Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (29 page)

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 house.

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
why
s 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.

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.

Miranda knew. She’d checked.

Had he been busy all day tracking down the reporter who’d taken those photos last night? Even in the emotion of Mom’s
return, her niggling dread at what would happen when those photos were released hadn’t gone away.

“I can think of only one thing you’re missing,” her mother said now, pulling her arm from behind her to reveal a jewelry box.

“Mom, you didn’t have to.”

“I didn’t. Your father did. He wanted to be here.”

That morning, after slowly breaking past the barriers time and geography and emotion had erected, Miranda had told her mom everything. And what amazed her more than anything was the fact that Mom hadn’t criticized, hadn’t scolded, had barely batted an eye.

“Everything’s such a wreck,” Miranda had said as they listened to the cadence of the rain hitting the living room windows. “I’m in so deep.”

“There’s nothing so deep God can’t pull you out,” Mom had replied after a pause. “Sometimes, though, it means doing the hard things. Because how can you grasp His hand if you’re holding so tight to the prison bars? What do you want, daughter? What do you truly want?”

Miranda replayed her answer in her mind now as she popped the jewelry case open with her thumb.

To just be me. The real thing. No more lies. Freedom.

And Matthew
. It was the first time she’d admitted it without hesitation.

Inside the velvet box, she found a dainty silver charm bracelet. Dangling from the diamond-studded links, a series of tiny charms—a hammer, a house, a boot, a saw. Tears pricked Miranda’s eyes. “It’s perfect.” She lifted the bracelet from its case and held out her wrist for her mom to clasp the bracelet in place.

One morning conversation and one bracelet didn’t erase years of feeling betrayed and abandoned. But they were on their
way to healing—something Miranda couldn’t have imagined just a day ago.

A gaggle of women entered the women’s room then. Miranda heard the whisper as they passed. “That’s Randi Woodruff!”

She shared a grin with her mother. “Let’s go. We’re missing the dancing.”

“I knew you were a celebrity, dear, but experiencing your fame firsthand is quite the experience.”

Miranda chuckled as they headed toward the ballroom. Her mom had looked just as bewildered when she’d realized their flight from Asheville was a private jet. And when a pool of photographers met them at the Nashville airport. And when Brad and Lincoln whisked them into a limo.

A jazz band played a brassy tune behind the chatter of guests as they entered the ballroom. A dance floor filled the front of the room, and clusters of white-topped tables covered the rest. Flowery perfume swirled with the sweet smell of champagne.

“Oh my,” Lena whispered.

“This way, Mom.” Miranda led the way to one of the front tables, where she’d spotted Brad and Liv, Lincoln and his date, Blaze . . . and Robbie.

Yes, Miranda had obtained a last-minute ticket for Robbie. Not so much because she desired his attendance, but because it had been amazingly considerate of him to encourage her parents to visit her. Also, despite all that had happened in the in-between years, he had been a part of her life when
From the Ground Up
began. It was possible she wouldn’t be here today without him.

They’d even shared a tender moment this morning in her kitchen. They’d always have the past between them. But it didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate his show of concern.

Liv squealed as they reached the table. “Randi Woodruff, you are the picture of elegance. Ooh, and show me your bracelet!”

Miranda hugged her friend. “Look at you two. My best friends here. Together. As a couple.”

“Don’t start, kid,” Brad said as he hugged her.

“You can’t expect me not to be happy about this.”

“Tonight is about you,” Brad argued.

“Fine. But we’re
so
talking about this tomorrow.”

He leaned in then and lowered his voice. “Actually, can we talk business for one second? Thanks to Knox, I’ve got info on that new show.”

She gripped his arm. “You’ve heard from Knox today?”

Brad’s brow wrinkled in confusion. “You haven’t?”

She shook her head, itching to pester him with questions. But he spoke first.

“It’s Hollie Morris. The other show, she’s at the helm.”

“The woman I beat out in the audition?”

Brad nodded. “Makes all kinds of sense now, doesn’t it? Fits in with what Sasha from SteelWorks said. I couldn’t figure out why such a show would target a network that already has a successful home show. But if she still holds a grudge and knows your ratings aren’t the best, well—” He broke off suddenly. “Shoot, why did I even bring this up? It’s your big night. I’m an idiot.”

“You’re not.” Besides, she was more concerned about Matthew’s whereabouts than what Hollie Morris was planning. And why had he called Brad about what he’d found out and not her?

But Matthew would show up soon. He would.

Miranda forced her attention to Blaze. He’d shaved and spruced himself up for tonight. His broad shoulders filled his white dress shirt, and his black leather shoes shined. His tuxedo jacket hung free over his left arm, still in a sling. “You’re looking mighty handsome, Blaze Hunziker,” she drawled. “All the women will be jealous of me.”

His blush spanned all the way from his cheeks down to his collar. “Just wanted to make my woman proud.”

She reached up to straighten his bow tie. “Mission accomplished.”

He studied her, a depth she’d only recently come to recognize in his brown eyes. “It’s been fun, Miranda.”

“After all this time, he finally uses my full name.”

She greeted Lincoln next, introduced her mom to those she hadn’t met yet, and thanked Robbie once more for contacting her parents.

“You know why I did it, yes?” he said, voice low enough for her ears only.

She tilted her head.

“You don’t have to say anything now. But later . . .” His eyes suggested an impossible possibility.

Oh, Robbie.
Somehow she’d have to kindly let him know it really, truly was over. Despite his grand gesture.

She escaped the table then, moving around the room, hugging other industry friends, meeting new people, taking time to find and greet the other nominees.

All the while, she strained for a glimpse of Matthew. He’d probably spent the day tracking down whoever had taken those photos last night and had decided to travel separately to give her space.

He’ll be here.
He wouldn’t abandon her tonight of all nights.

But if he was at the gala, he was avoiding her.

Miranda finally made her way back to her table when the ballroom lights dimmed and the music softened. Her mom grasped her hand when she sat. “This is it, honey.”

Brad gave her a thumbs-up, Blaze a wink.

“It’ll be you, for sure,” Liv mouthed.

Matthew? Where’s Matthew?

The president of the foundation walked onto the stage, her heels clacking against wood as she took her place behind the glass podium. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Gemma Cornish, and on behalf of the Giving Heart Foundation, thank you all for coming tonight.”

Gemma gave a brief history of the Giving Heart Award, the importance of those in the national spotlight paving the way for citizen volunteerism and compassion, an overview of the selection process.

And then the lights blackened for video introductions of all three nominees. Screens flanking the stage lit up. Miranda barely heard documentary-style footage about Rachel Stilles, a Hollywood actress who’d been in a half-dozen blockbusters in the past two years, and her work for the Red Cross. Nor was she able to pay attention to the piece on Harry Creighton, the star of an Emmy-winning sitcom, and his support for a cancer center’s research program.

Even as her own segment played, showing clips of her show, her work on the homes she’d built for families in need, her volunteer efforts at Open Arms, her mind was elsewhere.

God, if I win, please, help me to go through with it. With the plan . . .

And Matthew.
Please let him be here.

The screens went black. Gemma took her place behind the podium once more. “All three of our nominees have hearts of gold and have chosen to use their national platforms to truly make a difference. Our decision was very difficult.”

Gemma paused, took a breath. “But we did, of course, make a decision. And it’s my pleasure to announce the winner of the 2013 Giving Heart Award . . .”

Mom’s hand squeezed hers.

Breathe, Miranda.

“. . . Randi Woodruff, host of
From the Ground Up
!”

The applause thundered as Miranda rose, surprise mingling with delight, mingling with . . .

Nerves. So tight they squeezed her lungs and wobbled her knees. She met her mom’s glistening eyes.
Steady.
By a miracle she made it up the stairs to the platform and across the stage to Gemma. The foundation president hugged her, presented a plaque and an envelope containing the check for $100,000.

But then Gemma stepped aside and nudged Miranda to the podium. She stepped up to the microphone. Did it pick up the thumping of her heart? The breaths coming in tiny puffs?

“The truth will set you free.”

Mom’s words sang through her mind. It was time to do what she’d come to do.

“Wow, this is such an incredible honor.” Her voice sounded strange in the mic, tinny and shaky. “Harry, Rachel, you are both just as deserving, and it’s a privilege to count myself in your company.”

Spotlights blinded her view, whiting out the faces of the audience.

“I have so many people to thank. My best friend, Liv Hayes, director of the Open Arms shelter for children with special needs, where this check in my hands is going. You inspire me, Liv. My executive producer, Lincoln Nash, the show’s director, Tom Bass, and the rest of the executives and crew who make
From the Ground Up
possible, thank you. Brad Walsh, you’re the best manager a girl could ask for and an amazing friend, too.

“My mom, Lena Woodruff, who’s here tonight, and my dad, Clifford, who is back in Brazil, where they serve as missionaries. I love you both. And . . . I thank God. For not giving up on me.”

One breath. Two.

“And finally . . .”

Could she do it? Three breaths. Four.

What do you want, Miranda? What do you really want?

She gripped the glass edges of the podium. Lincoln would be furious. Everyone else, confused.

The truth will set you free.

One more inhale, and with it, resolve. “Finally, I’d like to thank the man who, through his friendship, through his constant reaching out in kindness to those he cares about, through his many, many strengths and, yes, a few quirks, too, has truly captured my heart.”

Whispers feathered through the room. Sighs and laughter met with the snapping of another spotlight.

“This man walked into my life just when I needed someone. And even though I can’t say thank you enough for all he’s done for me, I’m going to try. Thank you . . .”

The spotlight swayed, found Miranda’s table.

“. . . ever so much to the man I—”

Two figures rose.

“. . . love.”

Blaze. Robbie. Both stood haloed by the spotlight, twin confusion playing over their faces as the crowd gasped.

No. Not them.

Humiliation twisted its way to Miranda’s core, joined by a searing disappointment. She dropped her hands from the podium, losing her voice before his name could escape from his lips.

And at the back of the room, a flicker of movement caught her eye as the ballroom door thudded to a close under the buzzing red of the Exit sign.

The airport was quiet, only a murmur of distant voices and the sound of luggage wheels purring over the carpet.

A woman padded past Matthew, her glance traveling up and down his body.

Yes, I’m in a tuxedo. Yes, I know I look ridiculous.

In front of him, expansive windows displayed the Asheville skyline, a twinkle of lights set against the backdrop of the mountains.