Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (22 page)

“I’m selling the gallery.”

The recliner springs moaned as Matthew jerked. “What? Y-you can’t.”

“I have to. I’m not moving pieces like when it first opened. Blame the economy, blame whatever you want, but the place is leaking money.”

“Yeah, but it was your dream. You saved for over a decade to open it.”

“And it’s been a fun few years. But my family is my dream now. They come first. There’s a teaching spot open at the U of M next semester. I’ve already accepted.”

Jase spoke with straight practicality, but he had to be hurting. He’d invested so much in that place. Matthew had been there on opening day, had watched straightlaced, reserved Jase practically bounce through the place as he greeted customers, artists, photographers.

“Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“It’s already done. I had an offer on the space within two weeks of putting it up for sale.”

Two weeks? That meant Jase had been moving on this before Matthew even left town. Why hadn’t he said something?

“It’s a miracle, actually, a reasonable offer coming in that quickly, in this economy. To Izzy and me, it confirmed this is God’s will.”

“It’s God’s will you give up on your dream?” Sarcasm laced his words. Maybe he hadn’t been Mr. Super Christian lately, but that didn’t sound like the God he’d learned about growing up. Did God give people dreams only to yank them back?

He leaned his head against the recliner’s headrest. Is that what Miranda wrestled? Did she feel as if God had taken away
her original dream—marriage to that guy from Brazil—and is that why she went to such crazy lengths to hold on to what she had left?

Whereas Jase went ahead and surrendered. Laid his dream on the altar when it became too much. What now?

“Will the money you get from the sale make Cee’s surgery a possibility?”

Jase sighed. “It’ll help. And the university has a great health insurance policy, though it won’t kick in until February. After that, we’ll see. We’re still praying about it. Celine is happy, well adjusted. We want what’s best for her, but we have to trust that God knows what He’s doing.”

Trust. It always came down to that. And rarely did it work out.

Jase turned off the TV with a click of the remote, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Hey, little brother, don’t look so down. It’s not all bad news. Izzy and I were going to tell you at dinner, but you seem to need the news now.” Jase paused, light flooding his eyes. “Izzy’s pregnant.”

Matthew burst from the recliner. “Jase, are you serious?”

Jase looked up. “I’ll joke about a lot of things, but my wife carrying our child? Uh-uh. We’re due in May.”

“Well, then, stand up so I can hug you, bro!”

They embraced with hearty pats on the back.

“An uncle all over again. I like this.” He squinted against the sun pouring into the room. “But the gallery. I am sorry, Jase.”

“Don’t be. It was fun while it lasted. But with Iz pregnant, now more than ever, we need an income we can count on. Sure, it’ll be hard to see the place empty out. But I like teaching. It’ll be great.”

Although Jase’s confidence rang genuine, Matthew detected the barest hint of forced optimism. So strange, the combination of pure joy and disappointment over the end of his brother’s dream. But like Jase said, he had a new dream now: his family.

A new dream.

What if Miranda could escape the trap of her lie and find a new dream?

What if I could?

“Maybe we should take Miranda by the gallery on the way back to the airport tonight. She’s got a few blank walls in her house.”

Jase clapped his hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Yeah, back to her. And you. And the fact that she’s not married.”

“We’re not going there, dude.”

Jase crossed his arms. “Fine. Izzy’ll get it out of you eventually anyway. I’m going to go check on Cee, make sure she’s not forcing your celebrity into building her a new bedroom or anything.”

“And I’m going to find Izzy and congratulate her. You do know if you have a boy I expect you to name him after me.”

Jase’s chuckle bounded through the house. While his brother climbed the stairs, Matthew headed toward the kitchen. But he stopped short at the sound of Miranda’s voice. She must have come down already.

He peered around the corner. Izzy and Miranda stood on opposite sides of the island counter in the middle of the kitchen, cutting boards and a variety of vegetables ready to be chopped.

“I thought I was going to die of boredom chaperoning that dance. But then this new guy walks in. Someone tells me he’s a visiting professor in the art department. A photographer.” Izzy chopped an onion as she spoke. “I’m telling you, by the end of our first dance, I’d decided I’d marry him.”

Miranda giggled. “That quickly, huh?”

“I think it was the dancing. Dance with the right guy and—wham—you just know.”

“That so?”

“Sure. Haven’t you ever gone to a dance with your husband? Didn’t it do all kinds of funny stuff to your stomach?”

Are you going to lie to her?
The silent question pricked Matthew.

“I’ve never been to a dance, actually.” Miranda’s tone spoke nonchalance, but even from where he stood, Matthew could see the tightening of her wrist as she sliced through the cucumber.

“Why not? Not even your high-school prom?”

Miranda shook her head, her knife rapping into the wooden board with each cut. “No. I remember wanting to go. Or at least considering it. And I really thought someone would ask me, too. I had all these guy friends from shop class. But each time one of them came up to me, right when I thought they were going to ask, they’d ask me for advice on which cheerleader they should take or how they should invite another girl.”

Miranda had stopped slicing as she spoke. Across the island, Izzy bit her bottom lip, waited.

Finally, Miranda shrugged, waved her knife with a chuckle. “It’s a silly thing to remember. Not like it mattered in the bigger picture of my life. Although, to this day, I don’t know how to dance. And that freaks me out considering this Giving Heart gala thing includes dancing.” She pointed the knife at herself. “But look at me. Do I look like a girl who belongs in a dress on a dance floor?”

Yes . . .

“Yes, what, Uncle Matt?”

He glanced down. Cee stood in front of him, wearing her soccer uniform and socks pulled to her knees.
“Yes, you look awesome in your uniform,”
he signed without speaking.

“But I didn’t even ask you that,”
she signed back.

“I read your mind.”

Like he’d read between the lines of Miranda’s question to the insecurities obviously still nagging her. And it made the
thought of adding one more scar to the mix by publicizing Miranda’s fake marriage feel all sorts of dirty.

That’s right—as much as he wanted a story, as much as he wanted to be there for Cee, he realized now he didn’t want to do it at the expense of Miranda’s heart. Maybe he could find some other angle.

But he couldn’t be the latest in the string of men who’d hurt Randi Woodruff.

Even if it cost him his career comeback. Maybe, like Jase, it was time he sacrificed one dream and found another. He took hold of Cee’s hand and strolled into the kitchen.

Matthew had never seen Miranda laugh so freely. In the span of a few hours, she’d latched on to his family like a little girl with a new doll. She’d listened with intent focus while Cee shared her dream of becoming an architect and built her up with words of encouragement.

Then he’d taken on Miranda and Cee in a game of soccer in the backyard. He’d let Cee barrel past him every time she dribbled toward the homemade goal—the hammock hanging between a tree and a pole.

But when Miranda raced toward the goal, he darted in front of her, egging her on with playful taunts.

Later, the party of five had laughed through a dinner of steak and veggies and then a half dozen rounds of Uno Attack.

Finally, they’d loaded up into Jase’s car, Cee squeezed in between Matthew and Miranda in the back seat. On the way to the airport, they stopped at the gallery, where Miranda purchased an eight-hundred-dollar print. Whether she actually liked the artwork as much as her gushing suggested or she’d picked up on the For Sale sign in the window, Matthew couldn’t tell.

All he knew was, watching Miranda hug Cee, then Izzy, then Jase, she’d needed this day. He might have coerced her into it for Cee’s sake, but she had benefited, too.

And me, too.
Once he’d stopped pouting, it had been the best day he could remember in a long time.

He leaned down to kiss Izzy’s cheek. “Congrats again, sis.”

“I hope you’re prepared for your baby-sitting duties to double.”

“I think I’m up for the job.”

He hugged Jase next, then bent down in front of Cee. “You’re going to make the best big sister in the world.”

She plunked her hands on his shoulders. “I know, silly.”

He pulled her into a hug.

Fifteen minutes later, he and Miranda made it through Security and located their terminal. They found two empty seats and settled to wait for their flight. Matthew raked his fingers through his hair. “Man, that was a fun but long day.”

“Hey, Matthew, do you know anything about smartphones?”

“What do you need to know?”

She pulled out her phone. “Well, supposedly I can e-mail from this thing. But I’ve never used it.”

He chuckled while he tapped on her phone. “The girl who makes using a table saw look easier than brushing her teeth doesn’t know how to send an e-mail from her phone. Love it.”

She jabbed him with her elbow but smiled.

“Here you go. Your e-mail system was already set up. I opened a new message for you.” He handed her phone back. “Who are you e-mailing?”

“Silly reporter. Always asking questions.”

He watched her tap out the message. Slowly. He grinned. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”

She kept tapping. “If you must know . . . my parents.”

“Really?”

She looked up, met his eyes. “Really. Just to, um, say hi, I guess.”

He held her gaze. “Well, Liv will be proud of you.” And she wasn’t the only one.

Miranda bit her lip over a half smile, then went back to typing her message. Minutes passed until the sound of the television pulled his attention. “Hey, Miranda, check out the TV.” A rerun of
From the Ground Up.

She pocketed her phone, looked up, and groaned. “I remember that episode.” On screen, she lay on her back, head poking under a kitchen sink. “Drain work drives me crazy. I’m a carpenter, not a plumber.”

They watched in silence, airport activity barely a hum so late at night. Exhaustion from their eighteen-hour-day tugged at Matthew’s mind, his eyelids drifting closed.

“My real life is as fake as that kitchen set,” Miranda’s voice glided into his sleepiness.

“Huh?” He lifted one eyelid.

“That kitchen. The cupboards are hollow, no china or utensils stored inside. The counters are all movable, depending on the scene. The refrigerator and stove aren’t hooked up. It’s all . . . fake. Shallow.” Weariness formed her words as she slouched in her chair.

“Remember, today we’re not thinking about any of that. And it’s”—he checked his watch—“eleven forty-four. We’ve still got sixteen minutes of today left.”

The whir of an airplane taking off outside the window diminished the sound of the television, the airport’s hum. Matthew lifted his hand from his lap and covered Miranda’s palm on the armrest.

The morning had started out in a blur of phone calls and hurried activity.

“How fast can you get to the set, Rand?” Brad blurted the question without so much as a good-morning when she’d answered the phone, her voice raspy from a night of way too little sleep. She and Matthew hadn’t rolled in to her property until after 3:00.

“Sasha Perot’s guest for her show today cancelled, and she wants you to fill in.”

Miranda had flung her feet to the floor. Sunlight poured in through her bedroom windows. What time was it, anyway? “The set? But Sasha tapes in Chicago.”

Sasha Perot, owner of SteelWorks Kitchen Appliance and Accessories, and host of
We Can Women
, a live how-to show, had guested on
From the Ground Up
at least a half dozen times throughout the years.

“They’ll satellite you in. This is good publicity, kid. The topic is kitchen design. I already called Linc, got his permission to use the studio kitchen. He told me to call Tom, which I did, so he and some of the crew are getting it ready as we speak.”

All pitching in to help their front woman, paycheck or no. “What time do we go live?”

And so here she was, leaning against an island counter in a relaxed pose entirely contrary to the weekend’s swirl of emotions still twisting inside her.

“Thirty seconds, Rand,” a crewman said, whisking past.

From the monitor a few feet away, Sasha introduced the segment. The woman’s glossy black hair and eclectic jewelry screamed urban suave. “. . . which is why I’m so glad Randi Woodruff, host of
From the Ground Up
, is joining us today to talk all things kitcheny. Randi, thanks for joining us via satellite.”

Can’t mess this up. You’re live.
Thank goodness for Whitney and her cosmetics case. For once Miranda appreciated the makeup plastered over her face. Even she had cringed at the circles under her eyes this morning.

“You’re welcome, Sasha, and thanks for having me on the show. Kitchens, possibly more than any room remodel, take extra care and planning.” She moved across the set without missing a beat. “Not only do you have to consider practical and aesthetic appliance arrangement, but you also have to take into account plumbing lines, electrical wiring, and of course, your personal use of the kitchen.”

She caught Tom’s thumbs-up from where he stood off set. Nearby, Brad shot her a smile of approval.

They’d all rushed to make this happen. But did it even matter? If Matthew broke the story about her lies, surely the network would can the show. Oh sure, he’d made a bargain to keep her secret for the time being, and she’d gone with him to Minneapolis. But could she really expect him to hold out forever? He had his own career to consider.

All the people she cared about would be hurt when the story broke. And what about poor Blaze? They’d never planned to stay fake-married indefinitely, but if her secret came out and the whole country knew about her ruse, what would
his
future hold?

The truth pummeled her, even as she performed on autopilot, moving to the center of the kitchen space, bobbing her head at Sasha’s commentary.

“To create a truly distinctive space, first consider what might serve as the focal point of your kitchen,” Sasha was saying. “Randi, what would you say is this particular kitchen’s focal point?”

They’d talked about this before taping, but in the minutes since, their plan had tangled with her knotted emotions.
Focal point . . . Oh!
“Without a doubt, I’d say the bank of windows on this long wall. You could really take advantage of that with an eye-catching counter. And what cook doesn’t appreciate a runway of a counter?”

“Randi, talk to us about cabinetry. I know your first love is woodworking, so you probably have fabulous ideas for kitchen cupboards.”

Miranda brushed a hand over the oak cabinets at eye level. “While budgets will differ from household to household, I often tell people the one area not to skimp on in a room remodel is carpentry. Cabinets can make or break the aesthetics of a kitchen. So if you can afford it, I do suggest customizing.”

“Do you have some tips for cabinet makeovers on a budget?”

“Absolutely. One of the easiest things you can do if your cabinets have become old hat is to refinish or even repaint the doors and frames yourself. Be sure to prep the surfaces first by cleaning thoroughly and then sanding them down with fine-grit sandpaper. This process assures the paint will stick.” The instructions flowed effortlessly. “Another simple tip to give your cabinets a face-lift is to replace or clean the knobs and hinges. And consider buffing them with a clear wax.”

If only life and all its bumps and grooves was as easily renovated. A little sanding here and smoothing there, a layer of refinisher to remove the stain.

Five minutes later, the segment ended when
We Can Women
went to its final commercial break. Miranda settled onto a barstool at the island counter, shoulders relaxing for the first time since waking up this morning. At least she could do something right, even if it was only babbling about countertops and cabinets.

“Good job,” Tom said, leaving his perch. “You’re as natural on camera as you are at a table saw.”

“You mean I’ve learned how to put on the perk.” She gave him a tired smile. “Remember how awkward I was those first few months on set? I was sure the execs had picked the wrong person for the job.”

“Not going to lie, Woodruff, I had my doubts, too. You had a doozy of a time remembering not to turn your back to the camera.” He settled onto the barstool next to her. “But you turned out all right.”

She laid her palms flat against the smooth granite counter top, its swirls of gray and green pulling her vision out of focus. “You know what else I remember?”

“You’re not going to get sentimental on me now, are you?” He groaned.

“Hush. I’ll never forget Valentine’s Day a couple years ago. Seemed like everybody in the studio was getting flowers and candy and stuffed animals. Everybody had a date. Everybody had . . . someone.” She’d made one excuse after the other as to why her own “husband” hadn’t been as thoughtful. But Tom, being the only one on set who’d known the truth about her marital status, had seen right through her. She turned to meet Tom’s eyes now. “You found me alone in my dressing room.” “Sulking,” he interjected.

“Reflecting,” she countered. “Fine, sulking. And you came in, sat down, and pinned me with your classic no-nonsense
stare. And you said, ‘Rand, someday, some man is going to fall so hard for you he’ll need CPR just to revive him.’”

“I said that?” Tom raked a finger through his whiskers. “Doesn’t sound like me.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t remember. And then I said something about the slim chances of a man looking past my tool belt and work boots. And you said . . .” Her voice faded as the memory came into focus.

The way the liquid in her eyes pooled. The chill of the winter day outside her dressing room window reaching to her heart. The leather of Tom’s work gloves on her shoulders.

“‘The right man won’t be looking past your tool belt and work boots. He’ll look right at ’em. He’ll love you for ’em.’” She repeated the words now, the same sense of comfort blanketing her today as it had then, warm and hopeful.

Tom coughed. “Still don’t remember.” He stood and lowered his voice. “But, mind you, it was the truth then and it’s the truth now. Now I’m going to go enjoy the rest of my day off. The missus and I are going antiquing. I’ll see you when we’re back to filming.”

If we come back.

He tipped his head and ambled away.

They had to come back. Because despite her gut-wrenchingly honest confession to Matthew on Friday,
From the Ground Up
wasn’t only about Randi Woodruff. There was Tom and Whitney and Rog, the head cameraman. The props crew, the marketing team, the interns all hopeful at the start of their careers.

She’d figure something out.

“Rand, phone,” Brad said, joining her on the set platform. He held out his phone. “It’s Sasha.”

She cocked her head in question. Brad only shrugged and handed her the phone.

“Hi, Sasha.”

“Randi, thanks again for helping us out so last minute. No one would’ve known that segment was thrown together in less time than my stylist takes on my hair.”

Miranda chuckled. “Of course, no problem. I was happy to help.”

“Listen, I consider you a colleague. Our work, our shows, they’re different enough that I don’t see you as competition. And I respect you as a professional.”

“That’s nice to hear.”

“Which is why I called to tell you this. I debated it, but your willingness to help out today convinced me it’s the right thing to do.”

Miranda’s curiosity ballooned. Brad mouthed that he’d be right back and trotted off.

“You’ve heard about the new home show being pitched to the network.”

Ohhh. That.
“Yes, we’d heard rumblings.”

“Well, someone connected to the show set up a meeting with me a couple weeks ago. They asked for sponsorship. I’d guest on the show throughout the season, and they’d use SteelWorks appliances exclusively.”

Miranda’s palm thudded to the countertop. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because the whole thing rubbed me wrong. I asked a few questions, and—Randi, I’m going to tell you straight up—they’re gunning for you. I don’t know why, but they want to make a splash big enough to drown
From the Ground Up.
”

But why? And who? She searched for possibilities but came up dry. Who would have it in for her? “I knew things weren’t looking good for us, but . . . I’m stumped.”

“I’d like to give you names, but I fear that would be going too far.” Sasha’s raspy laugh carried over the phone. “Instead, I’ve got an offer for you. I like
From the Ground Up
. I like
you. I’ve had my financial gurus come up with a sponsorship package for you. It’s already in the mail. Check it out, see if you’re interested.”

“Oh, wow, Sasha. I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t get too grateful yet, hon. We’ve got conditions, of course. For instance, I saw that Whirlpool fridge of yours. It’s gotta go.” Sasha laughed again. “But it’s an attractive package. At least a little something to make the network think twice about axing you too fast. We need to look out for each other in this biz.”

Miranda slipped off the barstool, hope sliding in like rolls of mist over the mountains. “I truly appreciate this, Sasha. Thank you.”

They ended the call, and Miranda found Brad outside, wiping a dusty streak from his car. “I might have good news, Walsh.” She relayed Sasha’s news, optimism growing at Brad’s enthusiastic response.

Of course, there was still the new show on the block—and Matthew, too—to reckon with, but she still felt a glimmer of hope.

And then she thought of the e-mail she’d sent Mom and Dad last night. She’d second-guessed sending it all through the flight home, while Matthew nodded off beside her. Was opening that door of her heart worth it? If they knew the truth about her life these days, would they still try to reconnect?

When it came down to it, though, she couldn’t control any of it. Could only hope. Pray.

Now, there was a thought.

“What are you up to for the rest of the day?” Brad said as he lowered into his car.

“Going home to check on Blaze.” And then a walk . . . to the church.

“What are you not telling me?”

Matthew held his phone to his ear as he emerged from Miranda’s cabin and crossed her property to the house. Greg Dooley’s suspicious question goaded him.

“You leave me a cryptic message last week that gets my heart rate going, then put me off all weekend. You know what that does to a man?”

“No, what?”

“It turns him into a snapping turtle. The wife won’t talk to me now, and my secretary’s in hiding, too.”

Underfoot, the grass still glistened from the thaw of last night’s frost. The air was crisp, the sky white. Coming snow, he could taste it, crisp and cold. The Midwesterner in him well recognized the approach of winter.

“I told you, I pulled the trigger too fast with that message. I thought I’d landed on a scoop. Now . . . I’m not so sure.”

He glanced at the driveway, where Miranda usually parked her heap of a truck. Gone. He thought he’d heard it rumble away earlier.

“You sounded anything but uncertain when you left that message.”

“I was hot under the collar. Remember, this is Matthew Knox you’re talking to. I have a history of getting ahead of myself.” Normally he didn’t like admitting it, but today it made for a nice defense. “Besides, the blog is still getting a ridiculous amount of hits, right? That post last week about the dire straits of
From the Ground Up
, that’s still getting good play.”

“I just want to know why I can’t get over the feeling you’re not telling me something. Am I going to regret giving you this assignment, Knox?”

“No. Listen, I need to go. I
promise
, I’m working on something.”
Something
being the key word. Something worthy of a cover story.

He hung up.