Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  Miranda’s best friend rose and gathered her into a hug. “Actually, he was leaning toward a mastiff. I talked him out of it.”

  Brad’s nervous chuckle sounded from behind her. Liv released Miranda and tucked her hands into the pockets of her jean jacket, breath visible in the chill of the evening.

  “So you’re the surprise,” Miranda said, stepping back.

  “Half the surprise,” Brad corrected. “I’ve got awesome news. We’re going to celebrate.”

  “Sounds good, but please tell me y’all brought sustenance. Pretty sure the only food in my kitchen is a box of Pop-Tarts and some beef jerky that’ll break your jaw.”

  Brad moved to his car, ducked in, and then returned with two paper bags. “The woman can build a house but has the nutritional habits of a toddler,” he muttered, passing the women and climbing the porch.

  “Can it, Walsh,” Liv called after him. She tucked an arm through Miranda’s. “We brought all the fixings for homemade pizza. And Brad didn’t notice, but I also stuck in a package of Peanut Butter M&M’s.”

  “My hero.”

  They entered the house, greeted by the sound of Brad already unloading groceries in the kitchen. Liv paused in the living room. “Hey, before we join Chef Walsh, you okay? You know, I’m still so mad at Robbie, I could rearrange his teeth.” Twin strawberry-blond braids framed Liv’s face, and feisty anger leaked from her voice.

  Miranda burst into laughter. “Are you kidding me? You have trouble slapping mosquitoes. And you’ve never even met Robbie.” Liv Hayes ran Miranda’s favorite charity, a shelter in Asheville for orphaned children with special needs. She’d befriended Miranda during her “dark days” after Robbie left, encouraged her to volunteer at the shelter as a healthy distraction.

  “But seriously, how are you? Brad filled me in on your mother of all bad days yesterday on the way up. You could’ve called me, you know.”

  Miranda’s gaze roamed the room as she considered Liv’s question. Overhead, thick redwood beams crisscrossed, and soft light gleamed from a hanging fixture. During the day, tall windows tugged in the colors of the outdoors, dramatizing the otherwise muted hues of Miranda’s furniture. A fireplace and mantel edged one wall, and an open stairway lined the other. The opposite side of the room opened into the dining room. Beyond that, a kitchen and the unfinished portion of the house—what would’ve been a master suite.

  Instead, Miranda slept in the small bedroom at the end of the otherwise incomplete lofted second floor.

  This was supposed to be her and Robbie’s dream house. After Robbie had woken up, she’d never quite had the heart to finish building.

  “Yesterday was rough,” she confirmed as they continued to the kitchen. “But you and Brad are here now. And you brought M&M’s. Friendship and sugar—best therapy there is.”

  They walked in on Brad dumping a packet of yeast into a bowl, Miranda’s ruffled apron tied around his waist. “Nice, Brad.” Liv giggled. “So how long are you going to make us wait for your big news? You getting married or something?”

  “Very funny.” He wiped his hands on his apron and faced Miranda. “You, Miss Woodruff, have been nominated for the Giving Heart Award.”

  Miranda froze. “You’re joking.”

  “I don’t think so,” Liv countered. “This is Brad, remember. He can’t even tell knock-knock jokes.”

  Brad draped a towel over the bowl of dough and set it aside. “Completely serious. The foundation is making the announcement next Wednesday. And if ever a celebrity deserved an award for her charitable contributions, it’s you, kid.”

  Liv squealed and threw her arms around Miranda. “Ah, see, there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. You’re so going to win! Didn’t Audrey Hepburn win the Giving Heart way back when?”

  Brad chuckled. “You look shell-shocked, Rand.”

  “I’m flummoxed.” A delayed grin finally spilled over her face. “Always wanted a reason to use that word.”

  “And what better reason!” Liv declared. “Let’s get cracking on that celebratory pizza.”

  Miranda pulled a cutting board from the cupboard as Liv lined up toppings—onion, green pepper, jar of olives, fresh mushrooms. The Giving Heart Award. Who would’ve thought? The award had snowballed into a high level of prestige in the past few years. How in the world had the host of a little sleeper of a homebuilding show made the list of nominees? Especially one in danger of cancellation?

  “You remember the prize is $100,000 to your favorite charity, right?” Brad asked as he kneaded the pizza dough.

  “How awesome would it be to give that to Open Arms?”

  Liv flipped the oven to preheat. “Very. We’re in need of roof repairs.”

  “Oh, I could help you with that, silly. I’ll get a few guys from the crew and—”

  “Girls, at the moment, I’m the one who needs help.” Brad lifted his hands, dough clinging to his fingers. “This is too sticky.”

  “You need more flour. Here, let me.” Miranda relinquished her knife to Liv. “Brad, this is good news for the show, right? The network’s not going to axe a show whose host is up for the Giving Heart. Maybe I can even talk Lincoln into dropping the husband thing.” Hope slid in as she worked her fingers into the dough.

  “That’s not exactly the case,” Brad said over the sound of running water. He rubbed his hands together. “Lincoln’s the one who was notified about the nomination. He called me. He thinks this is more reason than ever to come up with a husband to parade in front of the press.”

  “He’s crazy!” Exasperation pushed Miranda’s words out in a huff. “I can’t conjure up a husband from thin air.” She pounded a fist into the dough, knuckles connecting with the bottom of the mixing bowl. “I won’t do it.”

  “Linc thinks viewers, and the foundation board, need to see your softer side—and that we need to quell the rumors that your mystery husband doesn’t exist. After all, if you win, you’ll be more popular than ever. Which means curiosity will rise to new levels. Either way, in his eyes, the husband scheme is how we’ll save the show.” He took a breath. “Which is what you want to do, right?”

  Her fingers curled around the dough. He knew she did. Because somehow saving the show meant saving herself, her identity. Without From the Ground Up, who was Miranda Woodruff, anyway? Nothing but a jilted, practically family-less woodworker with half a house in the mountains. “Of course I do,” she said in a whisper.

  “Then the husband reveal could give you just the push you need.”

  Sure, right over a cliff.

  Oh, how she wished, for the thousandth time, she’d never brought up Robbie’s name back when she auditioned for the show. Wished she hadn’t mentioned her post-college years in Brazil, hadn’t told the panel of execs about constructing homes in Rocinha, one of Rio de Janeiro’s urbanized slums. About the schools they’d built in rural communities. About the mission team leader, Roberto “Robbie” Pontero, who had pulled from her an architectural creativity—and a passion—she hadn’t known she possessed.

  “And who is this Robbie?”

  She’d blinked when the executive asked the question during the audition. The words had slipped out of their own accord: “My husband.”

  Such a stupid lie, prompted solely by the guilt she’d felt at going against the convictions her grandparents had tried so hard to instill in her—living with a man she wasn’t married to. And once the lie was out there, it stuck. Because the panel latched on immediately to the novelty of her foreign romance. She hadn’t known the story would become such a part of the show, had told herself it was a harmless fib since she planned to marry within months anyway.

  What was it Grandma Woodruff used to say? “Best way to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.”

  Only in Miranda’s case, God probably wasn’t laughing. Not when she’d made such a mess of things. Maybe it would’ve been better if she’d never auditioned in the first place, never beat out that other girl—Hollie Somebody—for the hosti
ng spot.

  “Let her be, Walsh,” Liv piped up, edging into Miranda’s wandering memories. “We came to have fun tonight, didn’t we?”

  Miranda lumped the dough into a rounded ball. “Liv’s right. I’m starving. I’ll think about the show and Lincoln and Robbie . . . tomorrow.” Limp smirk. “At Tara.”

  “All right, Scarlett O’Hara. So you got any soda in the fridge?”

  Brad nudged her arm as Liv crossed the kitchen. “Just consider it,” he said gently. “Remember when one of the biggest show sponsors dropped out and you took charge and found an even bigger one? Remember how you fought the network execs so you could build in poorer areas of the country? Be that Randi Woodruff again. You’ve invested too much in this show to let it sink.”

  If only Robbie had thought the same about their relationship, she might not be in this situation.

  But as Brad’s words pricked her insides, a new ribbon of energy needled through Miranda. He was right. She’d spent far too long in the clutches of the past, determination lost to a pelting ache.

  No more. The show needed a savior. And she needed the show. It was time to make a power play.

  And unlike Robbie, she played for keeps.

  Matthew swung his right arm back and then forward, fingers releasing the bowling ball into a thud and roll. The embarrassingly pink ball took its sweet time covering the distance of the lane. One measly pin down.

  Par for the course these days. Wrong sport, but still. At least Izzy and Jase weren’t there yet.

  “You’re really bad at this, Uncle Matt.” His niece peered up at him from innocent blue eyes.

  “It’s the ball, Cee. If you would’ve let me use the red one like I wanted—”

  “No,” she cut in, pigtails swinging as she shook her head, hands signing along with her spoken words. “You’re no good.”

  “Anybody ever tell you you’ve got incredible tact?” He ruffled Celine’s bangs and reached for his ball when it spit out of the machine track.

  “I don’t know what tact is.”

  “My point exactly.”

  The smell of grease from the snack bar in the corner permeated the bowling alley. Neon lights rimmed the walls, and music thrummed through the speakers overhead. Too bad he hadn’t been able to talk Cee into the aquarium instead. But she had insisted on bowling. And uncles were supposed to give in.

  Just like journalists were supposed to write.

  Sure, but did kitschy celebrity pieces even count? Throughout the day, he’d given Dooley’s assignment offer its obligatory consideration, but he kept coming back to the same conclusion: too humiliating. Did blogging even count as journalism?

  Matthew approached the lane, released his ball again, and for a moment things looked good. Straight down the middle until a last-minute curve sent it into the gutter.

  “Like I said, you’re really bad.” This time giggles punctuated Celine’s words.

  Though Celine’s eyes were on his face, he signed as he spoke. “Just you wait, Cee. When we get home we’re playing Candy Land, and I’m gonna whomp you.” Maybe no one would pay attention to the electronic scoreboard announcing his lack of skills.

  “Matthew!” Izzy’s call rose over the clutter of voices and falling pins in the bowling alley.

  He handed Celine her purple ball, signed “Your mom’s here,” and then turned. His sister-in-law bounced toward him, blond hair pulled into a high ponytail, bowling shoes slung over her shoulder by the laces.

  “Where’s Jase?” he asked as Izzy reached them.

  “Doing some after-hours work at the gallery. Besides, things were decidedly cool between the two of you before you left this morning. Care to explain? Jase sure didn’t.”

  Matthew turned to Celine, evading Izzy’s question. “Need help, Cee?”

  “I think not.” Her latest phrase of choice. She sashayed up to the lane, bowling shoes tapping against the wood floor. She threw a near-perfect roll. Nine pins.

  “Getting beat by my daughter,” Izzy said from behind him. “Wow.”

  “Just having an off night.”

  Izzy plopped onto the bench behind the ball track while Celine lined up for her second throw. “So tell me, why are you hanging out with Cee instead of on a date? It’s Saturday night.”

  He cast her a glare, then sat beside her. “Know what I love about you, Iz? Your kind respect for boundaries and privacy.”

  “What kind of sister-in-law would I be if I didn’t pry?”

  Celine hit her last pin and jumped up, clapping her hands. Matthew waited until she turned, eyes on him, to lift and twist his own hands in silent applause.

  Izzy leaned in. “You’re a good uncle, Matthew. She’s lucky to have a friend like you.”

  “And I’m lucky Jase brought you two cowgirls back from Texas.”

  Izzy chuckled. “Yeah, I’m still a little mad about that during the fifth or sixth blizzard each Minnesota winter.”

  And then Celine stood in front of them, hands moving as she signed. “I’m hungry. You said we’d get pizza.”

  He nodded. “Right. Can you order for us, Iz? We’ve got one frame left each. We’ll meet you over at the tables. Or did you want to play?”

  Izzy shook her head. “Nah, I only paid for the shoes so they’d let me on the floor.”

  He glanced down at Celine as Izzy walked off. “Maybe I’ll get a strike this time.”

  “I think not,” she repeated.

  She thought right. Another gutter ball. “Don’t you dare laugh, Cee.”

  Minutes later their game ended. He didn’t even bother looking at the score as they left the floor to join Izzy. “Man, the guy behind the counter just told me to go back to the ranch,” Izzy drawled as they sat, drumming her nails on the tabletop.

  Matthew eyed her Cowboys jersey. “I’ve been telling you for years, you’re in purple-and-gold territory. Flashing your Dallas duds ain’t the best way to make friends up here.” Matthew dropped a straw in Celine’s glass and handed her a napkin, making sure her eyes were on his lips before speaking. “Pizza for the big winner, as requested.”

  “Maybe you should take bowling lessons, Uncle Matt. Then you wouldn’t lose so bad.” Izzy snorted at that, and Matthew tossed his straw wrapper at her.

  He dished up a cheesy slice for Celine, then plopped a slice on his plate. “Pepperoni and mushroom, my favorite.”

  “Mine too,” Celine added.

  “Don’t talk with your mouth full, kiddo,” Izzy instructed before biting into her own slice. “So did you two have a good afternoon?”

  Matthew studied Celine while she chattered about the day they’d spent at the park. Bangs hid the stitches over her eye, and with no visible bruises, no one would know she’d been in an accident the night before. Izzy told him earlier today the man who clipped Celine’s bike had honked before making his turn. Of course, she hadn’t heard.

  Could’ve been so much worse.

  “Iz,” he blurted suddenly, swallowing a bite of pizza. “Have you scheduled the surgery yet?”

  Jase and Izzy had been talking about cochlear implants for six months now. Because of the circumstances of Celine’s hearing loss, she was a perfect candidate for the surgery, which could help her regain at least a degree of hearing. And after yesterday . . .

  Izzy met his eyes over the rim of her soda glass. She lowered the glass to the table. “Cee, you want another piece of pizza? Or are you ready for a couple arcade games?”

  Celine practically jumped out of the booth. “Games. But save me a piece.”

  Matthew dug into his pocket for a handful of change and passed it off to Celine. “Win me a teddy bear, all right?”

  “You’re too old for stuffed animals,” Celine said before trouncing away.

  Matthew turned to Izzy, forked in another bite. “What’s up? Why’d you send Cee off?”

  Izzy dropped a pizza crust onto her plate and pushed her plate away. “The surgery. It’s not happening anymore. At least not anytime soon.”
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  Matthew paused mid-chew. Not happening? But if it could help, if it meant Celine could hear honking cars . . . bowling pins knocking down . . . “Why? I thought you were only waiting for the insurance company.”

  Melancholy played over Izzy’s face. “We got a letter from the company yesterday. They’re declining coverage.”

  “That’s ridiculous. The doctor said insurance usually covers cochlear implants.”

  “Usually was the operative word, I guess. And with things so bad at the gallery and my hours cut at the school, we don’t have the money.”

  Matthew lowered his arm from the back of the booth, tense with disbelief. “Does Cee know?” Just the thought ripped at his heart.

  Izzy shook her head. “Not yet. We’re trying to believe for the best. Maybe if we save for a couple years, if things turn around . . . And the social worker at the hospital said we could file an appeal to the insurance company.”

  “But if you wait too long, isn’t there a chance the surgery won’t do as much good?”

  Izzy pushed her empty glass to the middle of the table. “We’re trusting God. It’s all we can do at this point.”

  No, not good enough. And it wasn’t all he could do. Resolve expanded inside him as cheers erupted from a nearby lane. “I have some savings, Iz. Not a lot, but it could help.” And if nothing else, he’d downsize from his townhouse to a smaller apartment. Lower rent meant more money to push their way.

  The dejection in Izzy’s eyes softened into gratitude. “Not gonna happen, Matt. Jase would never—”

  “Do you have any idea how many times Jase has been there for me over the years? It’s about time I did something for him.”

  “What I really wish you’d do is take that story assignment in North Carolina. Go meet Randi Woodruff. Do you know how many people would kill for a chance like that? Have some fun.” Her expression intensified. “Be an example to Celine of someone who doesn’t give up just because they’ve hit a rough patch.”

  Izzy paused, then picked up her fork. “Besides, if Celine finds out you had the chance to interview her hero and didn’t take it, she’d never forgive you. Have you seen the From the Ground Up poster she has in her bedroom? The tool set she insisted we buy her for her birthday?”