Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  “But can you see why I wonder? How it might look?”

  She turned her back to him, spoke slowly. “No. I didn’t marry him for the show.” She dropped to the floor, lowered herself to the ladder, and disappeared.

  Leaving Matthew alone with the distrust he was coming to hate.

  She hadn’t lied. Not technically.

  So why did Matthew’s question bother her so? Half an hour later, it still pricked against the tender flesh of her emotions.

  Miranda yanked the pull strings of a heavy-duty garbage bag ballooning with leaves. The last one in the box. Matthew had gone inside looking for more several minutes ago. She knotted the garbage bag handles, chucked it over with the others, and surveyed the yard. Only a few scattered piles left.

  “No. I didn’t marry him for the show.”

  That’s right. Only pretended to.

  The sun dipped low behind the Appalachian ridges, a streak of orange bold against a darkening sky. At her side, Blaze shook an errant tuft of hair from his face and pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. “Brr. The weather’s so shifty around here.”

  Halfway through the day, temps had reached the mid-fifties. Now they were headed for an overnight frost. “Thanks for all your help. This would’ve taken hours more on my own.”

  “Anything to help the wife. How would it look if I didn’t come along?”

  How, indeed. If his questions were any indication, Matthew had enough suspicions on his own. But what he’d said this morning, about wanting to keep the blog going—did that mean he truly didn’t intend to write about what she’d told him last night? At least not yet. She couldn’t let herself get comfortable. “Blaze, have you read any of Matthew’s articles, his blogs?”

  “Yeah, the dude’s pretty good with his ABCs. Why, haven’t you read them?”

  She bit her lip, warming her hands inside the pockets of her fleece jacket. “I can’t. It’s weird, I know, but I’m . . . nervous. I don’t usually know the people who interview me, so if the story rubs me wrong, it’s no biggie. But Matthew, he’s . . .”

  Blaze cocked his head, raised eyebrows prodding her on.

  She shrugged. “A friend, I guess. And sometimes you think you know how a friend sees you, but then you find out they actually see you differently than how you thought they saw you, and you wonder, is that how other people see me? See what I’m saying?”

  He belted out a laugh. “I see why Matthew’s the wordsmith and not you.”

  She elbowed him in the side. “Says the man whose vocabulary is monopolized by dude.”

  Blaze rubbed his palm over his stubbled chin, scratchy like the sound of sandpaper, before speaking again. “Want to know how else I see you?”

  “I’m not sure.” He’d already told her she didn’t know how to have fun. Now what? She was too boring? Straightlaced? After all, she’d turned down his order to jump in a pile of leaves minutes ago.

  “I see a woman who’s pretending to be married to one guy while falling for someone else.”

  His words, like the cool of the night, chilled through her. She attempted a nonchalant giggle, but it came out a garbled cough. “What?”

  His knees bent to bring him eye level with her. “You’re falling for Knox. And it makes total sense, too. You’re both creative types but in a different way—you with your wood, him with words. It draws you together.”

  No. No. No. “Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Love, but you’re way off. I’ve known him all of one week. We’re just friends.”

  “Universal code for ‘I’m crazy about him but don’t want you to know.’ And you’ve spent more time with him in one week than many people do with family members in a month. Look me in the eye, sweetie-pie, and deny it.”

  “He’s nosy a-and cocky and . . . nosy.” And cute, even with his blasted questions. And helpful and hardworking. “And he wouldn’t know a Hitachi from a DeWalt.”

  “A what-y from a de-what?”

  Another elbow in the side. Harder this time and accompanied by an exaggerated groan. “I’m going inside. Matthew should’ve been out here with more garbage bags five minutes ago.”

  Blaze’s teasing laughter followed her inside. That, and the side effect of his words: worry. Because what if he saw something real?

  I’m married. I’m married. I’m married.

  She trailed through the mud room into the kitchen, the yeasty smell of homemade bread lingering in the air. Hadn’t she told Matthew he’d find garbage bags here? Where had he wandered?

  “Matthew?” she called, leaving the kitchen. “Liv?” Liv had been off to run errands with a few of the children when they first arrived, the rest of the kids on an outing with a volunteer group.

  She moved down the first-floor corridor, then slowed outside the den when the sound of piano reached her ears. She recognized the song, a favorite: “Beautiful Dreamer.”

  She peeked into the room, surprise flitting through her at the sight of Matthew at the piano. His hands glided over the keys effortlessly. And standing beside the piano, the children who’d left earlier with Liv—Anya, Peter, Claire—their hands pressed against the back of the piano, smiling as they felt the vibration.

  Listening.

  Anya, Peter, and Claire were deaf.

  With a gentle push against the door, Miranda padded into the room. She caught Matthew’s eyes, saw the red creep into his cheeks. Liv watched from another corner of the room. Anya spotted Miranda and waved with one hand, then just as quickly returned her palm to the piano.

  The song ended to the children’s “clapping”—palms lifted, fluttering back and forth in ASL applause. Their faces lit up, eyes glowing, as their hands began to move in silent chatter. Oh, did they think Matthew was a volunteer sign interpreter?

  And then her heart sighed as Matthew’s own hands spun into motion. He spoke as he signed. “My name is Matthew.” He spelled out his name one letter at a time. “What are your names?” It was possible she’d never seen anything sweeter.

  “That reporter of yours is full of surprises,” Liv spoke from behind her as the children signed their names.

  “Indeed.” But of course he’d mentioned his niece was deaf. So it wasn’t surprising he knew ASL.

  “How old are you?” Matthew asked.

  “Ten, seven, and six,” Miranda recited in a whisper as the children answered in sign. How often had she wished to communicate with these three, lamenting her lack of sign language skills, heart wincing as they stood by silently while she talked to the other children?

  Oh, Liv knew basic sign language. And Claire, the oldest, could read lips. But more often than not, Miranda felt at a loss when trying to connect.

  “All right, children. Into the kitchen for snacks. The others will be home soon,” Liv signed and spoke.

  As she herded the kids out, Matthew’s fingers returned to the keyboard. He played a scale, upped an octave and played another. Miranda crossed the room and lowered onto the bench beside him. “Not only are you a writer, but you’re also a concert pianist.”

  He chuckled. “Hardly. But I did take lessons ’til halfway through high school.”

  “I always wanted to learn. But by the time they took me in, Grandpa and Grandma were on a fixed income. Not enough money.”

  “Well, finally, something I can teach you.”

  Even though her eyes were on the black-and-white ivories, she could hear the smile in Matthew’s smooth voice. Her heart quickened, and her conscience told her to stand up and leave. But Matthew pressed a key before she could move. “This is middle C.”

  “I know that. If that’s all you’re going to teach me—”

  “Patience, grasshopper. What do you want to learn? ‘Chopsticks’? Easiest song in the book.”

  Did he have any idea the effect he had on her? What was wrong with her, anyway? How could she shift so quickly from pining for Robbie to wishing . . .

  She shook her head, felt the hair tickling her cheeks and Matthew’s movement as he turned
to face her.

  “Not ‘Chopsticks’? Okay. Well, I can teach you something else.”

  “No, that’s not it.” Miranda tried to stand, but her knees bumped into the underside of the piano and she wobbled—she’d turned into a klutz around this man—and sat back on the bench.

  “It’s about those questions I asked in the tree house. They weren’t nice. I realize that. But I am a reporter.”

  “True. But this . . . this was nice.” She looked from Matthew to the piano, back to his eyes. And that smile on his face, oh, she could seriously get used to it.

  If she wanted to. But she didn’t.

  “It’s just . . .” She lowered her head. “Not that many people know about Robbie. And now that I know you know, I feel . . . weird.”

  “Why? I don’t think less of you because your first engagement didn’t work out. I could tell you about some relationship blunders of my own.”

  “It’s not that as much as . . . I’ve built up this identity for myself. And Robbie feels like a crack in that identity.” Why was she being so honest with him? Hadn’t she just decided to be more cautious?

  “Is your reputation so important? I guess that’s a dumb question, because you’re a TV star, but it just seems . . .”

  His voice trailed, and in the quiet she could hear the clomping of footsteps in the entryway. The other children must have returned from their outing. What Matthew didn’t understand was this wasn’t just about her reputation. It was about who she was, deep inside. And he’d seen a caged facet that was never meant to escape.

  “Hey, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell you about one of my less-than-proud moments,” Matthew said. “Remember how I told you the other night about my dad ditching our family?”

  Yes, out in the cabin. When she’d talked about her parents. It seemed they’d formed a pattern of sharing secrets.

  “Well, about five years ago, I pretty much accused my father—in print—of embezzlement.” His fingers grazed the top of the keys. “I ran a skewed article—one that I never should’ve pushed in the first place—and let a decade’s worth of anger pretty much destroy my career. Had to resign. And worse, the reporter I’d assigned the article was fired.”

  She heard the regret dripping from his words, the shame.

  “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.

  Chapter 9

  “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, j
ust 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.