Made to Last (Where Love Begins Book #1) (9 page)

Too late. The door creaked open. Her heart thudded.
Think.

Only one thing she could do. Miranda plastered on a smile and lifted her hand in a wave. “Hi!”

Matthew yelped and dropped the bundle in his arms. “What are you . . . I thought I locked . . . Way to freak me out, Woodruff.”

“Sorry. Um, I thought I’d clean the place up a bit while you were out.”

Suspicion crawled into his eyes above stubble-covered cheeks. He shook his head. “Not buying it. The place smelled like a forest when I got home earlier. Someone already went Pine-Sol ballistic.”

That’s right, Blaze had offered to clean the cabin while she and Matthew were out for the day. He’d also stocked her fridge with groceries and washed a load of towels. She should’ve brought home a fake husband years ago.

Matthew’s eyebrows lifted a notch.

“Well, the truth is . . .”
Nothing, I got nothing.

“I know what’s going on here, so you might as well admit it.”

See, this was why a person up to her neck in secrets didn’t
play hostess to a sniffing reporter—even if said reporter could easily qualify as cute in his startled state.

Matthew bent to pick up his grocery sack. “You snuck out here so you could get a peek at my first blog for
Today
’s website.”

She held back an instant grin. Saved by the man himself. “Yes.” Serious face, apologetic eyes. This mock guilt was so much nicer than the real thing. “Yes, that is exactly what I was doing.”

“Too late—already sent it. Sorry. But as long as you’re here, want some ice cream? Sadly, the selection at the mini-mart was limited. We’ll have to make due with Neapolitan.”

He kicked the door shut behind him and walked to the kitchenette spanning one wall.

An old couch sat in one corner and a small round table occupied the center of the room, Matthew’s laptop open atop it.

“I don’t know if I should—”

“Or we could bring it over to the house in case Blaze wants some, too.”

She thought of the trunk, likely still sitting in the entryway. “Uh no. He’s a healthy eater.” She had proof. Blaze had insisted on broccoli and apple slices with dinner tonight. “But, sure, I’ll have a scoop. I never say no to ice cream.”

“I can’t go more than a few days without it myself. I think my internal organs would start shutting down.”

“It’s possible we share DNA.”

Matthew pulled a bowl from the sink. “Found the dishes in one of the cupboards. Do you have guests out here often?”

No, she’d simply had no energy to clean the place out after Robbie left. Interesting, though, how seeing the ease of familiarity with which Matthew moved around the cabin blurred the ghost of Robbie.

“Thank you for letting me stay here, by the way,” he said
as he dug a spoon into the box of ice cream. “Brad told me yesterday he’d neglected to okay the arrangement with you. I know he was expecting a female reporter. Hopefully this isn’t too awkward.”

Considering she also had a man sleeping on her couch, it was practically run-of-the-mill.

“I wanted to ask you about these dishes. They look like handmade pottery.” Matthew tapped on the bowl, glaze swirls of red and blue and green ornamenting the upper rim. “I know you spent several years in Brazil. Is that where you got them?”

“Is this an interview?”

He handed her a bowl, pausing with a thoughtful study. “Nah. Off the clock.”

“My parents brought that set home during one of their furloughs. They are missionaries in Sao Paulo, but they come home every four years.”

He grabbed his own bowl and motioned for her to sit. “So you lived here in the States with your grandparents growing up, and then you joined your parents in South America after college?”

She choked on an icy bite of vanilla. “Joined them? No, I only saw them five or six times during my three years down there.”

His quizzical expression fought with her reluctance to tell the story. Lord knew she’d have made any psychiatrist’s day at the stacks of repressed memories piled inside.

But there was something about Matthew Knox’s patient interest and relaxed gaze. The man may not have the magazine-cover looks of Robbie—or Blaze, for that matter—but that slow-spreading smile of his, under greenish-hazel eyes rimmed by eyelashes longer than any man had a right to have . . . Well, he drew her out.

Or maybe she’d breathed in too much Pine-Sol. “My mom
and dad brought me down to Brazil when I was seven. But I couldn’t adjust. I was scared of every little noise at night, didn’t like the food, couldn’t communicate. Eventually they decided enough was enough.”

He nodded. “So they took you home.”

The words sped out before she could put on the brakes. “Sent me home. Put me on a nonstop flight to Charlotte.”

His spoon landed on the table with a clink. “They abandoned you.”

“They were trying to do the right thing. They promised when I was older, they’d send for me, but . . .” They never had. And for years, she’d battled the lies in her head: They didn’t care about her. They loved their mission more than her.

That combined with her guilt at knowing they’d never approve of the lie she lived now was why, more often than not, she chose not to read their chatty letters and e-mail updates. It was too hard pretending all was fine. Thus, the letter still stuffed in her robe pocket up in her bedroom.

She locked eyes with Matthew. “I don’t normally talk about this.”

“To the press?”

“To anyone.”

Something shifted in his jaw, and his voice turned husky. “I understand. My dad left us when I was fifteen. Not my favorite topic of discussion, either.” His pause stretched, the quiet of the cabin marred only by the drip-dropping of the kitchenette’s leaky faucet. And a connection, soft and appealing, filled the space between them. That look in his eyes, pure empathy.

Finally, Matthew cleared his throat. “So why’d you go back after college?”

She chewed on the question before answering. “The breaking point in Brazil for my parents was when they found me crying after getting beaned by a ball during a soccer game with the
neighborhood kids. They’d encouraged me to play, wanted me to try fitting in. Didn’t work so well.” She allowed a smirk. “Ten years later I was named the captain of my high school soccer team. We took state two years in a row. A big part of the reason I returned was I wanted to prove to them—and myself, I guess—that I could overcome my fears.”

The creases in the corners of his eyes and the dimple in his chin deepened, and he leaned toward her, the spice of his cologne enticing. “I like the way you work, Miranda Woodruff.”

He held her gaze, perhaps understanding more than she’d intended to share. Like the hurt that even proving she could make it in Brazil hadn’t wiped out.

Don’t look so deep, Matthew.

She couldn’t afford to have what he might find be revealed.

Smudges of red and orange and brown blurred the landscape of the mountains. Matthew palmed the steering wheel, awe streaking a trail through his senses. It was as if he’d driven the rental Jeep into an Impressionist painting. Something Monet or Renoir would’ve brushed onto canvas.

To his right, Miranda’s nose pressed to her window. A handkerchief tied at the back of her neck covered her hair, and she wore baggy overalls over a long-sleeved shirt. He felt his lips curve into a smile, and couldn’t help himself. “Still not talking to me?”

She huffed, sending a few loose strands of hair floating.

“Come on, it was funny.”

She turned to him, gray eyes narrowed. “I could’ve been injured.”

“But you weren’t.”

“But I could’ve been.” With a stubborn flounce of her handkerchief-covered ponytail, she crossed her arms.

Fine, okay, maybe he shouldn’t have laughed at the woman when she’d tripped down the porch steps this morning. No, not tripped—flailed her way down. He’d been pressing Blaze for an interview, when Miranda had burst out of the house. Halfway down the stairs, her feet knotted and she skated on her backside to the ground.

He hadn’t been able to contain his laughter.

“Miranda, I’m sorry I laughed when you fell down the steps.” He spoke in measured tones now, forcing his mouth into a straight line. “And I’m glad you weren’t hurt.”

“Why? Because if I was, it might ruin your blog series?” Her bottom lip turned out in a pout.

“That’s not the only reason. I also happen to be curious about where we’re going this beautiful Friday morning—and why you were in such a hurry to stop me from talking to Blaze earlier.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Oh, yes you were. I know alarm when I see it.”

She bit her lip, which he already recognized as her pondering look. “Um, what were the two of you talking about?”

“Nothing much. I was on my way to the house when he ran up behind me. Told me he’s training for a marathon—barefoot.”

“Brilliant idea, yeah?”
Blaze had asked.

“S-sure. Brilliant.”
Or a symptom of a brain injury.

When Matthew asked Blaze if he could interview him for the blog, the man had turned all sorts of skittish—fidgeted with his stopwatch, swiped dots of sweat from his brow, mumbled something about a splinter in his foot.

And then Miranda had launched from the house.

Was there some reason Miranda and Blaze were nixing his attempt at an interview with Blaze?

“Did you happen to read my first blog post? It went live today.”

Her shoulders relaxed as she uncrossed her arms. “No time, actually. I accidentally slept in. Took forever to fall asleep last night.”

Her too? He’d lain awake long past midnight thinking about Miranda Woodruff’s past, the hurt she thought she hid. But
he’d also wondered whether or not, when it came time to write that January cover story, he’d have the necessary coldness to publicize her pain.

“My editor texted me it had thirty thousand hits in the first twenty minutes.” A bona fide hit. Celine would have her surgery by year’s end.

They motored around the ridge with the windows open, wind whipping the wooden cross hanging from the rental car’s rearview mirror. A present from Celine. Never failed in its murmuring admonishment—for skipping church, losing his way . . . but most of all, for forgetting what it was like to open himself to God’s presence.

“There it is, the lane for Jimmy and Audrey’s.” Miranda pointed.

“And they are . . . ?” He’d assumed they’d spend the day on set again, but she’d guided them the opposite direction of Pine Cove.

“Friends.”

He steered onto the gravel, followed the bumpy road into a thick stand of trees, and slowed to a stop. The house in front of them, if it could be called that, was made up of ramshackle walls propping up a sagging roof and planks of wood jutting from the floor of the porch. The scent of cedar and pine, the trickling of what must be a nearby creek, drifted through his open window. None of that fit with the scene before him: dingy blanket abandoned on the porch steps, spindles missing from the railing, a shutter dangling from one window.

“It’s not much to look at,” Miranda conceded as she hopped to the ground. “But it’s their home. Come on.”

She took the stairs two at a time, sidestepping a loose board as she navigated the deathtrap of a porch. Matthew followed and waited behind her as she knocked on the rickety front door.

“Hello, Audrey? You home?”

The tapping of footsteps sounded from the house and the door swung open. “Randi?” Before he could catch a glimpse of the woman, she threw her arms around Miranda. “You came!”

“Of course I did. I said I would.”

Audrey stepped back, and her eyes, pale blue and tired, turned on him. Straggles of mousy hair escaped a clip, and her brown dress hung from her small frame.

Miranda tugged on Matthew’s arm, pulling him forward. “This is Matthew Knox. He’s . . . a friend.”

He held out his hand to Audrey. “Pleased to meet you.”

Bare feet peeked from under the woman’s dress. She placed a diminutive palm in his.

“I see Jimmy tarped the lumber I dropped off a couple weeks ago,” Miranda pointed out. “Good move, especially with the slew of rain showers we’ve had.”

“Jimmy is plenty smart like that.” Audrey’s thin lips stretched with her drawled words. She stepped aside to allow them into the house. “I couldn’t believe it when I saw that truck coming down the road loaded with all that wood. Jimmy . . . he couldn’t, either.”

The pride in her voice didn’t match her surroundings—uneven floors, hand-me-down furniture that had probably spanned generations, a broken pane of glass in the front room’s one window. The house smelled of fried food and must. A framed photo of Audrey and a man who must be Jimmy sat on an end table.

“I was hoping I could see Lola before we get to work.”

Audrey’s wide grin pulled her gaunt cheeks tight. “Of course. It’s about time for her to wake from her morning nap.”

They trailed down an empty hallway, past a bedroom with a neatly made bed, its patchwork quilt the only color in the room. Though sparse and nearly dilapidated, the house was clean.

The next room held a crib. He paused in the doorway while Miranda and Audrey leaned over the baby bed.

“A little angel,” Miranda whispered. She had softened the moment they stepped in the house, he realized, and now she fairly melted—cooing and talking in hushed tones with Audrey. He watched as Audrey lifted the sleeping baby and placed her in Miranda’s arms. Miranda tilted forward to nuzzle the baby’s head with her nose and place a kiss on the baby’s cheek.

Beautiful . . .

“She is, isn’t she?” Miranda spoke.

He blinked.
Oh.
He’d said it aloud. “How old is she?”

Audrey nodded. “Four months and one week. Her full name is Lola Danielle.”

He moved to Miranda’s side, rubbed the little peach-fuzz head. Caramel eyes stared back at him above cherub cheeks.

“So where is Jimmy today?” Miranda asked the question with her cheek pressed to Lola’s.

Audrey’s expression turned uncomfortable. “He went away with his pals. Sometimes he’s gone three or four days, usually looking for work. Except this time . . . Well, it’s only been a week. I’m sure he’ll be home soon.”

Anxious silence broke the tenderness of moments before.

“Well, I could stand here holding her forever, but that’s not going to get your porch fixed.” Miranda sighed. “I suppose I should get to work.”

It took her another minute to surrender Lola to Audrey. When she did, she closed her arms around herself for a moment, a flicker of loneliness touching her eyes. But just as quickly, she unwound her arms and straightened her shoulders. “All right, Knox. Ready to help me?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll mix some lemonade,” Audrey said, shifting the bundle
in her arms and leading them from the room. “And if there’s anything I can do—”

“Oh no, you just enjoy your day with Lola. Leave the porch to us.”

Matthew gulped the air outside, the expanse of the mountains such a contrast to the close quarters of the tiny house. Even the porch seemed to close in on him, and he quickened down the stairs.

“What I really want is to build her a new house,” Miranda said from behind him.

He turned. “Why don’t you?”

“Jimmy doesn’t want it. I don’t know if it’s the idea of charity that bothers him or what.”

“What he wants shouldn’t matter nearly as much as what his baby needs.” Especially if the man wasn’t going to return. But Matthew shook his head, knocking the thought loose. Not everyone was like his father. “So, do you help out here often?”

“A couple times a month. More when I’m on break from taping.”

“What do we do first?”

“Rip up the old boards. Some of them are okay, but anything wobbly or unstable goes.”

She reached into the back seat of his Jeep and pulled out the toolbox he’d seen her throw in earlier. She paused. “I never really asked you if wanted to help. If you don’t want to—”

“I do.”

She handed him a hammer, a sparkle lighting her eyes. “Let’s start tearing things up.”

He grasped the hammer, plodded back up the porch, and knelt over the first loose board he saw. He dug the hammer claw underneath where the board wobbled and pulled. “How’d you meet Audrey?”

“At Open Arms, a children’s shelter in Asheville where I
volunteer. Audrey’s father kicked her out when she got pregnant. The way she tells it, Jimmy wanted her to move in with him, but she was worried her father might interfere. She hitchhiked to Asheville and ended up at Open Arms, thinking maybe it was a home for displaced pregnant women. It isn’t, but Livvy—the director and my friend—couldn’t turn her away. Audrey stayed at Open Arms until recently, when Jimmy convinced her to get married and move back to the mountain.”

His muscles strained to pull the board up. When he’d freed it, he chucked it into the yard. “How old is she?”

On the other side of the porch, Miranda stilled and met his eyes. “Eighteen.”

His knees strained in his knelt position and he rocked back to sit. Eighteen. And living in a shack in the mountains. With a baby. And a husband who may or may not stick by her.

He leaned forward and hooked his hammer under another board, wood scraping against his fingers, promising blisters. “You know, you surprise me, Miranda.”

“That a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Good. You’re more than the tomboy you play on TV.” He looked up to meet her eyes, unreadable but fascinating. When hit by the sun, they turned to a soft, almost-blue. Like a rainy sky.

She’s married.

And he had no business putting words to the disturbing admiration clinking around in his brain.

“Um, thank you?” Cloudy uncertainty hazed over her face. “I mean, thank you.”

“Welcome.”
Married.

And the key to his professional revival.

That’s all.

He plowed the hammer claw under another protruding board. “So, tell me about tonight.”

The uncertainty returned to her eyes. And the dinging of a distant warning bell continued somewhere in the back of his brain.

“What’s he like?” Liv’s muffled voice called from the depths of Miranda’s walk-in closet.

Miranda stood in the closet doorway, hands tucked into the pockets of her overalls. “Who, Blaze? He’s a total flake. Belongs in a surfer flick with Annette Funicello at his side.”

Liv emerged, arms draped with a rainbow of dresses and squeezed past Miranda. Miranda had forgotten she had such a storehouse of dresses. Other than the getup Whitney had forced her into the other day, she hadn’t had occasion to hassle into a dress since . . . when?

Probably back in churchgoing days. Before the guilt anchored her home on Sunday mornings.

“And he looks like . . . ?” Liv paused.

“It’s okay to say his name. Yes, he looks like Robbie. Though not as much now that I’ve been around him a couple days. And he’s nothing like him. Robbie was all serious, even brooding sometimes. Blaze is lighthearted, carefree.”

Liv dropped her armload onto the bed, plastic hangers clanking. “Think there’s any possibility of . . . you know.”

Miranda flopped onto the bed beside the pile of dresses. “Possibility of what?”

“Of you actually falling for your pretend guy.”

Miranda burst into laughter. “There’s more chance of Hades freezing over. Or pigs flying. Pick the cliché of your choice.”

Liv shot her a defiant stare. “Hey, anytime you hear about a man and woman pretending to be married or getting engaged or married for convenience, they always end up falling in love for real.” She held up a turquoise dress for inspection.

“Livvy, you’re talking about movies.” She waved off the dress. “This isn’t a movie—it’s my actual life.”

“Which at the moment is looking very much like a Sandra Bullock flick. And you’re right—nixing the turquoise number. Too
Little Mermaid
-ish.” She laid the dress over a chair and flipped through the others.

“Besides, we already have an exit strategy for our . . . relationship. When the time is right, we’ll leak a story about how the stress of public life was too much for us.”