Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (3 page)

“Good evening to you, too, Randi,” Tom Bass, the show’s director, spoke in monotone.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “And sorry for the holdup.” She
peered around Tom to see Brad’s retreating form.
I didn’t mean it, Brad.
It was just this brutal day.

Eyes back to Tom, her gaze traveled from his gray whiskers to his dusty and now coffee-covered jeans. “I, uh, had an accident with the wood.”

He folded his arms. “I see that. It’s cracked.”

Possibly along with her mental health
.
Someone handed her an apron, and she slipped it over her shirt, covering the coffee stain. She had to focus.
You’re Randi Woodruff, homebuilder extraordinaire, tool-belt-wearing how-to girl.

“Tell props we need a new two-by-four,” Tom barked at a passing crewman. “Look, I know you don’t like our show closers, but don’t go around breaking stuff. Thing is—”

She held up a palm. “I know. Viewers love the cutesy
how-to
s. Endears me to them.”

Tom patted her cheek. “That and your good looks and charming personality. Now, I don’t know what you, Brad, and our illustrious producer were chatting about—”

“Believe me, you don’t want to.”

“Or what’s been bothering you all day. But we’ve got work to do and an impatient crew. Think you can pull yourself together for one more segment?”

She nodded, then breathed in deeply as Tom left the spotlighted patio, the scent of coffee mixing with pine and heat from the lights. Brad met her eyes from where he’d taken up residence by the picked-clean food table, hopefully catching the apology in her wave.

She could do this. Finish the taping, then escape to the mountain. Drag herself through one more episode ending, try to ignore the guilt these closing segments always caused. Like sandpaper scratching her heart each time she forced the words.

You made your bed . . .
Yeah, sure, a bed of nails.

“Whenever you’re ready,” Tom boomed from off set.

Focus.
She tucked a runaway curl behind one ear and stepped to the patio table in the corner of the set, connected with the camera.

Three, two . . .
“I don’t know about you, but sometimes no matter how careful I am, I end up with dents in my wood.” Cue cute pout followed by we’re-all-in-this-together expression.
See, easy.

If she could only silence her conscience.

“But most dents are fixable. All you need are two things: water and a steam iron.” She picked up the iron posed atop the table, then walked over to the newly placed board, practiced grin still in place. “Now, some people would be too impatient for this repair technique.”

This was it. The line the whole sequence hinged on.
Don’t think about what you’re saying.
The glare of the set lights whited out her scenic surroundings, the faces of the crew. Just her and the camera. And the lie.

“My husband, for instance, bless his blasted heart, is so impatient he eats TV dinners half frozen.”
My husband.
Sandpaper. Scratching. Scraping.
I’m sorry, God.

“He may have taught me everything I know, but if it were up to him, we’d throw out this damaged slab. But I say, don’t be so quick to pitch a good thing.” Oh, if ever words held such layers. She hid a grimace, gestured to the lumber. “Now, with softwoods, like pine or cedar, just wet the dented area to swell and raise the sunken wood. But for hardwoods, you need an iron.”

Her eyes landed on the groove in the oak board, a blight on an otherwise perfectly usable piece of wood. And suddenly all she could see was her own heart. Dented. Damaged. She closed her eyes against forming pools. She hadn’t made it all day only to fall apart now with cameras rolling, everyone watching.

Quick, do the Maria von Trapp thing.
Sleeping in, feather pillows, maple syrup . . .

But it didn’t stop the screeching of her conscience, the emotions swirling inside her. The interview, Lincoln’s news . . . the anniversary.

And then, movement. A flash of orange as a man strode along the side of the set. That profile! Crooked nose, high forehead, floppy hair. So like . . .

The pang in her heart pushed out a gasp as a whoosh of mountain wind painted goose bumps over her arms. The first raindrops spattered on the wooden slab. She dropped the iron.

“Robbie?”

“You call this a story?”

Editor Greg Dooley’s words bulleted through the phone line, a mixture of incredulity and anger. Matthew stifled a groan, pushing away from the table, wooden chair scraping over the laminate flooring of Jase and Izzy’s kitchen.

He’d known, even as he stayed up typing into the middle of the night, waiting for the sound of Jase’s car coming up the drive, his article couldn’t hope to live up to Dooley’s expectations.

And he had no one to blame but himself, letting Delia Jones get the best of him like he had. Besides, how was he supposed to write when all he’d been able to think about was Celine in the ER?
I should’ve been there.
They’d always had a special bond, he and his niece.

Instead, he’d spent the night playing baby-sitter for the neighbor kid his sister-in-law had been watching at the time of the accident. Jase dropped Matthew at the house before whisking off to the hospital to be with Izzy and Cee. While the neighbor kid slept, Matthew had slumped on the couch, worrying, plunking out an article he’d have been ashamed to show his high school journalism teacher.

“I don’t know what to say, Dooley.”

“We don’t even have a single photo of the announcement.”

Only a bird chirping outside the window interrupted the morning stillness of the house. The rest of the family still slept after their early-dawn return from the hospital, when Jase had carried in a bruised but otherwise okay Celine. Too beat to drive home, Matthew had crashed on the couch.

Now he moved aside his glass of orange juice and tortured himself with another look at the newspaper.
Actress Announces Late-race Write-in Campaign.
The blaring headline mocked him, and Jones’s byline under the lead article—front page, top of the fold—blew the last of his dignity to bits.

He had to admit, Delia Jones had done okay for herself since he’d gotten her fired from the
Star Tribune
.

Matthew’s stomach pinched. “I confess. I messed up. But I was so sure. I heard this rumor about Senator McKee, and I had to follow up on it. For the good of the magazine! I was only—”

“You were only playing Superman when all I ever asked for was Clark Kent.”

Matthew stilled in his chair, the force in Dooley’s voice blasting any attempt at argument.
I really messed up this time.

He stood, carried his empty cereal bowl to the dishwasher. Sunlight so bright the kitchen’s white cupboards glowed against pale yellow walls splashed into the room from the window over the sink. A thunderstorm would’ve been a better match for his mood, complete with hail and howling winds and brooding clouds.

“You used to have a nose for news like no one I know, Knox. But you spent an entire week hounding Margaret McKee. You should’ve sensed this story long before the actual announcement.” Dooley’s sigh spoke frustration. “At the very least, you should’ve turned in a story that made everyone else’s look like bare bones. We should’ve read about who she had lunch
with and how often she checks her e-mail and who painted her stinkin’ nails!”

Matthew caught his reflection in the window—stubble-shadowed face, wrinkled tee borrowed from Jase, circles around his eyes. He turned, reached for the pitcher of juice to return to the refrigerator. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . sorry.” Why did the apology fall so flat when honest-to-goodness regret clamored inside him?

“And I’m sorry I keep letting an old college friendship cloud my common sense. I tossed you the story because my best reporter went on maternity leave before McKee agreed to our interview and I know the freelancing thing hasn’t paid off for you lately—especially after . . . well, you know. But I guess you’re still the same old Knox.”

Matthew opened the fridge door with a heavy exhale, head dropping as Dooley’s words found their mark, his sore spot still bruised from five years ago . . . or maybe fifteen.

Yes, that’s right. It wasn’t enough that life—no, Dad—played him for a fool once. The first time tore apart their family. The second, his career.

And the consequences clawed at him still.

“You let your father’s past actions cloud your reporting.”

“The article had ‘conflict of interest’ written all over it.”

“You tried, convicted, and sentenced him in one headline. All because of what? His long-ago Houdini-dad act?”

As the cold of the refrigerator crept over his face, the voices from his past played one after another. Together they added up to one heaping reminder of just how far he’d fallen—from one-time Pulitzer finalist to local disgrace. Freelance writing for a national magazine that was barely a step up from a gossip rag.

“Still the same old Knox.”

“You still there, Knox?” Dooley’s voice, the humming light from the back of the fridge tugged him back to the present.
One hand still gripping the door handle, he raised his head and heaved the door closed. As he did, his fingers brushed a crinkled piece of notebook paper stuck to the refrigerator with a Snoopy magnet. Two stick figures—the tall one holding a kite, the short one smiling. Underneath, scribbled in his niece’s nine-year-old scrawl, the words:
Uncle Matt and Cee fly a kite.

Best thing his brother ever did, bringing Izzy, a single mother, and her daughter home from his teaching stint at Texas A&M. Celine was only five at the time, still recovering from her bout with meningitis.

Jase didn’t have to play at the Superman thing. He just plain lived a heroic life.

“Knox?”

He blinked, turning from the fridge. “LucyLu’s,” he muttered.

“What?”

“Her nails, Margaret got them done at this froufrou place in downtown St. Paul called LucyLu’s. She ate lunch at Periano’s yesterday, and as far as checking her e-mail, she looks at her iPhone at least once every five minutes.”

“Now you tell me.” Something close to amusement tinged Dooley’s words.

Matthew dropped back into his chair and flipped the newspaper over. Couldn’t look at Delia’s headline anymore. “Listen, don’t pay me for the article I turned in. I blew it, and I don’t blame you for being angry.”

The pause on the other end of the line stretched, the sound of Dooley tapping his keyboard coming through the line. And then, “Fine, I can’t believe I’m going to offer you this after you just blew the biggest scoop this side of Watergate—”

“Slight exaggeration, maybe?” Matthew cut in.

“You are in no position to mock my hyperbole. Listen, about six months ago, Lisa, my reporter who’s out on maternity
leave now, came to me with an idea for a new story. Not a print article, mind you—at least not right away.”

Matthew leaned back in his chair, feet propped on the tabletop. “Tell me more.”

“We proposed a serial blog on the
Today
website, pitched it to the subject’s manager over five months ago but never heard a thing. And then, a couple of days ago, he contacts me out of the blue, says they would like to make it happen. But it would require travel to North Carolina.”

Matthew reached for the Cheerios box. “A serial blog?” Like, a daily journal or log of activities? Okay, so it wasn’t Woodward and Bernstein material. And he’d promised himself when he accepted the Margaret McKee assignment it’d be his one and only foray into celebrity reporting. But if this interviewee was interesting . . . “Who’s the subject?” He chomped on a handful of cereal.

“Randi Woodruff.”

A Cheerio lodged in his throat, and he sputtered. “That woman from that home makeover show?” What was the show called? Izzy and Celine had a standing Sunday night date to watch it. Cee loved it so much she’d taken to saying she wanted to be an architect when she grew up. “You want me to interview a reality TV star?”

Dooley chuckled. “You say it like she’s one of those girls from
The Bachelor.
Not the same thing, Knox.
From the Ground Up
is a legit home-repair show. And she builds homes for low-income people, does all kinds of charity work on the side. She’s a do-gooder.”

“Right, a regular Mother Teresa.” Minus the habit, plus a tool belt. He’d caught the show a couple times and wondered if the perky star with the smoky eyes actually knew her stuff or if she was simply a pretty face playing
This Old House.

“I can’t pay much, either,” Dooley went on. “But I can
promise you readership. Though her show’s ratings haven’t been impressive lately, there’s been a burst of interest about Randi Woodruff herself. Lots of curiosity about the husband she always talks about—the one no one’s ever seen.”

Tabloid speculation at its best. And Dooley was asking him to join the silly fray. Not a chance. “Look, I appreciate the offer, especially considering last night and all. Generous of you, really. But I don’t think it’s my thing.” Definitely not the heavyweight material he needed to make his career comeback.

Matthew dropped his feet from the tabletop as Celine padded into the room, her hair mussed and a line of stitches over one eyebrow. He offered his niece a smile as she settled in the chair across from his, sleep still tugging at her features. He lifted his right hand to tap his chin, then his open left palm, and finally his elbow.

American Sign Language for
Good morning.

With both index fingers, she signed,
“Hang up.”

In a minute
, he mouthed.

“This could be a big story,” Dooley continued. “Yes, we’ve got the blog thing to do, but I’m still hunting for January’s cover, if you catch my drift. So do what you do best: sniff. See if there are any skeletons in the closet. By the rumblings going around the entertainment media world, I think you might find some.”

“As much as I appreciate the offer, I’m not an entertainment reporter. We all know that after the McKee fiasco. I think I’ll hold out for something a little more meaty.”

He felt the familiar attention of Celine’s eyes on his face as he spoke. She read lips like a master, her way of “listening” since the meningitis stole her hearing.

“That’s some pride you’ve got going, Knox. I know you’ve got Walter Cronkite aspirations, but even Walt had his fluff years.”

“I’ll consider it. All right?” About as seriously as he’d consider piercing his nose. But he owed Dooley at least a show of gratitude.

“Consider quickly. If I don’t hear from you by tonight, I’m moving on.”

They hung up and Matthew turned his full attention on Celine. “How do you feel today?” he said aloud, signing at the same time.

The look in her eyes was like a kick in the gut—hurt and a hint of lingering fear. His heart lurched for the hundredth time since last night. “Why didn’t you come?” she said, voice low and with her familiar blending of words. Because she’d been speaking long before losing her hearing, she still used her voice.

“To the hospital? I wanted to, but Jase asked me to stay here with your friend from next door.”

Celine slid out of her chair and rounded the table to stand in front of him. “You should’ve come.”

He latched gazes with her and nodded. “I know. And I’ll make it up to you.”

Hands to her hips, she stuck her bottom lip out in a playful pout. “How?”

Love for the kid feathered through him.
Forget Dooley and a story in North Carolina.
This is where he belonged. Here with family, and with his niece, the one person who never failed to see past his screw-ups.

This is where Miranda belonged. Tucked in a hidden nook in the Smokies, away from the hurried pace of television taping. From the crazy ideas of her crazy producer. From the humiliation.

She’d actually believed it was
him
. Someone ought to tattoo the word
naïve
on her forehead.

Miranda’s arm moved at rapid pace, prodding the sandpaper under her palm back and forth. The motion soothed, the scratching of the wood her lullaby. Long windows paneling her woodshop’s west wall invited in the colors of the sunset, spilling oranges and reds against the opposite wall. A buzzing light bulb dangling overhead provided the shop’s only other light.

At the tightening in her wrist, Miranda stilled. She moved from her kneeling position beside the antique chest of drawers to sit cross-legged, wood shavings and abandoned scraps of sandpaper blanketing the woodshop floor.

Up here, there was no probing into her privacy. No Robbie look-alikes, either. Last night’s embarrassing episode still harassed her—the way she’d fastened her gaze on the man strolling along the edge of the set. How she’d called out his name. The circus of thoughts crowding in . . .

It can’t be him . . . unless . . . he remembered the date!
Unless Robbie, too, had woken up squeezed by the grip of unwelcome memories.
It would’ve been our anniversary. Three years. We would’ve celebrated with a vacation.
Or maybe they would’ve simply stayed home, enjoyed breakfast in bed, and then tackled a house project together. Working side by side the way they had when they first met.

Miranda blinked and pulled open the bottom chest drawer, resumed sanding its base. “Forget yesterday. Forget all of it.”

“That easy, huh?”