Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (16 page)

“The ironic thing is, my dad apparently recovered from it all quite easily. He’s running for office just a state away from here. Which kills me, considering . . .” He swept his hand over the bass keys, the noise harsh. “Why am I even talking about this? Oh, right. You, me, we’re not all that different. We’ve both made mistakes.”

The desire to lean her head on his shoulder, squeeze his hand, maybe let him teach her “Chopsticks,” after all, overtook her. But before she could respond, the clearing of a throat in the doorway thrust her attention away. Blaze. “I found the bags
and finished up, guys.” He spoke in his usual lighthearted tone. But when she and Matthew rose, when Matthew bent over to tuck the bench underneath the piano, she saw the knowing look in Blaze’s eyes.

And knew he wasn’t all wrong.

“Knox, all I’m saying is, take it up a notch.”

Matthew closed his laptop with a frustrated exhale. His cell phone, set to speaker, lay on the conference room table in front of him, the
Today
editor’s name displayed on the screen. “I thought you liked my blogs, said the website was getting record hits. Now you’re saying the material’s no good?”

He slipped his laptop into his messenger bag and stood. Earlier, the empty conference room of the
From the Ground Up
studio had seemed like the perfect place to write, pound out tomorrow’s blog post while Miranda filmed a segment on window installation.

But Dooley’s phone call ruined his focus.

“You’re putting words in my mouth. Your posts are well-written and generally entertaining. Today, that story about Randi building a tree house with her grandfather, it was cute.”

Somehow he doubted the word was a compliment. “It was meant to be insightful.” And he’d labored on it last night after returning from Open Arms. Heard the wistful rhythm of Miranda’s voice as he wrote.

“It was. But we’re not the
New Yorker
, Knox. For the first week of posts, insightful worked. But if you want to hang on to your readers, you can’t coast. Give us some flair. Put that reporter’s nose to work and dig up some surprises.”

What would Dooley say if Matthew told him he’d dug up a few already?
Blaze isn’t the original mystery man. Miranda was kicked out of Hope Builders for being romantically involved with her team leader.

He’d gone ahead and pretty much promised Miranda he wouldn’t play whistle-blower on her . . . yet. She’d bewitched him, had somehow become much more attractive than the scandal he’d originally hoped for.

Matthew slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’m not going to make something up just for the sake of spice.”

“Who’s asking you to? If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this biz, it’s that there isn’t a soul on earth not shielding some kind of secret or fault. You’ve shown us the talented, sentimental Randi Woodruff. All right. Now turn over the coin.”

He should’ve never taken this assignment. He wasn’t a blogger. And he certainly wasn’t the kind of man who sold out a friend.

Which is where he’d made his biggest mistake—dropping his guard, letting Miranda sneak past his reporter’s barrier.

Hearing voices outside the conference room door, Matthew picked up his phone and tapped the speaker off. “Okay, fine, I might have a minor lead.”

“Yeah?”

“Miranda is convinced her show’s in danger of cancelation.”

“Okay,” Dooley responded slowly, waiting.

He lowered his voice. “Well, if anybody wonders why she waited until now to put her husband on parade . . .” He trailed off, hating himself for what his words suggested. But wouldn’t Miranda prefer a minor inference like this rather than exposure of the whole truth?

“Hmm. So she’s using her husband in an attempt to save the show.”

The voices grew louder outside the conference room. “I wouldn’t put it in quite so crass of terms.”

“You don’t have to. Let the reader. Subtle implication is a beautiful thing, my friend.”

“I don’t remember you being so cold in college.” Maybe he
should
back out. For Miranda. For his own integrity.

“The word is
smart
, Knox. And if you want the January cover story, that’s exactly how you’ve got to play this: smart.”

He was starting to care less and less about the January cover. But the paycheck? The follow-up interviews. His name in the spotlight and the subsequent lucrative possibilities?

You can play serious journalist later. It’s about Cee’s surgery now.

As the voices outside the room rose another level, Matthew crossed the space to the doorway. “Listen, I’ve got to go. But I’ll give you more grit in tomorrow’s post.”

“Of course you will. And, Knox, be careful.”

Matthew paused. “What’s that mean?”

“It means usually you’re the one bursting at the seams for an exposé.”

“In politics, government, hard news, yes. But this—”

“People are intelligent. They read between the lines. Have you checked out the reader comments on your last couple blog posts?”

What in the world was Dooley getting at? “No, I haven’t read the comments. But whatever you’re suspecting—about me, I mean—you’re wrong.”

“Okay, then. But do yourself a favor. Read the comments section. Later, Knox.”

Matthew pocketed his phone, bewilderment giving way to annoyance. Like he had time to scroll through five hundred comments. Not with Dooley breathing down his neck . . . and something going on outside the conference room.

He opened the door to find Miranda, her manager, and Lincoln Nash mid-argument, or at least what looked like an
argument. Lincoln’s arms were folded, Miranda’s jaw set in defiance. “So, just like that, we’re caving to rumors and—” She stopped when she saw Matthew. “Oh, hi.”

“Knox, I forgot you were writing in there,” Brad cut in. “Come with me. Let’s talk about how you fit into Randi’s schedule for the next few days.” Brad nodded his head to the side, gesturing for Matthew to follow.

And ditch whatever interesting thing was happening here? But Miranda’s pleading expression convinced him to acquiesce. He caught up with Brad.

“So, what’s going on?”

They approached a humming vending machine, Miranda’s and Lincoln’s voices still trailing after them.

“If I tell you, I’d really rather it not hit cyberspace.”

Matthew leveled Miranda’s manager with an unapologetic grimace. “Can’t promise that.”

“At least you’re honest.” Brad shrugged, fishing into the pocket of his black pants and coming up with a handful of change. “Well, you’ll find out one way or another. Lincoln’s just told Miranda production on season four is halted until the network makes its final decision. She’s not taking it well.”

Down the hallway, Miranda was shaking her head as Lincoln spoke.

“I feel bad for her, but it isn’t unexpected. Who would want to pay out on a show that hasn’t been picked up for the next season?”

“True, but Randi’s thinking with her emotions. She’s thinking of the crew and their paychecks.” Brad slipped his quarters into the vending machine. “She’s also ticked off that the network is taking so long to make the decision. It’s unusual not to know the spring lineup this late into the fall.” He punched a button on the machine, and a candy bar dropped to the bottom with a thud.

“You’re saying there might be more to the story, then?”

Brad shrugged again. “Rumor is the execs are all agog over a recent pitch for a new show, that they may not want to wait until next fall to give it a slot.”

“Out with the old, in with the new. It seems crazy with Miranda’s fan base.” No wonder she walked around half the time tight with stress.

Brad pulled out the Snickers bar. “Well, if it’s another building-type show, her audience would likely convert without too much grumbling. What’s odd to me is that whoever pitched it did so to a network that already has a successful home show. Almost seems like . . . a personal dig. Who knows. I’d love to go mining for more information, but who’s going to tell Randi Woodruff’s manager about the competition?”

A personal dig? Against Miranda? An idea took root. “But they might tell a reporter. Especially one with
Today
magazine, one of the leading celeb mags.”

A grin spread across Brad’s cheeks as he started down the hallway. “For a reporter, you’re an okay guy.”

Matthew smirked. “Thanks . . . I think. Where you going?”

“To give Miranda her daily sugar supply. Might cheer her up.” He turned back to Matthew.

“You know her well.”

Brad stopped. “Well enough to know she doesn’t need this on top of everything else.”

Matthew would’ve thought this
was
the everything else.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this biz, it’s that there isn’t a soul on earth not shielding some kind of secret or fault.”

Had he only scratched the surface of Miranda’s secrets?

Gray skies looming, Miranda emerged from a grouping of trees. Rounding a bend and cresting the rise of terrain,
she spotted the church, its white steeple piercing the sky. It stood in the center of a flat clearing, cut into the side of a craggy ridge.

How many times had she walked this path, approached the church building that, despite its simple architecture and faded white-washed walls, held an austere pose amid its mountain surroundings? At least a year’s worth of Sundays.

But never during service times. Never risking a run-in with a regular attender.

And this was her first weeknight visit. What if she ran into a prayer group or something? She took a long, steady breath and reached for the handle of the heavy wooden door. It creaked open, promising silence, solitude. All she knew was she needed this—to get away, clear her head.

Maybe even pray about the anxieties pounding her like a heavy rain. No more production on their fourth season? It was as if Lincoln had pronounced an early death sentence on the show.

And then there’s Matthew . . .

Anyway, for weeks she’d been meaning to leave an anonymous note at the church about Jimmy and Audrey. Their home wasn’t more than two miles away, and if the church had any kind of outreach program, perhaps she could stop worrying about whether Audrey and her baby were eating enough.

Rays of colored light streamed in through the stained-glass windows. Wrapped in the quiet of the sanctuary, Miranda lowered onto a sun-warmed wooden pew. She breathed in the calm, felt the tautness of her emotions release as she leaned against the hard-backed seat.

She’d given up regular church attendance years ago, knowing full well her secret ruined any chance at finding community in a house of worship.

Make that
secrets
.

At the thought, the peace she’d grasped for upon entering the sanctuary doors seeped out in a slow escape. She might imagine she heard God’s whispering during her weekly visits, even crave the once-comforting canopy of His love, but years had widened the gap between Miranda and the faith that used to feel as real as the rises and ridges of the mountains.

And yet, here she sat, with Jesus smiling at her in stained glass.

I love my career, God. I love my house in the mountains. I love making a difference. Don’t you see I want to use my career to help people? Couldn’t, just this once, the end justify the means?

No answer from the smiling Jesus.

She redirected her gaze, the pulpit—new since she’d last stopped in—catching her eye. She rose and walked down the aisle, past the altar. Her fingers connected with the rich wood, traced the grooved outlines of a lion, lamb, and dove carved into the front of the pulpit. Now, that was craftsmanship. “Beautiful.” The word came out a whisper.

“Isn’t it, though?”

She spun at the sound of the soft voice. Caught where she didn’t belong. “I’m sorry. The doors were unlocked. I figured it was okay to come in.”

The easy smile of the woman walking down the aisle released Miranda’s chagrin. She wore a long-sleeved tee over running pants and Nikes.

“Of course it’s okay. I’m Joni Watters, the pastor’s wife. I see you appreciate fine woodworking?”

“Very much so.” Calming, she held out a hand. “I’m Miranda.”

“Nice to meet you. I didn’t see a car outside, so you must’ve hiked. You live close?” Joni pulled earbuds from her ears and pocketed an iPod.

“Only a few miles away. Well, six or seven if you take the road. Can I ask who did the carving?”

“Hezekiah Sloane, Old Hez, we called him. A true artist. He carved most of it, but a professional woodworker finished it recently. You see, Hez died last winter.”

Miranda slid her fingers along the markings on the pulpit. “How sad.”

Joni chuckled. “Not really. He was ninety-three and had been predicting his own death for six years. Every Christmas Eve he’d come up to my husband just before the candlelight service and say, ‘Brother John, I believe God told me this’ll be my last Christmas. Make it a good one tonight.’ And so John, Lord help him, would preach his best, but come the following Christmas, there Old Hez would be.” Joni sighed and perched on the corner of the altar. “He had it right this year. He died in his sleep the day after New Year’s.”

Miranda circled back around the altar. “Guess he heard God wrong the previous years.”

Joni studied her, gentle smile touching her eyes. “Ah, but he was listening. I think Hezekiah was simply eager to meet his Father. He lived a full, happy life, but something in that old man knew he wasn’t made for this earth.” She glanced at the stained-glass portrait of Jesus. “In other words, he’d found his true identity.”

Joni spoke with a kind of calm assurance Miranda envied.

The woman’s gaze returned to Miranda’s. “And that, my friend, is my sermon for the day.” Joni glanced away. “Morgan always used to joke that I should’ve been the preacher.”

Morgan?

Joni must have read Miranda’s question, because she answered before Miranda could ask it. “My daughter. She would’ve been twenty-two next month. She died in a skiing accident over spring break two years ago.”