Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  “They’re clean, I promise.”

  “I’m not wearing your socks.”

  “I’ll turn it inside out.”

  “Really, Blaze, I’m fine. I’ll go to the house and put on some real clothes.”

  He grabbed her ankle. She shook it. “Now, come on, Mrs. Woodruff. Make that Mrs. Hunziker. Listen to your hubby. He knows what’s best for you.”

  “I don’t need your socks.”

  He only held on tighter, his fingers sneaking to the arch of her foot. “Wear the socks, or hubby tickles you ’til you cry.”

  “This is abuse!”

  He tickled her.

  She screeched. “Blaze!”

  “I mean it, missy. Blaze just wants to take care of you.”

  “Blaze should stop talking in third person!” She whacked at him as he forced a sock over her foot.

  “So this is Blaze.”

  Miranda froze at the sound of the female voice. She hadn’t heard the door open, nor the approach of the figures highlighted from behind by pale rays streaming in from the window. She squinted, ankle still encased in Blaze’s hand and hair falling around her face from the playful struggle.

  “Miranda.”

  Robbie? Of course. He just couldn’t stay away.

  But strangely, he wasn’t the one she couldn’t look away from. She gulped and found her voice. “Mom?”

  At the first hint of sunrise, Matthew emerged from his Jeep and marched toward the Asheville Marriott. Weighty clouds dimmed the sky in a swirl of silver, a mountain haze fogging the landscape.

  He’d have had a better night’s sleep if he’d actually checked in to the hotel when he arrived shortly after midnight. But assuming Delia was still here, he hadn’t wanted to miss her if she made an early departure.

  A valet dipped his head in greeting as Matthew passed. Yes, I know I’m a wreck. He still wore his tux, though he’d loosened his bow tie and ditched the jacket.

  He pushed through the revolving door and dropped onto the first maroon bench he saw in the lobby. He’d stand guard all day if he had to. Because it wasn’t happening this time. He wouldn’t mess everything up, hurt someone he cared about. It’s why he’d spent half the night on the phone, bugging Dooley, bugging the lawyer Dooley recommended. He had enough ammo now to keep Delia from leaking those photos—if she hadn’t already.

  If only he could find her. He’d left half a dozen messages on her cell phone. Somehow he’d stop her—protect Miranda.

  Never mind the sting of Miranda’s actions last night. Oh, she hadn’t completely accused him with words, only implied. But the look in her eyes said it clearly enough.

  It’s not fair, Miranda. Not after how I’ve kept your secret all this time.

  His shoes tapped against the carpet as he waited. Fatigue tempted one eye closed, then the other. He blinked. No, couldn’t sleep. He might miss—

  “Matthew Knox. Fancy meeting you here.”

  His head whipped up and his mouth dropped open as the familiar voice snaked into his concentration. “Delia.” Her name came out flat, listless.

  “All rested up after your evening of dancing?” she asked with a self-satisfied smirk. “I had no idea you were such a Fred Astaire type. I’d call you Twinkletoes, but something tells me you might not appreciate the endearment.”

  “Speaking of things I don’t appreciate . . .” He stood. “You’re not going to use those photos.”

  Her sardonic laugh had its intended effect, rankling his determination. “Don’t be naïve. I hit the jackpot, and you know it. Although, I have to admit, I’m curious. That kiss—was it the real thing or was it part of some scheme to get Woodruff to open up? Either way, it’s a great story.”

  If she wasn’t a woman, the fists balling at his sides might not have stayed there. “I’ve already got a lawyer writing up a defamation suit. So unless you’ve got a hankering to hang out in a courthouse, you’ll forget the whole thing.”

  “Hankering? You’ve been down south too long.” She stepped closer, her spiked heels giving her enough height to face him eye to eye. “Your blog might be cute, Knox. Your name might be a hot thing at the moment. But your comeback’s coming to an end.”

  How to convince her to drop this? Wasn’t there something he could do? Apparently the idea of a lawsuit didn’t faze the woman. The splashing of the atrium fountain, an impatient patron dinging the concierge bell, the need for sleep, it all muddled his brain. Think, Knox. “Jones, please.”

  “Please what? Have compassion on the man who let his personal ambition and desire for revenge against his father ruin my career?”

  That’s it!

  He grabbed Delia’s wrist, pulled her to the bench. “Just listen. I’ll do it. I’ll do the story with my dad, and you can write it.” Dread ran a marathon through his head at even the idea, but it would be worth it. For Miranda, it would be worth it.

  “Write it for the AP, whomever. Former Pulitzer finalist on his way to a fine journalism career throws it all away to get back at his father. He causes his own downfall. Now, years later, his magnanimous father reaches out in forgiveness.” Yeah right, more like in the name of Gordon Knox’s own personal interests. But Delia’s stillness, the way her pursed lips released, signaled her interest. “Father and son reconcile. Gordon Knox goes on to a blooming political career.”

  Delia chewed on the inside of her cheek, then shifted to face him, her elbow propped on the back of the bench. “I could write that story anyway, Knox. Only with a different angle. Father reaches out to son—son refuses.”

  “It’d be one-sided.”

  She shrugged. “As was the attempt at reconciliation. Besides, at best, the story has regional appeal. Randi Woodruff, that’s national news.”

  “It’s national tabloid news. I know you, Jones. We worked together for years. You’re like me—there’s teeth to your reporting. You’re a hard-news journalist, not a bottom-feeder.”

  “You say that, and yet, you’re writing for Today.”

  “Not anymore. I’m writing one last blog entry after the Giving Heart ceremony, but I’m done after that.”

  “What about the cover story?”

  He shook his head. “Not doing it. Not the way Dooley wants.” He scooted an inch closer to Delia. “Miranda Woodruff is a good person, Delia. Please, don’t attempt to ruin her life the way I tried to ruin my father’s. I only ended up hurting myself . . . and you.”

  Delia peered at him. “It was for real, wasn’t it? That kiss.”

  Yes. “She’s a good person,” he repeated. Even if she had jumped straight to thinking the worst of him last night.

  Delia folded her arms and nodded. Nodded again. She stood. “Let me think about it. I wasn’t going to make any kind of move today anyway. I want to see how the awards turn out tonight. Besides, I’m following up on a different lead, too. Something about a new show to possibly replace From the Ground Up.”

  “I’ve been looking into that, too. Haven’t gotten too far yet.”

  All he had was a name—Hollie Morris, the woman who had once been a shoo-in for the From the Ground Up gig before Miranda arrived on the scene.

  The way he figured it, she may have created the new show just to get back at Miranda. But that was as far as he’d taken his research—because he’d become sidetracked, caught up in feelings for a woman who apparently still might not trust him.

  Man, what if I’m doing all this and at the end of the day have only a good-bye to show for it?

  “Anyway,” Delia said, “I guess I’m willing to wait it out. Maybe a better story will present itself—better than America’s tomboy darling cheating on her hubby.”

  His first urge was to argue that last part, but he swallowed his retort. “Thank you,” he said instead. “Really.”

  “I only said I’d consider it.”

  But it was hope enough for today. He thanked Delia again, even shook her hand, then hurried to his car.

  It’s going to be okay, Miranda. Everything’s
going to be fine. As long as that better story really panned out. He’d ask Miranda about Hollie Morris. See if the woman had held a grudge. But assuming Delia had gotten as far in her research as he had, would she really consider the maneuvering of Hollie Morris more intriguing than, as she said, a story about America’s tomboy darling cheating?

  Except she wasn’t cheating. Why, if Delia knew the truth . . .

  Wait . . .

  What if she could know? What if Matthew could convince Miranda to stop role-playing in a pretend marriage? To just come out with the truth? She’d be free of her lies . . .

  Free to be in a real relationship.

  He turned onto the road leading out of Asheville, his hope rising like mist from the valley.

  Mom was holding a framed photo of Grandma and Grandpa Woodruff when Miranda came down the stairs. Miranda had traded last night’s dress for a pair of worn jeans and a pullover fleece. Might as well get comfy for these couple free hours before she’d need to leave for Asheville to catch her jet to Nashville for the gala.

  Then again, standing in the same room as Mom felt anything but comfortable.

  “Your father misses them so much,” Mom said as she replaced the frame on the end table beside Miranda’s couch. “I know he regrets hurrying back to Brazil so quickly after your grandma’s funeral. If he’d known his dad was going to follow so closely . . .”

  Low-slung clouds outside hurled gray and shadow instead of sunlight through the living room’s tall windows. Miranda hugged her arms to herself, wishing words would come, waiting for the emotional reaction she knew she should be having right now.

  Mom is here. In North Carolina. At my house.

  And she didn’t know what she was supposed to be feeling.

  “I’m sorry to show up so suddenly.” Mom’s words were a repeat of earlier in the workshop. Miranda had almost knocked Blaze over as she stood up, one of his socks pushed halfway up her ankle.

  Mom had hugged her, her touch light and uncertain. And then Miranda had fumbled through an introduction of Blaze. “He’s a . . . friend.” It was one thing to lie to the press. Another to her mother. She couldn’t make herself.

  “You don’t have to apologize,” she said now.

  Mom turned a slow circle around the room. “I cannot believe my daughter built this place. It’s beautiful, Miranda. It truly is.”

  Miranda. Her nickname had never stuck with Mom and Dad. “Well, it would be nicer if I’d actually finish it someday.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Um, how’s Dad?”

  “He’s probably sitting in our flat pouting right now about not being here. But we just started a church plant, and his back pain’s been flaring up. He saw a doctor last week who pretty much ordered him to take it easy. We didn’t think an eight-hour plane ride would be good for him. But I promise you, it killed him to stay behind.”

  Mom settled onto the beige couch, pulling her feet up under her knees. Her dark hair, same shade as Miranda’s, hung free and wavy, and she wore a long, belted sweater over loose linen pants. She had to have flown overnight, but there was barely a hint of travel weariness about her. Instead, a faint swirl of hope danced in her blue eyes.

  “Please, Miranda. Sit with me? Talk?”

  But Miranda couldn’t sit yet, couldn’t relax. Her skittish emotions might be tiptoeing around each other, but there was no denying the hard glint of resentment vying for center. Words she’d never said—accusations, pain—jammed in her throat. Could she really give her hurt voice now, when Mom had come all this way?

  “Why are you here?” She blurted the question, arms still folded and legs refusing to bend.

  Mom seemed momentarily surprised at the question but covered it with a soft smile. “I’ve wanted to see where you live, Miranda. I’ve missed being a part of your life.”

  “Were you ever a part of my life?”

  A clear pinch of pain played across Mom’s face, and Miranda almost wished the question back. Because truly, it wasn’t a fair question, was it? Mom had given her life. She’d clothed and fed and cared for her those early years. And even when in her deepest pain—as a kid waiting for her parents to finally send for her, as a teen more in need of a mother than ever, as a heartbroken adult—she’d always known deep down that her parents loved her, maybe even missed her.

  But it didn’t stop the ache of their absence.

  “Your father and I wish we’d done things differently, found a way to make it work for you to stay with us or come to visit you more often. I should’ve called you every week . . . every day. I should’ve made sure you knew my mother’s heart never stopped beating for you.”

  The sound of Robbie clinking around in the kitchen jutted in. Miranda’s stomach growled. She finally sat, the recliner’s leather cool through the fabric of her jeans. “I don’t want to be angry at you.”

  “It’s okay to be angry. Let’s be honest with each other. If you want to know the truth, I’ve had my moments of being upset with you in this past year. Every time a letter or e-mail went unanswered, a phone call unreturned. I started to think you wanted nothing to do with us.”

  A sliver of guilt wove through Miranda’s mess of thoughts. And yet at the same time, she felt something unfolding in her heart—a willingness to have this conversation. To maybe, finally, say what needed to be said, to release the hurt she’d held on to for too long.

  Just like she’d finally let go of Robbie.

  “When I got your e-mail, Miranda, I dropped everything. I printed it out, found Cliff. We read it together, and . . .” Mom’s gaze held Miranda’s. “We just held each other and wept.”

  “Why?” The question was barely a whisper. She couldn’t even picture it. Her parents, the bold missionaries, the tireless workers . . . crying? And she certainly hadn’t said anything riveting in the e-mail.

  Liquid glistened in Mom’s eyes, and her voice shook with emotion. “We missed you. We missed our daughter.”

  Tears pricked the backs of Miranda’s eyelids. She unfolded her arms and allowed herself to sink deeper into the recliner’s embrace.

  Mom dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve’s edge. “Then when Robbie called, said he thought you might be in trouble, and told us about this gala thing, I bought a plane ticket.”

  Robbie had called her parents? Miranda thought back to the day she’d finally asked him to leave, the day he’d told her he still loved her. He’d argued with her, pushed her, attempted to sway her as he once had. He’d finally left, anger clearly displayed in his march to his car.

  But underneath his ire, he must have been concerned enough about her to call her parents. Or perhaps he hoped Mom and Dad would help his cause. Either way . . .

  Mom shifted, leather creaking underneath her.

  “I . . . I feel bad that you spent money on a plane ticket. I know finances are always tight.”

  Mom was shaking her head before Miranda finished, eyes still glassy. “I know it might not be easy, Miranda. We might have to start back at the very beginning, get to know each other all over again. But I want to try.” She leaned forward, reaching one hand to Miranda’s knee. “Please, can we try?”

  Miranda blinked, one tear and then another finally finding their way down her cheeks. “There’s so much you don’t know. Robbie and me . . . and my show . . . and Blaze . . .” A sob caught in her throat.

  Mom grasped Miranda’s hands, gently tugging her to the couch, to her side, and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Now would be a great time to tell me.”

  Matthew drove over the speed limit all the way to Miranda’s, rehearsing words he’d somehow find a way to say when he arrived.

  Think about it, Miranda. All you ever seem to worry about is what you’ll lose if you tell the truth. But what about what you might gain?

  He parked in front of her house, dodged raindrops that had finally begun to fall. He took the steps two at a time up the porch and heard the voices drifting from the kitchen when he entered the hou
se.

  Halfway through the living room, he stopped. That wasn’t Blaze’s voice. He recognized that accent. And come to think of it, the blue Prius was in the driveway again, wasn’t it?

  Had Matthew gotten rid of one problem only to find another? He started forward again, marching through the dining room . . . and then froze. Disbelieving.

  Because there stood Miranda, leaning forward to wrap her arms around Robbie’s neck, her murmured “Thank you” like a sucker punch to Matthew’s stomach. He blinked, forced his eyes back open . . . only to see her kiss the guy’s cheek.

  He turned, the weight of a hundred whys on his shoulder, and retreated from the house the way he’d come, down the porch steps to his waiting Jeep. He pounded his fist on the rain-slicked metal of the door, drops pattering on the vehicle’s roof, down his cheeks.

  How many times was he supposed to forgive her? The lies? The unspoken accusation last night? Now this? And he’d been ready to ask her to consider giving it all up for . . . what? Him?

  Taking a deep breath, his chest tight, nerves taut, he let himself into the Jeep and wrenched his digital recorder from his bag. While he drove, he started composing out loud.

  Chapter 19

  Tonight everything would change.

  The full-length mirror in the Nashville Convention Center ladies’ room displayed a woman Miranda barely recognized. Every hair in place. A makeup job Whitney would’ve been proud of—shimmery blue over her eyes and rosy cheeks. The deep-purple-almost-black of her dress held close to her skin from her shoulders to her waist, where it gathered and belled the rest of the way to the floor.

  Not quite as perfect as the dress Matthew had given her. But close.

  “You look gorgeous.” Miranda’s mother’s seafoam eyes met hers in the mirror. She still couldn’t believe it. Mom had come all this way. And at Robbie’s urging, nonetheless.

  “I’m a bundle of nerves.” And she would have felt so much better if Matthew had returned even one of her calls or texts. She never should have accused him last night. Surely he’d show up at the gala. Even if he hadn’t returned to the cabin. Or met them at the Asheville airport for their private flight. Or, as of yet, checked in at the press desk inside the convention center.