Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  Brad pulled out the Snickers bar. “Well, if it’s another building-type show, her audience would likely convert without too much grumbling. What’s odd to me is that whoever pitched it did so to a network that already has a successful home show. Almost seems like . . . a personal dig. Who knows. I’d love to go mining for more information, but who’s going to tell Randi Woodruff’s manager about the competition?”

  A personal dig? Against Miranda? An idea took root. “But they might tell a reporter. Especially one with Today magazine, one of the leading celeb mags.”

  A grin spread across Brad’s cheeks as he started down the hallway. “For a reporter, you’re an okay guy.”

  Matthew smirked. “Thanks . . . I think. Where you going?”

  “To give Miranda her daily sugar supply. Might cheer her up.” He turned back to Matthew.

  “You know her well.”

  Brad stopped. “Well enough to know she doesn’t need this on top of everything else.”

  Matthew would’ve thought this was the everything else.

  “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.”

  Had he only scratched the surface of Miranda’s secrets?

  Gray skies looming, Miranda emerged from a grouping of trees. Rounding a bend and cresting the rise of terrain, she spotted the church, its white steeple piercing the sky. It stood in the center of a flat clearing, cut into the side of a craggy ridge.

  How many times had she walked this path, approached the church building that, despite its simple architecture and faded white-washed walls, held an austere pose amid its mountain surroundings? At least a year’s worth of Sundays.

  But never during service times. Never risking a run-in with a regular attender.

  And this was her first weeknight visit. What if she ran into a prayer group or something? She took a long, steady breath and reached for the handle of the heavy wooden door. It creaked open, promising silence, solitude. All she knew was she needed this—to get away, clear her head.

  Maybe even pray about the anxieties pounding her like a heavy rain. No more production on their fourth season? It was as if Lincoln had pronounced an early death sentence on the show.

  And then there’s Matthew . . .

  Anyway, for weeks she’d been meaning to leave an anonymous note at the church about Jimmy and Audrey. Their home wasn’t more than two miles away, and if the church had any kind of outreach program, perhaps she could stop worrying about whether Audrey and her baby were eating enough.

  Rays of colored light streamed in through the stained-glass windows. Wrapped in the quiet of the sanctuary, Miranda lowered onto a sun-warmed wooden pew. She breathed in the calm, felt the tautness of her emotions release as she leaned against the hard-backed seat.

  She’d given up regular church attendance years ago, knowing full well her secret ruined any chance at finding community in a house of worship.

  Make that secrets.

  At the thought, the peace she’d grasped for upon entering the sanctuary doors seeped out in a slow escape. She might imagine she heard God’s whispering during her weekly visits, even crave the once-comforting canopy of His love, but years had widened the gap between Miranda and the faith that used to feel as real as the rises and ridges of the mountains.

  And yet, here she sat, with Jesus smiling at her in stained glass.

  I love my career, God. I love my house in the mountains. I love making a difference. Don’t you see I want to use my career to help people? Couldn’t, just this once, the end justify the means?

  No answer from the smiling Jesus.

  She redirected her gaze, the pulpit—new since she’d last stopped in—catching her eye. She rose and walked down the aisle, past the altar. Her fingers connected with the rich wood, traced the grooved outlines of a lion, lamb, and dove carved into the front of the pulpit. Now, that was craftsmanship. “Beautiful.” The word came out a whisper.

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  She spun at the sound of the soft voice. Caught where she didn’t belong. “I’m sorry. The doors were unlocked. I figured it was okay to come in.”

  The easy smile of the woman walking down the aisle released Miranda’s chagrin. She wore a long-sleeved tee over running pants and Nikes.

  “Of course it’s okay. I’m Joni Watters, the pastor’s wife. I see you appreciate fine woodworking?”

  “Very much so.” Calming, she held out a hand. “I’m Miranda.”

  “Nice to meet you. I didn’t see a car outside, so you must’ve hiked. You live close?” Joni pulled earbuds from her ears and pocketed an iPod.

  “Only a few miles away. Well, six or seven if you take the road. Can I ask who did the carving?”

  “Hezekiah Sloane, Old Hez, we called him. A true artist. He carved most of it, but a professional woodworker finished it recently. You see, Hez died last winter.”

  Miranda slid her fingers along the markings on the pulpit. “How sad.”

  Joni chuckled. “Not really. He was ninety-three and had been predicting his own death for six years. Every Christmas Eve he’d come up to my husband just before the candlelight service and say, ‘Brother John, I believe God told me this’ll be my last Christmas. Make it a good one tonight.’ And so John, Lord help him, would preach his best, but come the following Christmas, there Old Hez would be.” Joni sighed and perched on the corner of the altar. “He had it right this year. He died in his sleep the day after New Year’s.”

  Miranda circled back around the altar. “Guess he heard God wrong the previous years.”

  Joni studied her, gentle smile touching her eyes. “Ah, but he was listening. I think Hezekiah was simply eager to meet his Father. He lived a full, happy life, but something in that old man knew he wasn’t made for this earth.” She glanced at the stained-glass portrait of Jesus. “In other words, he’d found his true identity.”

  Joni spoke with a kind of calm assurance Miranda envied.

  The woman’s gaze returned to Miranda’s. “And that, my friend, is my sermon for the day.” Joni glanced away. “Morgan always used to joke that I should’ve been the preacher.”

  Morgan?

  Joni must have read Miranda’s question, because she answered before Miranda could ask it. “My daughter. She would’ve been twenty-two next month. She died in a skiing accident over spring break two years ago.”

  “I’m . . . so sorry.” And just moments ago Miranda had coveted the woman’s easygoing cheer. So maybe we all wear masks.

  Except, apparently, the pulpit builder. Old Hez.

  “Yes, well, I’d better finish my run before John comes searching for me. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Same here. And thanks for not minding me dropping by the church.”

  Joni replaced her earbuds. “Drop by anytime, Miranda Woodruff.” She gave a small wave.

  Only as the door scraped over the floor did it hit Miranda she should’ve mentioned Jimmy and Audrey. But the door had already rasped closed.

  A light glowed from behind the tarp of Miranda’s skeletal home addition, and she scrunched her nose in curiosity as she covered the remaining distance to the house. She’d stayed in the church until sunset made its first move. By the time she trekked home, the shadows of night had staked their claim.

  An owl hooted in the distance as she approached the house, the sound of voices joining the owl’s call. The familiar ruffle of laughter came from the other side of the tent-like addition covering. “Blaze?”

  A hand slapped the tarp open. “Good, you’re home.”

  The smell of Italian spices—oregano and basil—floated under her nose. Garlic, too, drawing a growl from her stomach. “Something smells heavenly.”

  Blaze reached his hand down to pull her up to the raised foundation. She grasped his palm and stepped up, catching sight of Matthew dishing up lasagna at a card table they must have found in a closet. Candlelight from a hodgepodge of candles lit t
he space. Had they collected every candle in the house?

  “What’s going on, guys? Did I forget a special occasion?”

  Blaze’s hand on her back guided her to the table. “Nope, m’lady. Not any more special than every night with you.”

  The saccharine tone of his voice pulled a chuckle from her, and she couldn’t help glancing at Matthew. His eyes were on the plate in his hands, his face unreadable. But, oh, he looked handsome in a close-fitting black sweater that showed off the wide set of his shoulders.

  She swallowed the thought. Blaze pulled out her chair, and she sat. “So there’s no special reason at all for this?”

  Matthew sat across from her, candlelight toying with the colors of his eyes—flickers of green and brown. She could almost taste the buttery garlic of the bread on her plate.

  “Patience,” Blaze ordered. “First, we say grace.”

  It was all Miranda could do to gulp back her surprise. Wouldn’t do for Matthew to wonder why she was flummoxed at her husband’s desire to pray. She accepted Blaze’s outstretched hand at her left and Matthew’s reaching across the table at her right.

  “God, thanks for this day, for this good food, for beautiful weather. Lord, I pray for Randi. I know she got tough news today. Remind her that you’ve got a plan for her and for her show. And thanks for letting Knox join us, too. He’s not near as annoying as he could’ve been, being a reporter and all.”

  Miranda’s snort interrupted, and she peeked one eyelid open to see Matthew watching her, his own silent laugh sending puffs of air over the candles’ flames.

  “In your name we pray, amen.” Blaze ended the prayer with a squeeze of Miranda’s hand.

  And for the first time, she detected a hint of maturity about the man she hadn’t noticed before. Blaze was all right.

  For a fake husband.

  “One thing we haven’t talked about since I’ve been here is your faith,” Matthew said as he lifted his garlic bread. “But Blaze’s prayer paved the way for the question. Are you two religious?”

  Blaze looked to Miranda, and when she didn’t answer, he started talking. “Well, I’m a Christian, but I’m still figuring out what exactly that means.” Blaze slapped his napkin onto his lap. “I was on a backpacking trip in Europe. Ran into this group of Christians in a retreat at a chateau. Took less than twenty-four hours around them for me to realize they had something I didn’t—something I wanted, needed.”

  “So you converted?” Matthew asked.

  “I think so. I prayed, anyway. But ever since, I haven’t really been sure—”

  Blaze broke off abruptly, gaze turning distant, elbows on the table. He hadn’t made a move to touch his food. For a moment, it seemed he might say more. Instead, he picked up his fork and nodded his head toward Miranda. “But anyway, she’s the one you want to hear from.”

  Miranda’s foot jerked to tap Blaze’s ankle under the table. He shot her an innocent grin. She couldn’t be all that annoyed with Blaze, anyway, not with the serious undertones in his voice just moments before. Besides, how could he know faith—and what wobbly pieces of her own remained—was the last thing she’d want to talk about?

  Miranda closed her lips around a steaming bite of lasagna, buying time. But Matthew’s patient study across the table lingered on the question. How to explain that she wanted to believe everything she’d grown up hearing—God’s love, His son, Jesus, who died and rose again—but that believing required more than she could give?

  She’d known it when she’d slept with Robbie.

  She’d known it when she kept up the lie on her show.

  She knew it now, with her false invention at her side, in the flesh.

  “My parents were missionaries, as you know,” she finally said. “So I grew up with faith. But like my . . . Blaze, I’m still trying to figure things out.”

  Maybe from the outside looking in, it appeared simple: just believe and tell the truth and let God take care of the rest. But how could she trust Him to do that when everyone else she’d ever trusted had abandoned her?

  “What about you, Matthew? What do you believe?” Miranda turned the questions on him.

  He pointed his fork at Blaze. “That this is the best lasagna I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Thanks, man, but answer the woman’s question.”

  Nice one, Blaze.

  “Okay, fine. I’m in the same club as the two of you. Still figuring things out. I definitely had my years of playing Doubting Thomas, but lately . . .” Matthew paused with his fork midair. “I think there’s something about being out here in the mountains. Makes me think, if God can create something so amazing, then maybe He can work on a screw-up like me, yeah?”

  A hush blanketed the table. Matthew’s honesty added a new flavor to the evening, something savory and melty, like the perfect chocolate. Even better than Blaze’s Italian feast. Miranda sipped from her glass of ice water.

  When this is all over, God, I want to come back. I do.

  Blaze cut into her prayer with a clearing of his throat. “Well, Knox, should we tell her why we’re here tonight?”

  “I thought you said there wasn’t a special occasion?” What did her men have up their sleeves?

  Her men? Um, no. Eventually they’d both leave. Miranda had to remember that.

  “Not an occasion,” Matthew said with a nod. “An announcement. Blaze and I . . . Well, all afternoon we brainstormed and—”

  “We figured out how to save your show!” Blaze blurted.

  Miranda crunched her teeth on her garlic bread. “Whaafh?” The word came out garbled.

  “Hopefully save it,” Matthew amended. “We’re going to rally the troops in support of From the Ground Up. What’s the fastest way to unite fans? The World Wide Web. We’re going to start an Internet campaign.”

  Miranda gulped down her bread. “What’s that entail?”

  Blaze’s fork clanked on his plate. “First off, I’m going to strangle your manager over the fact that you don’t have a Facebook fan page yet.”

  Miranda chortled. “Please don’t harm Brad. I told him a while back I didn’t see the point of Facebook.”

  Blaze shook his head before she finished. “The point is, it’s where the people are, honey. So it’s where you have to be.”

  “Turns out Blaze here is a budding social media guru,” Matthew pointed out.

  A proud smile stretched Blaze’s cheeks. “I’ve got ideas for improving your website and starting a YouTube channel. Matthew’s going to make sure entertainment bloggers across the country are talking about you. He’s got a great platform with his connections.”

  Matthew picked up where Blaze left off. “Tomorrow I’m going to blog about your show. I’m going to be honest and say it’s in trouble.”

  Miranda dabbed at her mouth with her napkin. “Doubt Lincoln will like that.”

  “He’ll have to deal. Because in addition to keeping my editor happy, the blog will get people talking. Your fans will come out of the woodwork. We’ll get an online petition started, something to wow the network.”

  Miranda blinked back the gathering pools behind her eyelids. And it sure wasn’t the spicy lasagna causing the tears. “You guys spent all afternoon talking about this?”

  Matthew nodded. “Even worked up a PowerPoint to show Walsh.”

  Blaze reached out his hand to cover hers atop the table. “Sweetheart, we’ll have you trending on Twitter by the end of the week.”

  She blinked again, swallowed. “I don’t even know what that means, but . . . thank you. Both of you.”

  And suddenly, the thought of either one of them exiting from her life as quickly as they’d shown up felt like a sliver in an otherwise perfect night.

  Chapter 10

  “It’s amazing up here.”

  The wonder in Matthew’s voice drew a satisfied grin from Miranda. They stood on a rocky overhang, the view as breathtaking now as the first time she’d made the climb. Glorious sunbeams poured through the trees like wat
erfalls. A V of birds trekked southbound through the sky, their cadence of caws filling the landscape with melody.

  Up here she could almost believe everything would be okay. From the Ground Up would be renewed. She’d win the Giving Heart Award. She’d wrangle out of her pretend marriage but somehow stay connected with lovable Blaze. She’d find her way back to God.

  And Matthew?

  She didn’t know what to hope for there. That he’d never be any the wiser about the whole charade? What about the confusing feelings playing blender with her insides?

  “I’m glad Brad suggested this,” Miranda said. “He knows I would’ve gone crazy without work on a weekday.”

  “Are you kidding?” Matthew turned his hazel eyes on her. “You’d have found something to do. You’d build something out in your workshop or complete a half dozen projects at Open Arms. Or work on your house. Hey, that’s what you should do with your surprise free time. Didn’t you say you’ve been wanting to finish the addition for years?”

  She shook her head. “Snow will fall before I could finish it. Besides, I haven’t done enough to winterize it in the past. Some of the wood’s gone soft. I’ll have to tear it out before I can build.”

  Hands in the pockets of her flannel jacket, Miranda turned in time to see Liv joining them on the overhang. Her friend’s pink puff vest and white sweater glowed against the browns and burgundies of autumn. The rosy sheen of her cheeks and strawberry blond pigtails added youthful appeal to her swaying walk.

  It made Miranda feel like Ma Kettle next to Miss America.

  “Not only is the view spectacular, but this would be a perfect spot for a photo of Miranda and Blaze,” Brad said as he came up behind Liv.

  “Right.” Matthew pulled his cell phone from his backpack. “I’ll take a candid, post it to the Today Facebook page, and it’ll go viral in minutes.”

  “Matthew Knox, I like the way you think,” Liv said.

  A surprise jolt of jealousy zapped Miranda—at Liv’s carefree tone, her ability to be herself. The glossy smile she wore like a model. And, fine, her rapport with Matthew. Not fair, Rand. Not her fault she’s single and attractive.