by Melissa Tagg
“Why? Because if I was, it might ruin your blog series?” Her bottom lip turned out in a pout.
“That’s not the only reason. I also happen to be curious about where we’re going this beautiful Friday morning—and why you were in such a hurry to stop me from talking to Blaze earlier.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Oh, yes you were. I know alarm when I see it.”
She bit her lip, which he already recognized as her pondering look. “Um, what were the two of you talking about?”
“Nothing much. I was on my way to the house when he ran up behind me. Told me he’s training for a marathon—barefoot.”
“Brilliant idea, yeah?” Blaze had asked.
“S-sure. Brilliant.” Or a symptom of a brain injury.
When Matthew asked Blaze if he could interview him for the blog, the man had turned all sorts of skittish—fidgeted with his stopwatch, swiped dots of sweat from his brow, mumbled something about a splinter in his foot.
And then Miranda had launched from the house.
Was there some reason Miranda and Blaze were nixing his attempt at an interview with Blaze?
“Did you happen to read my first blog post? It went live today.”
Her shoulders relaxed as she uncrossed her arms. “No time, actually. I accidentally slept in. Took forever to fall asleep last night.”
Her too? He’d lain awake long past midnight thinking about Miranda Woodruff’s past, the hurt she thought she hid. But he’d also wondered whether or not, when it came time to write that January cover story, he’d have the necessary coldness to publicize her pain.
“My editor texted me it had thirty thousand hits in the first twenty minutes.” A bona fide hit. Celine would have her surgery by year’s end.
They motored around the ridge with the windows open, wind whipping the wooden cross hanging from the rental car’s rearview mirror. A present from Celine. Never failed in its murmuring admonishment—for skipping church, losing his way . . . but most of all, for forgetting what it was like to open himself to God’s presence.
“There it is, the lane for Jimmy and Audrey’s.” Miranda pointed.
“And they are . . . ?” He’d assumed they’d spend the day on set again, but she’d guided them the opposite direction of Pine Cove.
“Friends.”
He steered onto the gravel, followed the bumpy road into a thick stand of trees, and slowed to a stop. The house in front of them, if it could be called that, was made up of ramshackle walls propping up a sagging roof and planks of wood jutting from the floor of the porch. The scent of cedar and pine, the trickling of what must be a nearby creek, drifted through his open window. None of that fit with the scene before him: dingy blanket abandoned on the porch steps, spindles missing from the railing, a shutter dangling from one window.
“It’s not much to look at,” Miranda conceded as she hopped to the ground. “But it’s their home. Come on.”
She took the stairs two at a time, sidestepping a loose board as she navigated the deathtrap of a porch. Matthew followed and waited behind her as she knocked on the rickety front door.
“Hello, Audrey? You home?”
The tapping of footsteps sounded from the house and the door swung open. “Randi?” Before he could catch a glimpse of the woman, she threw her arms around Miranda. “You came!”
“Of course I did. I said I would.”
Audrey stepped back, and her eyes, pale blue and tired, turned on him. Straggles of mousy hair escaped a clip, and her brown dress hung from her small frame.
Miranda tugged on Matthew’s arm, pulling him forward. “This is Matthew Knox. He’s . . . a friend.”
He held out his hand to Audrey. “Pleased to meet you.”
Bare feet peeked from under the woman’s dress. She placed a diminutive palm in his.
“I see Jimmy tarped the lumber I dropped off a couple weeks ago,” Miranda pointed out. “Good move, especially with the slew of rain showers we’ve had.”
“Jimmy is plenty smart like that.” Audrey’s thin lips stretched with her drawled words. She stepped aside to allow them into the house. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw that truck coming down the road loaded with all that wood. Jimmy . . . he couldn’t, either.”
The pride in her voice didn’t match her surroundings—uneven floors, hand-me-down furniture that had probably spanned generations, a broken pane of glass in the front room’s one window. The house smelled of fried food and must. A framed photo of Audrey and a man who must be Jimmy sat on an end table.
“I was hoping I could see Lola before we get to work.”
Audrey’s wide grin pulled her gaunt cheeks tight. “Of course. It’s about time for her to wake from her morning nap.”
They trailed down an empty hallway, past a bedroom with a neatly made bed, its patchwork quilt the only color in the room. Though sparse and nearly dilapidated, the house was clean.
The next room held a crib. He paused in the doorway while Miranda and Audrey leaned over the baby bed.
“A little angel,” Miranda whispered. She had softened the moment they stepped in the house, he realized, and now she fairly melted—cooing and talking in hushed tones with Audrey. He watched as Audrey lifted the sleeping baby and placed her in Miranda’s arms. Miranda tilted forward to nuzzle the baby’s head with her nose and place a kiss on the baby’s cheek.
Beautiful . . .
“She is, isn’t she?” Miranda spoke.
He blinked. Oh. He’d said it aloud. “How old is she?”
Audrey nodded. “Four months and one week. Her full name is Lola Danielle.”
He moved to Miranda’s side, rubbed the little peach-fuzz head. Caramel eyes stared back at him above cherub cheeks.
“So where is Jimmy today?” Miranda asked the question with her cheek pressed to Lola’s.
Audrey’s expression turned uncomfortable. “He went away with his pals. Sometimes he’s gone three or four days, usually looking for work. Except this time . . . Well, it’s only been a week. I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”
Anxious silence broke the tenderness of moments before.
“Well, I could stand here holding her forever, but that’s not going to get your porch fixed.” Miranda sighed. “I suppose I should get to work.”
It took her another minute to surrender Lola to Audrey. When she did, she closed her arms around herself for a moment, a flicker of loneliness touching her eyes. But just as quickly, she unwound her arms and straightened her shoulders. “All right, Knox. Ready to help me?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll mix some lemonade,” Audrey said, shifting the bundle in her arms and leading them from the room. “And if there’s anything I can do—”
“Oh no, you just enjoy your day with Lola. Leave the porch to us.”
Matthew gulped the air outside, the expanse of the mountains such a contrast to the close quarters of the tiny house. Even the porch seemed to close in on him, and he quickened down the stairs.
“What I really want is to build her a new house,” Miranda said from behind him.
He turned. “Why don’t you?”
“Jimmy doesn’t want it. I don’t know if it’s the idea of charity that bothers him or what.”
“What he wants shouldn’t matter nearly as much as what his baby needs.” Especially if the man wasn’t going to return. But Matthew shook his head, knocking the thought loose. Not everyone was like his father. “So, do you help out here often?”
“A couple times a month. More when I’m on break from taping.”
“What do we do first?”
“Rip up the old boards. Some of them are okay, but anything wobbly or unstable goes.”
She reached into the back seat of his Jeep and pulled out the toolbox he’d seen her throw in earlier. She paused. “I never really asked you if wanted to help. If you don’t want to—”
“I do.”
She handed him a hammer, a sparkle lighting her eyes. “Let’s
start tearing things up.”
He grasped the hammer, plodded back up the porch, and knelt over the first loose board he saw. He dug the hammer claw underneath where the board wobbled and pulled. “How’d you meet Audrey?”
“At Open Arms, a children’s shelter in Asheville where I volunteer. Audrey’s father kicked her out when she got pregnant. The way she tells it, Jimmy wanted her to move in with him, but she was worried her father might interfere. She hitchhiked to Asheville and ended up at Open Arms, thinking maybe it was a home for displaced pregnant women. It isn’t, but Livvy—the director and my friend—couldn’t turn her away. Audrey stayed at Open Arms until recently, when Jimmy convinced her to get married and move back to the mountain.”
His muscles strained to pull the board up. When he’d freed it, he chucked it into the yard. “How old is she?”
On the other side of the porch, Miranda stilled and met his eyes. “Eighteen.”
His knees strained in his knelt position and he rocked back to sit. Eighteen. And living in a shack in the mountains. With a baby. And a husband who may or may not stick by her.
He leaned forward and hooked his hammer under another board, wood scraping against his fingers, promising blisters. “You know, you surprise me, Miranda.”
“That a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Good. You’re more than the tomboy you play on TV.” He looked up to meet her eyes, unreadable but fascinating. When hit by the sun, they turned to a soft, almost-blue. Like a rainy sky.
She’s married.
And he had no business putting words to the disturbing admiration clinking around in his brain.
“Um, thank you?” Cloudy uncertainty hazed over her face. “I mean, thank you.”
“Welcome.” Married.
And the key to his professional revival.
That’s all.
He plowed the hammer claw under another protruding board. “So, tell me about tonight.”
The uncertainty returned to her eyes. And the dinging of a distant warning bell continued somewhere in the back of his brain.
“What’s he like?” Liv’s muffled voice called from the depths of Miranda’s walk-in closet.
Miranda stood in the closet doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of her overalls. “Who, Blaze? He’s a total flake. Belongs in a surfer flick with Annette Funicello at his side.”
Liv emerged, arms draped with a rainbow of dresses and squeezed past Miranda. Miranda had forgotten she had such a storehouse of dresses. Other than the getup Whitney had forced her into the other day, she hadn’t had occasion to hassle into a dress since . . . when?
Probably back in churchgoing days. Before the guilt anchored her home on Sunday mornings.
“And he looks like . . . ?” Liv paused.
“It’s okay to say his name. Yes, he looks like Robbie. Though not as much now that I’ve been around him a couple days. And he’s nothing like him. Robbie was all serious, even brooding sometimes. Blaze is lighthearted, carefree.”
Liv dropped her armload onto the bed, plastic hangers clanking. “Think there’s any possibility of . . . you know.”
Miranda flopped onto the bed beside the pile of dresses. “Possibility of what?”
“Of you actually falling for your pretend guy.”
Miranda burst into laughter. “There’s more chance of Hades freezing over. Or pigs flying. Pick the cliché of your choice.”
Liv shot her a defiant stare. “Hey, anytime you hear about a man and woman pretending to be married or getting engaged or married for convenience, they always end up falling in love for real.” She held up a turquoise dress for inspection.
“Livvy, you’re talking about movies.” She waved off the dress. “This isn’t a movie—it’s my actual life.”
“Which at the moment is looking very much like a Sandra Bullock flick. And you’re right—nixing the turquoise number. Too Little Mermaid-ish.” She laid the dress over a chair and flipped through the others.
“Besides, we already have an exit strategy for our . . . relationship. When the time is right, we’ll leak a story about how the stress of public life was too much for us.”
Livvy huffed. “So, fine, what about the other guy? The reporter. He’s cute. Like a young Captain von Trapp.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s married, so maybe if you sing a few bars of ‘Do-Re-Mi . . .’”
Liv rolled her eyes and pulled a deep purple dress from the pile. “Gorgeous color.”
Miranda shook her head. “Too flashy for tonight. We’re eating on the terrace at the Timberlane.” According to Brad it was a classy but laid-back restaurant where she and Blaze would get attention without looking as if they were, well, trying to get attention. Lincoln and Brad had planned the outing down to the last detail. She was surprised they hadn’t picked out her dress.
“As for Matthew, he’s . . .” Miranda searched for the word, conjuring the image of Matthew holding Lola during a lemonade break at Audrey’s, twinkle lighting his eyes and boyish grin stretching his cheeks. “He’s nice.”
Liv smirked. “Vaguest word in Webster’s dictionary.”
Miranda traced the circled pattern of Grandma Woodruff’s quilt atop her bed. “I thought he’d be a pain to have around, but he’s so easygoing. Just fits in with whatever’s going on around him. You should’ve seen the way he helped out at Audrey’s house today. And last night, we had ice cream out in the cabin, and—”
“You mean your and Robbie’s—”
“Yes. And somehow I ended up talking about South America and my parents, and he just . . . listened.”
Liv laughed. “What’s amazing to me isn’t that he listened, but that you actually talked about it. Either you’re turning over a new leaf or the man has some kind of superpower.” Liv held up a black dress with white polka dots. “Now, this is cute.”
“And probably four years old. I bought it right after we returned to the States. Thought it looked like something Audrey Hepburn would wear.”
“You’re right, it has Roman Holiday written all over it. Goes in the possibility pile.” She paused, pursing her lips as if weighing her next words. “Rand, have you considered that this reporter might be trying to butter you up? He is out for a story, after all.”
Miranda fingered the ruffled collar of the green dress atop the heap of dresses. “I don’t think he’s like that.”
“She says without knowing a thing about the man.”
“Not true. I know his dad left him when he was a teenager. And he has this niece, Celine, who he’s crazy about.”
In fact, he’d asked Audrey to take a photo of him posing with Miranda, which he’d texted to Celine. Apparently, she was a From the Ground Up fan.
Miranda also knew Matthew was a hard worker. He’d more than kept up today. He had a curiosity about him, too. Like on the way home from Audrey’s when he’d joked about not paying enough attention in his high school shop class. “What’s a coping saw, anyway?”
He’d given such attention to her answer. Like it—maybe she—really mattered.
“Your grin makes me nervous.” Was that actually worry creasing Liv’s forehead?
“What do you mean?” Miranda rose, an onset of discomfort crawling through her. It was probably the thought of parading her imitation marriage tonight in Asheville.
“Just that Gregory Peck should be so lucky to get a smile like you just flashed from Audrey. And it has me wondering.”
Miranda stood, reached for the polka-dot dress, held it up against herself. The straps of the sleeveless dress tied around the neck. The fabric pulled in at the waist, then flared to her knees. She’d need a wrap, considering the cool night.
Resolute, she nodded. “This one.”
“You know you don’t have to go through with this, don’t you?” Liv’s serious tone invited tension into the room.
“Dinner out? Lincoln insists. The sooner we give the public their first glimpse of my mysterious mister, the better.”
�
��I mean the whole thing. It’s a big part to play. Barbara Stanwyck might’ve made phony nuptials look cute in Christmas in Connecticut, but as you so assertively pointed out mere minutes ago, this is real life.”
“Exactly. And for my real life to continue to include From the Ground Up, this is what I need to do.” Miranda stepped into the dress as she spoke.
“After tonight, there’s no going back. Once your and Blaze’s picture is in a newspaper, on the front of a magazine, that’s it. Exit strategy or not, he’s your new Robbie, and the lie you’ve complained to me about all this time is cemented in place.”
Liv’s statement sent pinpricks needling through her. “How can you throw that in my face now?”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Liv said softly, patiently, as if Miranda were one of her kids at Open Arms. She stepped up behind Miranda to tie the dress straps behind her neck. “But I’m worried you’re losing yourself in a tangle of lies.”
“Why didn’t you say something on Saturday, when you and Brad came over?” She felt the heat of irritation taking over her face. And her alarm clock, blaring the hour in red numbers from her nightstand, nagged her. They needed to leave soon to make their restaurant reservation.
“Because at the time, I thought this thing might force you to stand up to your producer.” Liv huffed a sigh and flopped against the pillows on her bed. “Or who knows, finally contact Robbie, get some closure.”
Not possible. Because she didn’t know where Robbie was. Wouldn’t let herself care. And there was no such thing as closure anyway.
The rhythm of a branch hitting the windowpane pulled her back to the present. “What do you want me to say, Liv? That I’ll give up everything I’ve worked for, not to mention letting down the whole crew, everyone who’s invested in the show? Not happening.”
“That’s not—”
A knock at the door interrupted Liv’s strained reply. “Miranda?”
Matthew. Disconcerting as the conversation had become, she welcomed the intrusion. She inched the door open. “Hey.”
His eyes traveled the length of her in one admiring swoop. “And I thought you made overalls look good.”
No missing Liv’s whispered, “Oh, brother.”