Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  Everyone has a place to go. But where did he belong anymore? His story was completely up in the air. Dooley was probably ready to have his head.

  His phone beeped.

  Morning session is almost over. I’ll be out soon. Looking forward to seeing you, son.

  Matthew wasn’t sure he could say the same. He decided to grab a coffee while he was waiting and started toward the Starbucks he’d noticed on his way in.

  But skidded to a halt when he saw a woman crossing the lobby. He gasped.

  Delia Jones?

  Probably just a look-alike. Didn’t they say everyone had one?

  He ducked behind the waterfall display, out of her peripheral vision. She stopped at the concierge desk. Come on, turn. Let me see your profile. Just a coincidence, surely.

  And then she angled enough that he could see her reflection in the mirror behind the desk. Even from a distance, it was enough to know. No denying it. He knew that toothy grin, her flaming red hair.

  “Think, Knox,” he whispered. “What’s she doing here?” And how long could he keep hiding behind the waterfall? Tiny pricks of water hit his face as he debated what to do next.

  He glanced around the lobby, scanning for an escape route. If he could get back to the elevator undetected, he could—

  And then he saw another woman.

  Oh no. No, no, no. Not Miranda, too. She’d said she was heading back to the house when they’d left Audrey’s. Robbie was still there, after all. And Blaze.

  But here she was, the revolving door spitting her right into the lion’s den. If Delia saw her, she’d pounce.

  Because that’s why Delia was here, wasn’t it? She probably resented how well his blog was doing and wanted a piece of the story for herself, or simply wanted to ruin things for him, like usual.

  But he wouldn’t let her. Taking his chance, he swooped toward the atrium, where Miranda was heading straight toward the concierge desk. If he hurried, he could cut her off before she got to—

  Wait. What if she was here to meet Delia? What if Delia had already contacted her, arranged an interview? Of course she had! Delia was just the kind of sneak to do something like that. And Miranda couldn’t have any idea what she was getting into. Delia would sniff out the truth and skewer Miranda’s career.

  He moved again, praying Delia didn’t turn around or notice his reflection in the mirror. “Miranda,” he whispered as he reached her, one arm automatically making its way around her waist. “Come with me.”

  “Whoa. What’s the hurry, Knox?”

  He dragged her with him, her feet shuffling. “Just obey.” She resisted, tugging free of his hold. But only for a second. He gripped her elbow, still pulling. It couldn’t be much longer before Delia finished her business at the desk.

  “What is wrong with you?” she hissed. “I’m not your dog. Don’t tell me to obey you.”

  “True, you’re much too pretty to be a dog. But . . . trust me. You don’t want to talk to her.”

  “Don’t try to sweet-talk me when you’re dragging me across a hotel lobby.” She struggled against his hold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let go of me.”

  He only held tighter. Almost to the waterfall display, out of sight, safe. “Miranda, please, you don’t know what she’s like. You don’t want to let her interview you.”

  “What are you talking about? Who—” She yanked, pulled . . . lost her balance.

  And the sound of her screech ended in a splash. Water slopped over the edge of the waterfall base.

  In slow motion, she rose from the water—so like that first day he’d met her, out on that flooded road. Water streaked down her face, her sputters lost in the sound of the fountain. She stepped onto the carpet, shoes squishing. “Why . . . do you always . . . do this to me?”

  Water dripped from her sweater, her jeans, soaking his Converse shoes. “I’m sooo sorry, Miranda. I thought . . . you were . . . and Delia . . .” He whipped his head around, hopping from one ogling face to another. Muffled chuckles dotted the room. But no Delia.

  Thank you, God.

  Miranda shook her head, moisture flicking onto his face. Her eyebrows peaked and she stomped her foot. “Well, speak up.”

  Relief slid through him to see Delia had left the lobby, tempting laughter on its heels. Don’t you dare, Knox. “I really am sorry.”

  She stabbed a finger at his chest. “I don’t know who you think I’m here to see, but I came for you. For moral support when you meet your dad.”

  Oh. He couldn’t help smiling so big his cheeks hurt. “That’s, um, sweet, Miranda. Really, it is. But I have no idea how it’s going to go, and you’re . . .” Beautiful, even soaking wet.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she pushed past him, shoes squeaking as she stalked through the lobby.

  He turned to meet the stares. “Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to see.”

  And for the life of him, he couldn’t stop grinning.

  “Can I help?”

  Miranda wrapped one arm around her metal ladder and looked to the ground where Robbie stood, head tipped. He wore a stylish, fitted black coat that, together with his dark eyes, gray scarf, and dark hair, could’ve landed him a modeling gig. Handsome as the day she’d met him.

  After leaving the hotel, she’d returned home with every intention of asking Robbie to leave. It was too confusing having him and Blaze and Matthew around. But nerves had kept her from the task, and she’d escaped outside.

  She motioned to the remaining storm windows propped against the exterior of her house. “I only have a few left. Ground floor. If you want.”

  He picked up a window, sent her a grin. “I want.”

  I wonder how Matthew’s time with his dad is going.

  Matthew had followed her from the hotel lobby out to the Ford sedan she hardly ever drove, apologizing over and over for bumping her into the fountain. And then thanking her for coming.

  “Seriously, it means a lot to me, Miranda.” Sunlight kissed his skin and turned his brown hair golden. “Come on back inside.”

  “But I’m soaking wet. Besides, I think the concierge recognized me when we walked out. I’d better go before a media frenzy begins.”

  Matthew had pulled her into a hug before letting her go.

  Now she jiggled the window she’d just placed, making sure it was stable before climbing down the ladder.

  “I would have come outside to help earlier if I’d known you were working on the house,” Robbie said as she reached for the last window. He’d already installed two. “Why isn’t Blaze helping?”

  “Broken arm, remember?”

  “Oh, right. Where’s the reporter?”

  “In Asheville.”

  “He does not like me,” Robbie said, wiping dust from his hands and moving to her side.

  Her arms strained as she lifted the heavy window. “Who?”

  Robbie’s arms pitched forward to pull the window from her grasp. “Let me, Rand. And I mean the reporter.”

  She wanted to argue, yank the window back. She could do this herself. Had all three winters since Robbie left. But he was stronger and just as stubborn as her. And he barely grunted when he hefted the window.

  “Why do you say that?” Hadn’t Matthew been perfectly polite last night?

  A gust of wind, carrying a scent of pine and cold, played with Robbie’s hair, and he shrugged. “I know because of the way he looked at me. Like I am a tiger ready . . . ready to eat up an unsuspecting human.”

  “A bear would be a better description, Robbie. We don’t have many tigers around here.”

  Robbie finished with the window, then turned to peer at her. “Do you ever think about going back to Brazil?”

  “Not really. Sometimes I think about going down to visit my parents. But they’ve never actually invited me.”

  He brushed his hands together. “I saw them at my father’s funeral.”

  Her eyes widened. “Really? I didn’t realize you stayed in touch with them.” She’d
let them know things hadn’t worked out with Robbie. But she had no idea if they’d ever watched her shows, kept up with her life enough to know about her marriage act. “How, uh, how did they seem?”

  He leaned against the side of the house. “Well, they told me how you send a donation to their mission each year.”

  She shrugged. “Seems like the least I can do.”

  “They said they’ve been trying to contact you. They miss you.”

  And other than sending a spur-of-the-moment e-mail the other day, she’d ignored the letters and phone calls. She turned, reached for the ladder.

  “I will get it,” Robbie said, reaching around her. They walked quietly around the house, the silence of the mountains shrouding her alcove in peace.

  “Miranda, why did you never finish the house?”

  She shrugged. “It never felt right.”

  The musky scent of his cologne invaded her senses as they stopped to study the skeleton of the addition. “You had big plans for it. Jacuzzi in the master bedroom. Skylights.”

  “Remember how you wanted a walk-in closet?”

  “And you made fun of me for having more clothes than you,” he added.

  They faced each other, the sweet-and-sour mixture of emotions so thick in the air between them, Miranda could taste it. “How long are you going to keep pretending?” Robbie’s voice was suddenly deep, intense, and his gaze ripped into her calm.

  “What?”

  “I have watched every episode, Randi. Every episode. When you talk about your husband, you are talking about me. At some point, someone is going to figure out you’re not talking about that man with the broken arm.” He dropped the ladder, and it jangled to the ground. He inched closer. “You are mixing my history with his face.” His breath came in puffs of white that brushed over her cheeks.

  She tried to back away, but Robbie lifted his hands to her shoulders. She refused to meet his eyes.

  “I need to know. Do you still love me?”

  Her head whipped up, jaw dropping. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because I still love you.”

  Her inhale was so sharp, mountain air scraped at her throat. She could feel its prick hit her heart.

  She used to imagine Robbie returning to say those words, looking at her exactly as he did now—chocolate eyes promising a sweet return to the romance they used to share. This was the part when she was supposed to throw herself into his arms, tell him she forgave him. Tell him she’d saved his ring in hopes of this day.

  His ring. Its diamond dug into her flesh now, her hand clenched into a fist.

  “Say something,” he urged softly.

  All she wanted to do was run away. “No.” She whispered the word. And then, finally, asked him to leave.

  “Miranda’s not home?”

  After returning from Asheville, Matthew found Blaze doing one-armed jumping jacks in Miranda’s living room. Nausea plagued his stomach. Somehow he’d allowed himself to believe meeting his father might go well.

  He’d been royally wrong.

  “No, she went on a walk. Probably to that church she told us about.” Blaze shook the hair out of his eyes.

  “And Robbie?”

  Blaze beamed. “She kicked him out.”

  At that, at least, he could smile. “It’s about time. I think I might go find her.”

  “Have at it, dude.”

  Matthew stopped before exiting the house. “You’ve had a pretty boring go of it lately, haven’t you? Everybody’s been running around, and you’ve just been hanging out.”

  Blaze pointed to his head. “Thinking time. It’s good for me.”

  Not for the first time, questions about Blaze’s real life—the one he lived when he wasn’t faking it as Miranda’s husband—poked at him. Miranda had said there was an exit strategy for their pretend marriage, but just how long had Blaze committed to this thing? Was he beginning to feel trapped, maybe regretting his decision?

  But Blaze waved him out the door before he could ask his questions. “Go on. Randi’s probably in need of company.”

  “I don’t know where the church is.”

  “Miranda went down that path. Maybe if you follow it, you’ll end up there.”

  Matthew shrugged. Might as well. Outside, the wind tousled his hair, and he buttoned his black jacket the rest of the way. He needed to clear his head of this rotten day but couldn’t stop the flashback playing like a movie reel . . .

  He’d seen his father before Gordon Knox saw him. The man stepped into the hotel lobby, scanning the expansive room. Matthew took a breath, waved and waited.

  “You look different, son,” his father said when he reached him. Gordon Knox’s teeth, either caps or the work of some hard-core bleach, glowed white against a tanned face. His still-thick hair was more salt than pepper now, and extra lines creased his face.

  “I guess five years will do that.” The words broke free before he could second-guess them. Did they come out as accusatory as they’d sounded in his head?

  His father’s face gave no hint. “Yes, I suppose that is how long it’s been.”

  The speech Matthew had rehearsed on the way fell by the wayside as his father grasped his hand. “So what’s your conference for?”

  “Oh, some silly thing on community utilities management. Comes at a bad time with the campaign and all. Election is only two weeks away. But if I’m elected, it’ll be good experience. Jase did tell you about my city council run, right?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  “How is Jase, anyway?”

  “Fine. He’s had some business setbacks, though.”

  “Hmm. Anything I can help with?”

  About fifteen years too late for that, wasn’t he? “I don’t think so.”

  “I saw a Starbucks. Let’s grab a cup of Joe.”

  Matthew followed his father’s long strides, the smell of coffee whetting his appetite.

  Gordon scouted the coffee shop, seemed to find what he was looking for, and guided the way to a booth. Which is when Matthew’s eyes landed on the figure already sitting there.

  Delia.

  And she wore conniving like a piece of clothing, from her taunting, toothy smile to the way her fire-engine-red nails tapped the Formica table. He jerked to face his father.

  Gordon motioned to the booth. “Sit, son. I believe you two know each other.”

  Blindsided, Matthew did as his father ordered. He slid in across from Delia.

  “I’m going to grab a latte. Son, Ms. Jones, can I get you anything?”

  “Grande skinny mocha, no whipped cream,” Delia said.

  Matthew only shook his head. “What are you doing here?” he asked as his father walked to the counter.

  “Mr. Knox called me. I came.”

  He didn’t know whether to believe her or shoot questions at her like bullets.

  “Enjoying playing lightweight celebrity blogger?” Delia asked.

  “What turned you into such a crank, Delia?”

  “Maybe having my editor take me out on a date, and then—rather than calling, maybe asking for a second date like a normal guy might do—he force-feeds me an article that gets me fired. That might do it, don’t you think?”

  He started to open his mouth, but she stopped him. “And don’t give me the ‘we had a source’ argument. I tired of that long ago.”

  He hadn’t planned to mention the faulty source. Whether she would believe it or not, he’d been about to apologize for the dinner-date misunderstanding. But she wouldn’t have accepted the apology anyway. Delia’s scowl seeped disdain, and if it weren’t for the curiosity clawing him, Matthew would have walked out right then.

  Instead, they’d waited in silence for his father.

  And when Gordon Knox returned, he got right to business.

  “Son, the reason I wanted to talk to you is twofold. First, remember my Ducati? I had it detailed a few months ago.”

  His father had contacted him because of a motorcycle? Confusion
fought with a reel of memories, all the same: the sound of the bike’s muffler as his dad rode away. So many evenings he’d watched from the window as Gordon Knox took off on his nightly ride, then lain awake in bed listening for his return.

  Until one night . . . he didn’t.

  “Yeah, I guess I remember.”

  “And remember how I always said one day it’d be yours.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  Except . . . except maybe he did.

  “Dad, I want a Ducati, too.”

  “Someday, son, you’ll have one. And not just any bike, but this one.”

  So clear now, the memory. He must’ve repressed it years ago. Or had simply given up on the promise ever coming true. And in the process of disappointment, forgotten.

  “It’s time for you to have it. You can come pick it up in Knoxville or I’ll ship it to you. Whole lot of value in that thing.”

  And then it rushed him, the anger. It pushed at the restraints he’d thought in place. No more. “I don’t want your bike. If you think it makes up for years of neglect, you’re wrong. And just so you know, it’s not neglect of me I’m angry about. It’s Mom. She was sick and you—”

  “Matthew, my goal here is not to rehash the past.”

  “Well, maybe it needs to be rehashed.” He hated that Delia was sitting there watching this beside his father. Gordon Knox hadn’t only insulted him with this ridiculous sham of a reunion, he’d invited his rival to watch.

  “It needs to be healed, is what,” his father inserted. “And that’s why Ms. Jones is here. I want us to call a truce. A public truce. End this painful estrangement. Become a family again.”

  Delia’s nose wrinkled. “Why would I want to be a part of that?”

  “I’d like you to write about it. I know you suffered in that mix-up with the article. I thought, who better to record my reconciliation with my son?”

  Oh. Slowly, like an ugly puzzle coming together, the pieces connected in Matthew’s mind. This was all a part of his father’s campaign. He hadn’t called Jase because he wanted to reconnect with his sons. He wanted a publicity stunt.