Made to Last

by Melissa Tagg

  “First things first.” Jase threw an arm around Matthew, slapping his back in a brotherly hug. “You know I had to at least try to argue.”

  “Of course.”

  The rap of a screen door smacking shut in the wind sounded from the house. Matthew turned. “You are not letting my husband ride that bike!” Izzy called from the doorway.

  But when Matthew glanced at Jase, his brother had already pulled the helmet on. “Sorry, honey, can’t hear you,” his muffled voice called back. He slung one leg over the bike, then leaned in. “Hey, try to talk Izzy down before I get back, all right? She’s giving me a death glare from the porch.”

  Matthew chuckled as Jase motored off, then headed for the house. “Don’t worry, Iz, he’s going like forty-five miles an hour.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Yeah, but you’re putting ideas in his head.” She sighed. “Come on in. I made brownies. You can tell me how the job search is going, what your plans are.”

  “I don’t have much of a plan yet.” He stepped into the house, but before the door closed behind him, the sound of another engine drew a backward glance.

  “Who’s that?” Izzy said, looking past Matthew. “I don’t recognize the car.”

  Red convertible. Who . . . ? Matthew inhaled sharply as he recognized the figure behind the steering wheel. “Blaze.”

  “What?”

  “No, who.”

  Blake Hunziker stepped out of the car, shaggy hair sticking out from under his stocking cap. Blaze lifted one palm as he made for the house, but any friendliness was hidden beneath pressed lips and narrowed eyes.

  “Oh my,” Izzy said from behind. “I recognize him from the photos on your blog. That’s Randi Woodruff’s husband . . . pretend husband.”

  Matthew met Blaze at the top of the porch steps. “Hey, Hunziker. What are you doing here?”

  Blaze jabbed a finger at his own chest. “I’ll ask the questions, dude.”

  “Ooo-kay.” Blaze angry? This was a first. And it could get . . . interesting.

  “And I’ll start with this: What is your problem?”

  “Excuse me?”

  A hand, Izzy’s, shot out from behind Matthew. “Hi, I’m Isabelle, Matthew’s sister-in-law.”

  Blaze shook her hand, but his eyes never strayed from Matthew’s face. Matthew slid Izzy a glance. She gave a befuddled shrug. “Uh. Obviously you two need to talk, sooo . . .” She let the door close behind her, but then popped her head back out. “Come in for brownies whenever you work out whatever it is you need to work out.”

  When the door creaked closed, Matthew faced Blaze again. “Shall we try again? What brings you to Minnesota? Did you drive all the way here?”

  “Yes, because I couldn’t even make it to my flight from North Carolina—your media kin mobbed me. Now tell me, have you been living under a rock or are you just plain stupid? Man, she poured out her heart for you!”

  “Miranda?”

  “Of course Miranda. And you guys thought I was the dense one. Have you looked at your blog?”

  “Why would I? I haven’t posted anything new.”

  Blaze shook his head. “That explains it, I guess. Because if you’d read it and not done anything—”

  “Read what?” Matthew spurted, exasperation pummeling his words.

  “She let them publish it, man. Your article about her. Not just let them, she asked them to. They posted it on the blog like a week back, along with an introduction by Rand herself. I called her from the road a couple days ago, and when she told me she hadn’t heard from you, I decided to come up here and knock some sense into you.”

  Matthew couldn’t keep up. He was still back on Blaze’s first headline: Today had published his article? Because . . .

  Miranda asked them to. Why would she do it? He’d written it in a weary flurry of irritation and disappointment, outed every secret she worked so hard to protect.

  “Blaze, I . . .”

  Blaze jerked a thumb behind him. “Get in the car.”

  “What?”

  “I’m taking you to the airport, and you’re going to man up and tell that woman—”

  Matthew broke into laughter. Unadulterated, bordering on giddy. Miranda Woodruff, you are something else. And Blaze . . . “Whoa, buddy, ease up. Give me a chance to digest this. I need to read that article.”

  “And then you’ll do something? You swear? I didn’t drive all this way for nothing?”

  “Wait a second . . . You drove all this way when you could have just called?”

  Blaze rubbed his face. “Yah, well, maybe I was looking for an excuse to put off getting home . . . and I’ve never been to Minnesota—another checkmark on my bucket list.”

  They stood awkwardly for a moment, and then Blaze repeated, “So, promise me you’ll do something about Randi?”

  The breeze set Izzy’s wind chimes jingling. From down the street, Matthew heard the rumble of the motorcycle. “Yes. I’ll do something.”

  Blaze backed up. “All right, then. Well, I’ll be seeing ya.”

  “Wait a sec, you come all this way, find me at my brother’s house, and . . . Wait a minute, how did you find me here?”

  Blaze hopped down the porch steps. “You can find anything on the Internet.”

  “But how did you know . . . ? Oh, never mind. Seriously, though, you drive this far out of your way and talk to me for five minutes, and now you’re just going to take off?”

  “Well, originally I planned to throw a punch, so consider yourself lucky. Hey, I got places to be, man. So, yeah, I’m taking off.”

  Matthew followed him to his car. “Where to?”

  Blaze pulled his car door open. “Home. I’ve got my own manning up to do.”

  There was mystery there. But it wasn’t enough to pull Matthew’s focus. He had an online article to read. A motorcycle to sell. A decision to make.

  A plane ticket to buy?

  “Oh, one more thing.” Blaze turned back to Matthew, leaving his door ajar. “Almost forgot.” He bounded back to the porch and held out an envelope. “For you.”

  “What’s this?”

  “You talked all the time about your niece. Rand told me about the surgery she needs.” He shrugged. “And I don’t feel right about keeping the money I got paid to play Randi’s housemate. Sooo . . .”

  “Blaze—”

  “I could still throw that punch, man, so don’t argue.”

  Matthew stared at the envelope. So much emotion . . . all of it good. He clapped one hand on Blaze’s shoulder and pulled him into a hug. “You’re a good man, Blaze.”

  Blaze leaned back, smirked. “I know.” He was halfway back to his car before he turned one last time. “Make sure to tell Rand her fake guy gives her real one his blessing.”

  A November chill whipped through Miranda’s hair as she balanced on a beam twelve feet in the air. One hand gripped an overhead slanted plank of her would-be ceiling, the other rested on her waist. In the distance, the Smokies rose and fell in rolls of brown and green, a ready bed for the eventual white of winter. Soon.

  Which was why she should get to work instead of perching like an eagle atop what would’ve been the roof of the unfinished half of her house. She took a breath—inhaling pine and cold, exhaling pure pleasure. A bird screeched as it cascaded by, and Miranda could almost taste its freedom. One more deep breath . . . and then she tapped the plank above and lowered to her knees, then her backside, legs dangling over the side of the beam.

  “You must have really liked playing on monkey bars when you were a kid.”

  Miranda’s gaze dove down at the sound of the voice, hand gripping her wooden seat. Oh. Ohhh. “W-what are you . . .”

  “Doing here?” Matthew Knox tipped his head all the way back to look at her. “Ah, well, I came to talk. Was sort of hoping that could happen on the ground, though.”

  She scooted to where she’d propped a ladder against the finished wall. Seconds later, her feet touched the ground. It shouldn’t be so hard t
o look at him, but it took every speck of resolve in her to meet Matthew’s hazel eyes. They danced with flecks of color, like always. And like always, his grin sent butterflies ramming into the sides of her stomach. Her heart did the flip-flopping thing, too. As for the air in her lungs . . .

  Wow, love did violent things to one’s internal organs.

  Wait, love? After only a month?

  He took a step closer.

  Oh yeah.

  “Hi,” he finally said.

  “Hi.” A whisper. And then, “Hi. Um, so, really, what are you doing here?”

  He looked good. Hair trimmed, perfect five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin, as usual, and a dark fleece zip-up. Oh great, and she was wearing an old flannel shirt and her holey-est jeans. Lovely.

  “Like I said, I hoped we could talk.”

  “All right.” His eyes scanned their surroundings. Was he looking for Blaze? Robbie? “I’ve got my place back to myself,” she offered.

  His gaze returned to her. “How’s it feel?”

  “Strangely quiet.”

  He moved away, took a few steps around the open-air room, like a surveyor assessing the property. “Decided to get to work on the master suite?”

  She stuffed her hands in her back pockets. “Yes and no. I’m actually tearing it out.”

  That froze him in place. “Say again?”

  She shrugged, running a hand along a stud she’d pull down before the day was over. “I realized I like the house just the way it is. It really doesn’t need . . . more. And if I do ever decide to add on, I think I’d like to start fresh, with a new floor plan.”

  His eyes lit up as if she’d handed him a Pulitzer. “But what will you do about the foundation? It’s cement.”

  “You ever used a jackhammer, Knox?” She flashed a sly grin.

  “You and your power tools.”

  Silence draped over them like a canopy. At once, both weighty and light. She’d told herself she wouldn’t see Matthew again. That it was best that way. That she’d done what she could to set things right, and that was enough.

  Yet the curiosity had refused to stay buried. Did he know she’d called the magazine? Had he read the blog? She gulped. The whole blog?

  “I can’t stand it anymore. Please tell me what you’re doing here.” The words burst from her, impatient puffs of white air erupting from her lips.

  Another step closer, his voice low and husky. “It’s come to my attention, Ms. Woodruff, that you’re not actually married. See, I read this blog . . .”

  Her heart lurched.

  “Actually, I printed it out.” He pulled a folded paper from his back pocket and cleared his throat. “This part in italics is a note from Randi Woodruff herself. And I quote . . .”

  But he didn’t have to read it out loud for her to know what it said. She’d labored over those few short sentences for hours, truth and emotion spilled like twin waterfalls, before sending the article to Greg Dooley.

  A girl can learn a lot from a reporter like Matthew Knox: how to ask all the right questions, for instance. How to be a true friend. Even, yes, how to dance. But most of all, she can learn that truth paves the way for love.

  “‘And it’s because I love you,’” Matthew finished, “‘my viewers, as well as my crew, my show, and quite possibly a certain reporter, that I’ve asked Today to publish this final article. It’s written by Matthew Knox. And it’s the truth.’”

  Did he see the unstoppable blush taking over her face when his eyes connected with hers? Did he know she’d meant every single word? Should she tell him Lincoln Nash had gone ballistic? That suddenly it looked as if the network was ready to release her from her contract, the chances of a fourth season less likely than ever?

  And that she was honestly okay with it?

  “You got one thing wrong, Miranda.”

  She bit her lip. Hadn’t expected that.

  “You’re not just a girl. Nor are you just a tomboy or a television star or a promising dance student—”

  “Only promising?”

  He touched his finger to her lips. “We’ll get back to that. You, Miranda Woodruff, are a beautiful woman. And one I’d very much like to kiss right now.”

  And then he did. And it was . . . “Perfect,” she murmured.

  He tipped his head back. “Perfect, huh? Good to know. ’Cause I did come a long way.”

  “Oh, don’t look so smug.” She entwined her arms around his waist. “So, other than reading my own words to me and, ahem, kissing me, why else are you here? What next?”

  Matthew took her hand and moved beside her. They stood in front of her home, sunbeams showering through the frame of her addition, washing the foundation, the yard, Miranda and Matthew, in glorious light.

  “Well,” he said, gaze hope-filled and heart melting, “I was thinking you could teach me about building a house. Or maybe in this case, tearing one down.”

  Her laughter swooped over the yard, through the trees, into the mountains. She squeezed Matthew’s hand, leaned into his shoulder. “Pretty sure I can do that.”

  Acknowledgments

  I so desperately want to write something witty and wonderful here. After all, I’ve spent years dreaming of writing this Acknowledgments page. But all I seem to be capable of are tears and gushing. At least I’m the only one who has to put up with the tears as I write this. As for the gushing, well, my apologies, but here goes. . . .

  Love and hugs and all kinds of thanks to:

  Mom and Dad—I am so over-the-top blessed to be your daughter. Thank you for always encouraging me, always loving me, always praying for me. I love you so much.

  My too-cool siblings, Amy, Nathanael, and Nicole (plus two fun brothers-in-law, Chip and Caleb)—You guys make life fun. And I have a feeling antics from our childhood will make it into many a future story. Love ya.

  Grandma and Grandpa—Thank you for encouraging me in so many ways, from reading those hilarious pioneer/orphan stories I wrote as a kid to buying and loaning me books to sending letters to praying for me to . . . the list could go on forever. I love you lots.

  Susan May Warren—I don’t have words to express how thankful I am for your teaching, support, inspiration, and friendship. I will never stop thanking God for getting me to that first MBT retreat. Life. Changing. You’ve taught me not just how to craft a good story, but how to live a good story—in a gracious, God-honoring, and fun-loving way—as I walk the writing journey.

  Rachel Hauck—One word: JOY! Thanks for showing me oh-so-often what that looks like. And for teaching that symbolism class at the 2010 ACFW Conference that changed my writing.

  The My Book Therapy team—Lisa Jordan, Beth Vogt, Alena Tauriainen, Reba Hoffman, Edie Melson, Michelle Lim, Susie, and Rachel. How I admire and love each of you! I’ll never forget you praying for me at our South Carolina retreat right after I hit Send.

  Lindsay Harrel—Oh, my critique partner and kindred spirit, you’ve become one of the greatest blessings of this writing journey. Thank you for your constant encouragement and prayers for both my writing and, well, pretty much everything!

  My agent, Amanda Luedeke—You are the rock star of agents and a ton of fun. Thank you for your sound advice, savvy career guidance, and friendship. And for not thinking I was crazy for talking about Dr. Quinn the first time we chatted.

  My editor, Raela Schoenherr—I kind of want to call you my fairy godmother, except you’re too young for that, and I’ve never seen you with a wand! Thank you for taking a chance on a newbie and her story. I’m so, so grateful. It’s a blast working with you.

  The Bethany House Team—Getting to be a part of your “family” is such a dream-come-true. Karen Schurrer, your editing expertise is beyond awesome, and I’m so thankful. To Paul and Dan, thank you for making my very first cover so pretty. To everyone on the sales and marketing teams, I want to give you a great big hug.

  The MBT Ponderers—Oh, ladies, I love our community of writers. Thank you for the never-ending stream o
f inspiration and all the prayers.

  And thank you to so many people who have prayed for and encouraged me along the writing journey: like my wonderfully fun and food-loving extended family; the best girlfriends a girl could ask for—Laura, Mel, Maggie, and Ruby; lovely online friends (special shout-out to Gabrielle Meyer!); the sweet ladies of the Central Iowa Christian Writers Group; my local cohorts in fiction—Elizabeth, Heidi, and Sue; Mike and Barb Redig, aka the most amazing youth leaders ever; my oh-so-fun co-workers previously at the Sioux Center News and now at Hope Ministries; and my mom’s many prayer-warrior friends, including Kim Lee and Deb Thompson, who have sent me such sweet notes of encouragement through the years.

  Also, thanks a bunch to that one guy at the hardware store (research!) who didn’t laugh at me when I told him I was lost.

  Lastly and most importantly, to the ultimate Storyteller. My identity is found in you, Lord. Thank you for reminding me of that over . . . and over . . . and over as you helped me with this book.

  Discussion Questions

  Miranda Woodruff defines herself by her career success. When Matthew Knox looks at himself, all he sees are his past mistakes. Do you identify with either character? Do you find it easy to define yourself by your successes or failures? What do both Miranda and Matthew learn about who they are?

  Miranda is a celebrity who has attempted to closely guard her private life . . . until she’s in danger of losing her show. Now her personal life is on display for all to see. Discuss our culture’s fascination with celebrities. Why do you think we’re so interested in their lives?

  When Matthew first agrees to write the serial blog about Miranda, he assumes she’s just another celebrity. But the more he gets to know her, the more he sees the woman behind the fame—her hurts, her heart, her compassion. Has your first impression of someone ever been wrong? What changed once you got to know the heart of the person?

  Miranda finds herself opening up to Matthew like she’s never opened up to others. They find an unexpected friendship in shared vulnerability. Is there a friend in your life who draws you out in ways others don’t? Describe your friendship.