by Melissa Tagg
“I remember you saying you’d never been to a Vikings game. You probably have by now but—”
“I haven’t,” she cut in. “I . . . don’t know what to say.”
“Well, just say you’ll enjoy the game.”
She clenched the tickets, forehead still wrinkled but eyes a little softer. “This doesn’t mean we’re friends or anything.”
“Of course not. I’d have had to get you season passes for that.”
She offered him an honest-to-goodness smile then and slipped the tickets into her pocket.
“And about the article—”
“I know it’s not happening. I figured as much even before I asked. But you can’t blame a reporter for trying.”
No, maybe you couldn’t. “And the photos?”
She rolled her eyes. “If you can apologize and buy me Vikings tickets, I guess the least I can do is delete them.” She said it reluctantly, but with enough sincerity to assure him she meant it. “Truth is, I don’t think I like the National Enquirer life any more than you do.”
Their parting handshake was stiff, but unless Matthew was imagining things, Delia squeezed his hand before letting go. And as she walked away, he tipped his head to the brilliant blue of the sky. Well, God, I now know the impossible can indeed be possible.
The honk of a car horn pulled Matthew from his joy. In the parking lot, Jase, Izzy, and Cee spilled from their car. Matthew jogged to meet them.
“You know, there was a day not so long ago when you said you’d never be able to bring your daughter to the zoo.”
Jase rolled his eyes. “We’re not breaking into any buildings today, little brother.”
Cee grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the entrance.
Miranda swept her hand through a tangle of leaves and twigs clogging the rain gutters of Open Arms. Her work gloves scraped along the bottom of the metal gutter running across the east side of the house. The day was unusually warm, sunlight bouncing off the white of the house and an autumn breeze sifting through her hair.
It felt odd to be winterizing the shelter on an afternoon as pleasant as this. But amid the emotional roller-coaster ride of the week since she’d won the Giving Heart Award, November had crept in. Besides, Miranda needed to be busy.
She pulled out a handful of matted leaves and deposited them in the bag hooked around the ladder. When she reached in again, her fingers felt soft cloth instead of snarled sticks and leaves. A smile played over her face as she pulled out a tennis ball.
One hand still gripping the ladder, she tossed the ball over her shoulder.
“Hey!”
She twisted on the ladder with a start. “Brad?” He held his arm in the air, ball in hand. “Did you catch that? Nice.”
“It was either that or get beaned in the face.”
She climbed down the ladder, turning to Brad with a teasing grin. “Here to see Liv-vy?” She drew out Liv’s name in a singsong voice.
Red crept over his cheeks. “That subject is off limits. And no, I’m here for you.”
“Unfair. My two best friends are dating, and you tell me I’m not allowed to talk to you about it? What fun is that?”
“I’m more interested in my dignity than your fun, Rand. But speaking of Liv, she tells me you’ve been working all day.”
“Yep,” she nodded, blowing a wisp of hair from her eyes. “So far I’ve put in the storm windows, wrapped the basement pipes, and caulked a few leaks. Open Arms is ready for winter.”
Brad perched one leg on a tree stump the Open Arms kids always designated as base during games of tag. “Tom said you spent all day yesterday doing odds and ends at the studio. And I have it on good authority you’re also helping re-roof a local church.”
She pulled off her work gloves and slapped them against her palm. “You’re giving me that disapproving-dad look. Like that time in our college speech class when I gave the speech on felling trees.”
“You brought a chain saw as your prop,” he said, voice deadpan. “Today you’d probably be arrested for that.” He cocked one eyebrow. “I’m just wondering if you’re avoiding something. Home, maybe? Yourself?”
“How about prying friends?”
He chuckled. “Don’t talk to me about prying, Miss ‘I want to know everything about you and Liv.’”
She pocketed her gloves and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Brad, I’m fine, really. Life is slowly getting back to normal. Mom left for Brazil yesterday, though not before making me promise to fly down for Christmas. Blaze is heading out this week. And I haven’t heard from Robbie since the day after the gala. I think I can consider him gone for good.”
“And Matthew?”
Her eyes lowered to the browning grass littered with leaves that had fallen since Matthew and Blaze helped her rake. Maybe the kids would want to help this time around. They could make a game of it. “I can probably say the same about Matthew,” she finally answered.
“That he’s gone for good? That would really surprise me.”
“Well.” She leaned against the side of the house. “Could we go back to talking about how I’m avoiding something?”
Brad let her off the hook with a sigh. “Actually, there’s something else I need to talk to you about.”
A thrumming heavy with apprehension began in her head and worked its way to her heart. He’d heard, hadn’t he? The fate of From the Ground Up had been decided. Her fate . . .
No. I’m done thinking that way. No more equating her life with a television show that may or may not see new life come January. “Should I sit down for this?”
He dropped his foot from the tree stump to the ground. “Yeah, pull up a stump.”
She sat, folded her hands around her knees, and waited. Brad combed his fingers through his hair, his shadow shielding Miranda from the glare of the sun.
“So, I got a call from Lincoln, who got a call from one of the network bigwigs.”
“Okay.”
He took a breath. “There’s not going to be a fourth season in January.” The air whooshed from her lungs, but he spoke again before she could react. “But they’re giving us a two-hour Sunday-night special in March. Apparently they were ready to drop us entirely, but Knox’s blog combined with, well, all the publicity—good and bad—from the gala must have convinced them there might still be something to be gained. So if ratings are good, they’ll consider a retooled, likely shortened, fourth season in the summer.”
A Sunday-night special. A potential summer run. Either a death knell on the way to cancellation or a lifeline. “So . . .”
“So it was basically a non-decision. Nothing promised, but nothing entirely nixed.” He paused, crouching to eye level with her, he studied her. “You all right?”
The thrumming faded as heat from the sun rushed over her. “Yeah. I really am.”
“Even though things are pretty much still up in the air?”
“Even though.”
Brad bit his lip for a moment, and then, “There’s more, actually. Hollie Morris’s show was picked up by a different network—which may have contributed to why we’ve still got a shot. But Lincoln said we have to view Hollie’s show as serious competition—pull out all the stops. He wants you to do all the media rounds, talk shows.” He took another breath. “And he wants you to give an explanation about what happened at the gala, an official statement about your marriage and—”
“There is no more marriage. I’m done with that.” No more façade.
“They might throw your contract in your face.”
“Think it could be a deal breaker?”
Brad nodded as he rose. “Possibly. After all, interest in your personal life has hit a whole new high.”
Of course it had. Between her Giving Heart win and her spectacle of an acceptance speech, she’d opened herself up to public scrutiny. And then there were the rumblings about Matthew’s sudden disappearance from cyberspace. Not that she’d stopped by his blog. But she had ears.
“I love Fro
m the Ground Up, but it’s not worth lying anymore.”
Silence stretched between them until Miranda reached her arms up, a signal for Brad to pull her to her feet. “Can I have a few days to think before we agree to anything? My contract is up for renewal this spring. Maybe I should do the special and then just . . . let it go.”
Brad opened his mouth, closed it. Then, “It’s your choice, Rand. We’ve all got your back, whatever you decide.”
She nodded and released a sigh, looked to the house, then back to Brad. “So, Liv made chocolate chip cookies this morning. She hates to bake almost more than I do.”
“I love chocolate chip cookies.”
“Exactly.”
He tipped his head. “Are you sure—”
“I’m fine. I promise. But you’re a good manager and friend to make sure. Besides, I’m about done with the gutters. I’m going to finish and head out.” She stepped into his hug. “And one more thing. If you want to win Livvy’s complete devotion, watch The Sound of Music with her sometime.”
He groaned. “That movie’s like eight hours long. I don’t think so.”
“Three hours. And you know you will.”
He moved toward the porch, paused, then spun. “Actually, there’s one more thing.”
“I’m not getting a dog.”
He grinned and reached into his pocket. He held a flash drive in front of her. “I’ve been debating whether to give this to you. I wasn’t sure . . .”
“What is it?”
“I think Matthew sent it to me so we could rest assured.”
“Matthew?”
“Just open the document named after you.”
America has spent three seasons getting to know Randi Woodruff, host of From the Ground Up, through the glare of television screens.
I’ve spent three weeks getting to know her in person. No screen of separation.
So I thought.
Miranda closed her eyes against the pain Matthew’s words conjured. She sat cross-legged on her bed, hunched over her laptop, the flash drive plugged into her USB port. A lit candle on her bedside stand scented her room with vanilla.
Why had Brad given this to her? Hadn’t he known Matthew’s article would slice into her determination to put the past month behind her?
Forget the past month. How about the past three years?
Yes, that’s what she meant to do. Start over, with honesty as her focus. Oh, how good it felt to face the future in the arms of truth.
Which is why Miranda was tempted to clamp the laptop closed. Why relive the angst?
And yet, lingering questions jabbed at her. Why hadn’t Matthew published the article? Certainly she would have heard about it if he had. Was he saving it for future use? And perhaps the biggest question: Why send it to Brad?
Curiosity sent her eyes back to the screen. And despite her better logic, she continued reading. She read as Matthew revealed the truth about her marriage, as he delved into the truth about why she left Brazil—both times—and how she fell into her role on From the Ground Up.
How odd to read a story about herself containing more fact than she’d ever revealed in three years of public life. And by a man who’d known her only weeks.
She unfolded her legs, let one dangle over the side of the bed as she read. The candle crackled, its sweet aroma mirroring the feelings wiggling their way through her. Nonsensical feelings. Because she should have been infuriated at the way Matthew spilled her secrets in Times New Roman font. She should have felt betrayed.
But for once, rejection didn’t walk its usual path through her emotions. Instead, sour though the truth may be, Matthew’s honest portrayal honeyed into her heart. He wrote beautifully, insightfully. He’d seen her. All of her. Enough to capture her in vivid words.
Her gaze landed on his closing paragraphs.
If Randi Woodruff is so afraid of showing the viewing public the real woman beneath her fame, I have to ask myself, what else is she afraid of?
Is it fear that holds her back from finishing her own home?
Is it fear that sends her to church only when she’s certain she’ll find the sanctuary empty?
And is it fear that traps her in the comfort of a fake relationship rather than braving the possibility of true love?
Yes. First she breathed the word, then spoke it out loud. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Miranda’s gaze swung to the doorway of her bedroom. Blaze. He wore his standard faded jeans and zippered hoodie. The cast covering his left arm was covered in signatures, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
“It’s that time already?”
“’Fraid so, kiddo. Our wedded bliss is about to meet its demise.” He exaggerated a sad face. “I know you’ll miss me. If you like, I can snip a lock of hair for you to remember me by.”
She tossed a throw pillow at him. “Save your hair. But . . . I will miss you.” Yes, she could admit it.
He dropped his bag in the doorway and flopped onto her bed. “Me or my cooking?”
“Both.”
“Well, so you know, I packed your freezer with food. You’re set for two weeks, at least.”
Sunlight poured in from the window, highlighting the tan of his skin, the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. “Why’d you do it, Blaze?”
He cocked his head. “Do what?”
“All this. Spend a month living here, playing house, keeping secrets you had no obligation to keep?”
“You already asked me that, remember? That night at the restaurant.”
“Yeah, but instead of answering, you went and set your arm on fire.”
His chuckles bounced the mattress until finally he sighed and leveled her with sincerity. “I guess it was because I know what it’s like to feel trapped by a secret.”
“And yet you helped me keep mine.”
He shrugged, his back against her bedroom wall. “When a person goes to such crazy lengths to keep a secret, they can’t be far away from having the whole thing blow up. Maybe I just wanted to be around for the explosion.” His grin drew her laughter, but gradually quiet settled over the space. “Thing is, now that you’ve gone and faced your stuff, I’m pretty sure I can’t get out of facing mine any longer.”
“You’re going home? Michigan, right?” Why hadn’t she thought to ask him more about his past? His family?
He nodded with a long sigh. “Yup. I can already hear the hometown gossip chain: Prodigal son returns after disgracing himself in a fake marriage.”
Miranda hung her head. “Sorry.”
“Hey, you don’t need to apologize. I jumped at the chance. Remember? Besides, anything they’re saying about me now can’t compare to . . .” His voice trailed off.
She felt the urge to pry, but he pointed to her laptop before she could. “What are you working on?”
“Way to change the subject. You get to know my secrets, but I don’t get to know yours?”
“Not yet. But I’ll stay in touch. Deal?”
“Deal. And I wasn’t working. Actually, I was reading Matthew’s article.”
Blaze’s eyebrows popped up. “No way. Dude, I thought he hadn’t published anything since the gala.”
“He hasn’t. I, uh, don’t think he’s going to.”
“May I?” He reached for the laptop. Minutes later, he whistled. “Wow.”
“I know. He’s a good writer.”
Blaze’s eyes danced over his crooked grin. “Not what I was wowing, Rand.”
She rose from the bed. “C’mon. Let’s get you to the airport.”
“Now who’s changing the subject?” Blaze closed the laptop. “He pegged you, honey.”
She stilled. “I know.”
“And that is one doozy of an article.”
She knew that, too.
“Now that you’ve read it, what’re you going to do?”
That, she didn’t know. Except . . .
An idea took root. “Blaze, what would it mean for you if this article
was published? I know what it’d mean for me, but—”
He stood. “Hey, don’t worry about me. If the worst people ever say about me is I spent a month pretending to be Randi Woodruff’s husband, I think I’ll be all right.”
She bit her lip. There was the crew to consider. The offer from the network. Even the people at the Giving Heart Foundation. How would they look if she did what she was considering?
But maybe the better question to ask was, what might the future look like if she did?
Chapter 22
“Can’t believe it, Matthew. You actually accepted it.” Jase whistled. “She’s a beauty.”
A cold wind hit Matthew’s face as he lifted the helmet from his head and propped it under his arm. The motorcycle still shined—clean leather, gleaming chrome. It smelled of polish and memories.
“Not gonna lie, it felt like a kick in the gut to call Dad and tell him I’d changed my mind.”
Jase bent to run a hand along the side fairing. When he straightened, he turned a quizzical eye on Matthew. “What made you do it? And more importantly, can I take it for a spin?”
“’Course you can.” Matthew thrust the helmet toward Jase. “But you have to be careful. I’m not keeping it. Only reason I accepted it is so I could sell it.”
Jase scrunched his brow. “Really? Is that fair to Dad?”
“He knows my plan, didn’t argue. I think maybe he sees it as his way of helping, too.”
“Helping . . . ?” Jase shook his head as Matthew’s meaning dawned on him. “Uh-uh. No way.”
“Yes way. This bike is worth over ten thousand dollars. The insurance company is going to make you pay, what, thirty thousand before they’ll cover the rest of Cee’s surgery? This gets us a third of the way there.”
“You’re amazing for offering, bro, but I don’t think I can accept it.”
“Fine, then I’ll give it to Cee. She’s not too proud to take it.”
Overhead clouds paled the sky. Bare trees leaned in the wind. Matthew tapped the seat of the bike. “So, you want to take a ride before I head over to the Ducati dealer?”
