by Melissa Tagg
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 cl
ips 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.
“Flight 1041 to Chicago now boarding passengers in Section A. Section A passengers now boarding to Chicago.” The voice came over loudspeakers and Matthew stood. Chicago, then Minneapolis, then home.
He glanced once more at the North Carolina view, then turned away and boarded his plane.
Chapter 20
Tires crackled over gravel as Robbie’s Prius disappeared down the lane. A heavy wind hurled itself against Miranda’s face, tangling in her hair. Pale sunlight was no match for the late-October chill that had painted the ground a frosty white. A glistening blanket still rested in place this afternoon.
“Good-bye, Robbie.” She whispered the words, letting autumn’s breath carry away her farewell.
Robbie hadn’t understood. But he’d gone.
“I’m really sorry, Rand.” Blaze’s voice came from behind. He stood on her porch steps, hands hidden in the pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, the luggage from their one-night stay in Nashville at his feet. Apology and regret swam together in his eyes. “If I’d known, I never would’ve—”
She should have warned them of what she was planning to say—but she hadn’t been certain she would go through with her plan. “You couldn’t have known. It’s not your fault.” Not his fault he and Robbie had stood during her declaration of love. They’d had this conversation twice already. Once last night when they’d finally escaped the onslaught of press after her humiliating acceptance speech. Again in the plane on the way home.
“I thought . . .” The low-toned cadence of wind chimes filled in where his voice left off.
He’d thought he was playing his part as expected. And Robbie, obviously, had assumed he’d earned himself a spot back into Miranda’s heart.
What Blaze didn’t realize was, it wasn’t so much the embarrassment of having two men stand during the program that ripped into Miranda’s heart. It was more the fact that a third had walked out.
She hadn’t been able to see the person who’d disappeared from the ballroom just as Matthew Knox’s name climbed up her throat. But somehow, she knew.
So here she was, standing in the cold on her expansive property, which once again only reminded her how alone she really was. Just like the first time Robbie left.
And not at all like then. Because this time around, she had brought the rejection on herself with deceit. One deliberate lie after another. She couldn’t blame Matthew for turning his back on her. Not one tiny bit.
And she couldn’t blame the press for going camera-happy as Blaze and Robbie had stood there last night staring at each other in confusion. She hadn’t even finished her speech. Only mumbled an abrupt thank-you and fled the stage. She could only guess what the media was saying.
The beeping of a cell phone cut into the quiet now. It wasn’t Miranda’s. She’d turned it off last night, having the thumping desire to never turn it on again.
Blaze slid his phone from his pocket and read the text message. “Brad wants to talk to you. He’s worried.”
“Could you tell him I’m fine? Just not very talkative. I think I’ll take a walk.”
Her steps crunched over the hard sheen of frost underfoot.
“Miranda,” Blaze called. He padded down the porch steps, hustled to her side. “Don’t you want to know? Don’t you wonder what the press is saying?”
“I could make a pretty good guess. ‘Randi Woodruff Makes a Fool of Herself.’ ‘Marriage Troubles in Randi-Land?’ Does that sound about right?”
“So you said you wanted to thank the man you love. So more than one guy stood. Nobody died. We can explain it.”
“But that’s just it. I’m tired of coming up with false explanations.”
Blaze stood his ground, his demeanor for once stern. “Last night
you were prepared to stand up in front of a celebrity audience and confess the truth—that you’re not really married, that you’ve fallen for a guy you just met. What’s different today than last night?”
The answer sprang to her lips. “What’s different is Matthew’s gone.”
Blaze flung his good arm in frustration. “Because he thought you were talking about me! Or Robbie. Doesn’t matter. Call him up and tell him the truth.”
How could Blaze understand? What did he want her to do? She might be Randi Woodruff, the homebuilder, the award winner. She might be able to handle blueprints and crews and power tools.
But she couldn’t handle rejection. Not again.
Blaze gripped her shoulder. “Last night you planned a grand gesture, the kind of thing most of us wish we were brave enough to do—wished we even had reason to do. You were ready to sacrifice your show, your career, your reputation if it meant a future with Knox. Don’t give up on that.”
Miranda pulled away. “You don’t get it. Matthew walked away. It’s done. And what I have left is From the Ground Up. It’s the constant in my life. So no, I’m not going to lay it down on the altar of futile wishes.”
Blaze’s eyes searched hers. “You are not your show, Rand.”
“And you’re not my husband.” The words flew from her lips—hurtful, she knew, by the wince Blaze tried to hide.
But he nodded, lips pressed and jaw set. Behind him, the mountain landscape had lost its color. “Your mom said she was putting on a pot of tea. Think I’ll join her.” He turned slowly.
“Blaze—”
“It’s okay. You’re right,” he said over his shoulder. Then he stopped and faced her once more. “But I am, too. And one of these days, you’re going to stop defining yourself by your career. Or your past. Or whatever man happens to disappoint you at the time.”
Miranda sucked in a sharp breath as his verbal darts hit on target. Only when Blaze disappeared into the house did her first tear fall.
“Knox, you’re a genius.”
