Delia clucked her tongue. “You see the potential for a story, yeah? Who is this guy? Why was he at the gala? He must be hiding out, because no one has the story. So, I figured I’ll trade my photos for the full scoop. Only problem is, I can’t get past Woodruff’s manager. He insists she’s not doing any interviews and won’t even hear me out.”

The bench rasped as Matthew shifted. “And you think I can get to her.”

She shrugged. “You looked awfully cozy that night at that dance hall.”

Matthew allowed room for silence to descend. For days, he’d ignored Dooley’s calls, but here it was again—the opportunity laid out in plain terms. Expose Miranda. Hoist his own career.

Or don’t.

It would’ve made sense to publish the story. If nothing else, it might stop the endless speculation about Miranda’s love life ever since the gala.

But he’d already made the decision. Made it the day he slipped his flash drive into an envelope and dropped it in the mailbox.

“Delia.” His jaw twitched as he spoke her name. “I didn’t come here so we could talk work. I came to say I’m sorry.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “You won’t do the article with me.”

“No, I mean, I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for taking you on that one date and then pretending like it never
happened. I’m sorry for dragging you into the story about my father. I’m sorry for not working harder to make sure you came out of that mess unscathed.”

With each sentence, she fidgeted more, twisting her hands in her lap, disbelief mixing with confusion in her green eyes. “What’s your angle?”

“No angle. Just an apology. I know it’s late, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything to you. But I needed to say it.” Because maybe he couldn’t change the wrong in his past, but he could do the right thing now. “I truly am sorry. I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but uh, when you called, I had a random idea. That is, I got you something.”

He held out the small gift bag.

She couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d bent down on one knee to propose. She accepted the gift, suspicion still lacing her movement. But her fingers crinkled through the tissue paper and pulled up the tickets. She gave him a questioning look.

“I remember you saying you’d never been to a Vikings game. You probably have by now but—”

“I haven’t,” she cut in. “I . . . don’t know what to say.”

“Well, just say you’ll enjoy the game.”

She clenched the tickets, forehead still wrinkled but eyes a little softer. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything.”

“Of course not. I’d have had to get you season passes for that.”

She offered him an honest-to-goodness smile then and slipped the tickets into her pocket.

“And about the article—”

“I know it’s not happening. I figured as much even before I asked. But you can’t blame a reporter for trying.”

No, maybe you couldn’t. “And the photos?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you can apologize and buy me Vikings
tickets, I guess the least I can do is delete them.” She said it reluctantly, but with enough sincerity to assure him she meant it. “Truth is, I don’t think I like the
National Enquirer
life any more than you do.”

Their parting handshake was stiff, but unless Matthew was imagining things, Delia squeezed his hand before letting go. And as she walked away, he tipped his head to the brilliant blue of the sky.
Well, God, I now know the impossible can indeed be possible.

The honk of a car horn pulled Matthew from his joy. In the parking lot, Jase, Izzy, and Cee spilled from their car. Matthew jogged to meet them.

“You know, there was a day not so long ago when you said you’d never be able to bring your daughter to the zoo.”

Jase rolled his eyes. “We’re not breaking into any buildings today, little brother.”

Cee grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the entrance.

Miranda swept her hand through a tangle of leaves and twigs clogging the rain gutters of Open Arms. Her work gloves scraped along the bottom of the metal gutter running across the east side of the house. The day was unusually warm, sunlight bouncing off the white of the house and an autumn breeze sifting through her hair.

It felt odd to be winterizing the shelter on an afternoon as pleasant as this. But amid the emotional roller-coaster ride of the week since she’d won the Giving Heart Award, November had crept in. Besides, Miranda needed to be busy.

She pulled out a handful of matted leaves and deposited them in the bag hooked around the ladder. When she reached in again, her fingers felt soft cloth instead of snarled sticks and leaves. A smile played over her face as she pulled out a tennis ball.

One hand still gripping the ladder, she tossed the ball over her shoulder.

“Hey!”

She twisted on the ladder with a start. “Brad?” He held his arm in the air, ball in hand. “Did you catch that? Nice.”

“It was either that or get beaned in the face.”

She climbed down the ladder, turning to Brad with a teasing grin. “Here to see Liv-vy?” She drew out Liv’s name in a singsong voice.

Red crept over his cheeks. “That subject is off limits. And no, I’m here for you.”

“Unfair. My two best friends are dating, and you tell me I’m not allowed to talk to you about it? What fun is that?”

“I’m more interested in my dignity than your fun, Rand. But speaking of Liv, she tells me you’ve been working all day.”

“Yep,” she nodded, blowing a wisp of hair from her eyes. “So far I’ve put in the storm windows, wrapped the basement pipes, and caulked a few leaks. Open Arms is ready for winter.”

Brad perched one leg on a tree stump the Open Arms kids always designated as base during games of tag. “Tom said you spent all day yesterday doing odds and ends at the studio. And I have it on good authority you’re also helping re-roof a local church.”

She pulled off her work gloves and slapped them against her palm. “You’re giving me that disapproving-dad look. Like that time in our college speech class when I gave the speech on felling trees.”

“You brought a chain saw as your prop,” he said, voice deadpan. “Today you’d probably be arrested for that.” He cocked one eyebrow. “I’m just wondering if you’re avoiding something. Home, maybe? Yourself?”

“How about prying friends?”

He chuckled. “Don’t talk to me about prying, Miss ‘I want to know everything about you and Liv.’”

She pocketed her gloves and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Brad, I’m fine, really. Life is slowly getting back to normal. Mom left for Brazil yesterday, though not before making me promise to fly down for Christmas. Blaze is heading out this week. And I haven’t heard from Robbie since the day after the gala. I think I can consider him gone for good.”

“And Matthew?”

Her eyes lowered to the browning grass littered with leaves that had fallen since Matthew and Blaze helped her rake. Maybe the kids would want to help this time around. They could make a game of it. “I can probably say the same about Matthew,” she finally answered.

“That he’s gone for good? That would really surprise me.”

“Well.” She leaned against the side of the house. “Could we go back to talking about how I’m avoiding something?”

Brad let her off the hook with a sigh. “Actually, there’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

A thrumming heavy with apprehension began in her head and worked its way to her heart. He’d heard, hadn’t he? The fate of
From the Ground Up
had been decided. Her fate . . .

No. I’m done thinking that way.
No more equating her life with a television show that may or may not see new life come January. “Should I sit down for this?”

He dropped his foot from the tree stump to the ground. “Yeah, pull up a stump.”

She sat, folded her hands around her knees, and waited. Brad combed his fingers through his hair, his shadow shielding Miranda from the glare of the sun.

“So, I got a call from Lincoln, who got a call from one of the network bigwigs.”

“Okay.”

He took a breath. “There’s not going to be a fourth season in January.” The air whooshed from her lungs, but he spoke again before she could react. “But they’re giving us a two-hour Sunday-night special in March. Apparently they were ready to drop us entirely, but Knox’s blog combined with, well, all the publicity—good and bad—from the gala must have convinced them there might still be something to be gained. So
if
ratings are good, they’ll consider a retooled, likely shortened, fourth season in the summer.”

A Sunday-night special. A potential summer run. Either a death knell on the way to cancellation or a lifeline. “So . . .”

“So it was basically a non-decision. Nothing promised, but nothing entirely nixed.” He paused, crouching to eye level with her, he studied her. “You all right?”

The thrumming faded as heat from the sun rushed over her. “Yeah. I really am.”

“Even though things are pretty much still up in the air?”

“Even though.”

Brad bit his lip for a moment, and then, “There’s more, actually. Hollie Morris’s show was picked up by a different network—which may have contributed to why we’ve still got a shot. But Lincoln said we have to view Hollie’s show as serious competition—pull out all the stops. He wants you to do all the media rounds, talk shows.” He took another breath. “And he wants you to give an explanation about what happened at the gala, an official statement about your marriage and—”

“There is no more marriage. I’m done with that.” No more façade.

“They might throw your contract in your face.”

“Think it could be a deal breaker?”

Brad nodded as he rose. “Possibly. After all, interest in your personal life has hit a whole new high.”

Of course it had. Between her Giving Heart win and her
spectacle of an acceptance speech, she’d opened herself up to public scrutiny. And then there were the rumblings about Matthew’s sudden disappearance from cyberspace. Not that she’d stopped by his blog. But she had ears.

“I love
From the Ground Up
, but it’s not worth lying anymore.”

Silence stretched between them until Miranda reached her arms up, a signal for Brad to pull her to her feet. “Can I have a few days to think before we agree to anything? My contract is up for renewal this spring. Maybe I should do the special and then just . . . let it go.”

Brad opened his mouth, closed it. Then, “It’s your choice, Rand. We’ve all got your back, whatever you decide.”

She nodded and released a sigh, looked to the house, then back to Brad. “So, Liv made chocolate chip cookies this morning. She hates to bake almost more than I do.”

“I love chocolate chip cookies.”

“Exactly.”

He tipped his head. “Are you sure—”

“I’m fine. I promise. But you’re a good manager and friend to make sure. Besides, I’m about done with the gutters. I’m going to finish and head out.” She stepped into his hug. “And one more thing. If you want to win Livvy’s complete devotion, watch
The Sound of Music
with her sometime.”

He groaned. “That movie’s like eight hours long. I don’t think so.”

“Three hours. And you know you will.”

He moved toward the porch, paused, then spun. “Actually, there’s one more thing.”

“I’m not getting a dog.”

He grinned and reached into his pocket. He held a flash drive in front of her. “I’ve been debating whether to give this to you. I wasn’t sure . . .”

“What is it?”

“I think Matthew sent it to me so we could rest assured.”