Dooley’s enthusiasm was enough to grind up the last of Matthew’s energy. Weariness after his night of flights glazed over him. “Genius?” Try idiot. Phone to his ear, Matthew plodded from his bedroom and into his townhouse living room. Beige walls matched his spirits.
“You went dark, man, just when everyone started talking about you.”
Matthew dropped onto his aging couch, Miranda’s voice suddenly spinning through his mind. “A high-quality sofa is always heavier because of its sturdy frame, which is constructed of kiln-dried hardwood free from knots.”
Free from knots.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t get today’s blog post done. I just couldn’t decide what to—”
Dooley cut him off. “Don’t you get it? I’m not calling because I’m annoyed. Yes, I had a moment of worry when I realized you hadn’t posted anything today. But now, with all the rumors . . .”
Worry trickled in. Had Delia released those photos after all? Matthew fought the sluggish fog confusing his thoughts, forced his eyes open. His gaze landed on the overgrown spider plant by his patio doors. Limp leaves hung from a yellow vine. He couldn’t even keep a plant alive. “What rumors?”
“About you and Randi Woodruff.”
“Delia—”
“No, not her. First, it was the comments section on your blog. Did you seriously never read those? Commenters have been speculating that our blogger had a little crush on his subject for weeks now. But the biggie is the fact that at the gala last night Randi Woodruff all but admitted she’s in love with someone who isn’t her husband.”
Matthew swallowed the reply that jumped up his throat. Miranda hadn’t confessed any such thing. Unless . . . had she said more after he’d walked out?
“Come on, you were there. Two guys stood, but she didn’t acknowledge either one. Soo . . .”
Matthew finally caught on. “She wasn’t talking about me, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I’m not stupid. I’ve read all your blogs. I’ve listened to you justify her obvious husband-parading at every turn. You went campaign-crazy trying to help save her show.” Dooley paused. “And then there are the photos you begged our lawyer to stop. You got her to fall for you, my friend. I knew you were a risk-taker sort of journalist, but I had no idea you’d go this far.”
He was going to throw up. “I did not do this on purpose. There’s nothing genius about it.”
Dooley filled his pause with a slow whistle. “You mean you actually fell for her? A married woman?”
“Let it go, Dooley.” He stood and paced the room, fighting the image in his head of Miranda in Robbie’s arms. “I can guarantee you she wasn’t talking about me up on that stage last night.”
Dooley gave an irritated grunt. “Then why didn’t you post your final blog this morning? I thought you were playing coy with the press.”
“I wasn’t playing anything.” Tired frustration finally boiled over in his voice. “I’m done. That’s all.”
“You owe me a blog post, Knox. And a cover story.”
“Do we have to talk about this now? I’ve had three hours of sleep.” Matthew moved toward his bedroom once more, plodding past the tuxedo he’d discarded in the wee hours of the morning. His foot caught on the jacket, and when he jerked it loose, something plastic slipped from the pocket.
“You’re not doing this to me again. First Margaret McKee, now Randi Woodruff. You’re imploding, Knox.”
Matthew knelt and picked up the flash drive. He’d had the thing in his pocket at the gala. It contained the story he’d written yesterday afternoon about Miranda, a regular tell-all. After he’d seen Miranda and Robbie together in her kitchen, he’d let his annoyance write the article, and for a few heated hours, he’d had every intention of sending it to Dooley.
Now?
Now exhaustion muddied his determination. And the memory of Miranda up on that stage, the relief and pleasure and hope dancing over her face, tore into his anger.
“If it’s conflict of interest you’re worried about—” Dooley began.
“It’s not.” He held the flash drive in front of his face. Send it and sear Miranda’s reputation to ashes? Toss it and forget his instant career comeback? Matthew lowered into his bed, let his head fall against a pillow, and lifted his legs onto the mattress. “Can we talk about this later?”
“Oh, we’ll talk. And you’ll deliver. I invested in you. I gave you an instant career boost. You’re not going to screw this up.”
Screw-up. He’d never escape it, the label, the identity. Matthew buried his head under his pillow. All he wanted was sleep.
And to forget the past month.
Not true, and you know it.
Matthew ended the call, Dooley’s voice still barking, and tossed his phone across the bed. He’d deal with it all later.
But just as his eyes drifted closed, a rap on his front door yanked him from the start of what would’ve surely been a restless sleep. If he’d even been able to turn off his sparring thoughts. He forced his feet to the floor, knowing as he covered the distance from his bed to the door who he’d find on the other side.
“It’s about time,” Cee spoke and signed at the same time as he pulled the door open. Her wide blue eyes glowed in the light of his living room, a stream of the sun’s rays pouring in behind her.
He gave her a hug, her head tipped back so she could see his moving lips. “Don’t tell me you learned to drive while I was gone. How’d you get here?”
“Surprise!” Izzy tracked through his front door, a steaming dish in her hands. And Jase behind her, his arms filled with more dishes. He should’ve known when he texted Jase to let him know he was home that they’d show up.
“What is going on?” Did he appear as bedraggled as he felt? He looked down at his bare feet, wrinkled jeans.
“We came straight from church to bring you Sunday dinner.” Izzy set the dish on his counter and turned.
Jase emptied his load and gave Matthew a one-armed hug. “Good to have you back for more than a day this time. Cee’s been listless without her uncle-hero.”
Hero, huh. “And I missed all of you. Especially you.” He ruffled Cee’s hair, then raked his hand through his own. “I reek of airplane. Do I have time to grab a shower before dinner?”
“Yep.” Izzy held up a Pillsbury tube. “I still have to bake the rolls.”
“Hey, Cee,” he spoke and signed simultaneously, “there’s a gift for you in my computer bag.”
Something Miranda had carved—a figurine of a dog. Cee had been begging for a real dog for years. He heard her “Ooh” as he rounded the corner to the bathroom.
“Hey, Matt,” Jase said, following him down the hall.
“I know, the dog was a bad choice. Only gives her more ammo for begging.”
A chuckle rolled from Jase’s lips. “It’s not that. Besides, she’s stopped begging ever since we told her she’s going to have a baby sister or brother.” Jase gripped the doorframe to the bathroom as Matthew rummaged for a towel. “You, uh . . . you okay?”
Matthew caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror over the sink as he turned—shadowed cheeks, tired eyes. No wonder she didn’t pick you. “Fine. Why? You’ve seen me look worse than this.”
“Nothing to do with your looks. Your walk—it’s like a man defeated.”
Matthew leaned over the sink. “I messed everything up. Like alw—”
“Don’t say it.” Jase stepped into the bathroom, his reflection joining Matthew’s. “Little brother, you have got to get over thinking you’re a failure.”
“Jase, I need a shower, not a pep talk.”
Jase shook his head, gaze stern. “What you need is to try to see yourself the way the rest of us do. You are Superman to Cee—supportive, entertaining, always there for her. And Izzy—you’ve become the sibling she never had. I’ll never forget that weekend I was traveling when our basement flooded and you came to Izzy’s rescue. Man, t
here is no one I’d trust my family with more.”
Matthew met Jase’s eyes in the mirror. “But—”
“No buts. And me. When I brought Izzy and Celine home, you were the one who listened when I had trouble adjusting to such a huge life change. You’re the one who learned ASL with me, who accepted my new family as your own. And don’t think I don’t know you encouraged Randi Woodruff to buy that print last week.”
At Randi’s name, Matthew hung his head.
“And speaking of her,” Jase continued his speech. “You were her friend when she needed one. She told Izzy as much. You kept her secrets.”
Except not entirely. Jase didn’t know about that flash drive sitting on his bedside table with the article Dooley expected.
“Underneath your dogged reporter exterior, brother, you’ve got a noble heart and a sensitive spirit. If you won’t take my word for it, take Izzy’s.” Jase’s expression turned sheepish. “I told her what you told me last week, all about Randi Woodruff’s fake marriage. She ah-ha’d like it wasn’t even much of a surprise. She’s the one who told me I had to talk some sense into you today.”
Matthew’s first smile since leaving North Carolina found his lips. “She is a good judge of character. She married you.” And as if on wheels, the weight of emotions so heavy they physically hurt began a slow roll. “I wish I knew what to do next.”
Jase gave him a hearty pat on the back. “I’ve got an idea. Let God back in. And trust that whatever He’s got in store for you next, you’re up to it.”
Minutes turned into miles until Miranda found herself standing in front of the church. Blaze’s words had followed her all the way to the church, the humming of the wind their soundtrack.
Accusations, they’d seemed. But now?
As she heaved open the heavy wood door, felt the rush of quiet pull her in, the truth hushed over her. Blaze is right. She’d lost the core of her identity under layer after layer of self-donned façades.
Randi the tomboy.
Randi the happily married.
Randi the celebrity.
Randi the . . . rejected.
She lowered into her pew, halfway down the aisle. What happened to Miranda? And should she even be here, in a house of worship, when the house of her heart was in such disarray? God, how do I clean up the mess?
So many times she’d perched in this same pew, in this little church tucked into its mountainous nook, always hungry for the touch of the God her parents served but mindful of the wall her sins built.
Suddenly the sound of movement, shuffling feet, jutted into her solitude. Someone slid into the pew beside Miranda, the bench creaking from the weight.
A whisper. “We had a feeling we’d find you here.”
Mom? “How’d you know?”
“He may not be your husband, but he knows you. Look.” She pointed to where Blaze moved down the side aisle toward their row.
Miranda’s brow furrowed.
And then, more footsteps. Joni Watters settled into the pew in front of Miranda. Others, folks Miranda had never met, dotted the sanctuary. And was that Jimmy and Audrey walking down the aisle now?
Miranda leaned close to her mother. “I’m confused. What’s going on?”
“Looks like church to me.”
“Their services are in the morning. That’s why I come in the afternoon.”
“Hush,” her mom said, just as Blaze took his seat on Miranda’s right.
“We should leave. I don’t fit here. If they all knew—”
“We know more than you think, Miranda,” Joni said over her shoulder as a man, probably her husband, took his place behind the pulpit. “We’ve got TVs. We read newspapers. Believe it or not, some of us are even so technologically inclined as to read blogs. Now pipe down and listen. Whatever it is that’s kept you from joining the services all these years, we can handle. Talking in church . . . not so much.”
Joni straightened, and Miranda leaned back against her seat. Was this a joke or something?
“Who am I?” Pastor Watters said from the pulpit. “It’s the question many of us start asking as adolescents. And where we find the answer makes all the difference. Today I’m going to tell you where to find that answer. It starts right there.”
He pointed to the stained-glass face of Jesus, its reflection casting a rainbow of color over the front of the church. Miranda’s mom clasped her hand.
Miranda glanced at Blaze and met his wink.
This wasn’t a joke at all, was it? They were doing church. For her.
“Some of you knew Old Hez, a long-time member of this congregation. And you may know he crafted this pulpit.” The pastor tapped the side of the wood structure. “What you may not know is that I spent hours helping Hezekiah strip the ugly pulpit we used to have to make this one. His arthritis was bad, but he was determined.
“Originally this thing was so overly stained it almost glowed in the dark.” The pastor stepped from behind the pulpit as his audience laughed. He leaned against its side. “You could hardly tell what kind of wood it was under the stain.”
Miranda leaned forward, gaze tracing every detail of the pulpit now. They would’ve used a coat of stripper first to soften the old stain. Then probably a stiff bristle brush or scraper. Finally, a lacquer thinner . . .
“When we wiped off the last of the stain, I wasn’t sure what to think,” Pastor Watters said. “Suddenly I could see nooks and grooves I hadn’t noticed before, some from our own scraping, I’m sure. But Old Hez, he saw something else entirely.”
The pastor paused, and Miranda felt her breath catch.
“He said, ‘Pastor, you were ready to get rid of this old pulpit because all you saw was that ugly stain. But all along, underneath was a sturdy, strong wood. The kind of wood that’s made to last. Just took a little stripping away for you to see it.’”
The pastor stepped down from the stage. “Here’s the thing, friends: Hez saw the beauty all along, even when the curve of the wood’s grain was hidden behind a stain.”
All right, God. I’m listening.
“And it makes me think, what does God see in us that we don’t? That matters. Because when all the stuff we’re hiding behind is stripped away, it’s what He sees that’s left. So what does He see?”
His creation. Forgiven. Whole. Enough.
Miranda couldn’t hold in the tears gathering in her eyes. Didn’t even try.
Chapter 21
He was actually doing this. Willingly. Waiting for Delia Jones.
Matthew sat on a cold cement bench outside the Minnesota Zoo, the collar of his jacket flipped up to his chin. Was it really just over a month ago he’d attended the fund-raising gig here? That fiasco seemed forever ago.
Seemed like yesterday.
The snap of heels against cement drew his attention. She stood in front of him wearing a trench coat cinched at her waist and hair slicked into a severe ponytail, sharpening her already high cheekbones. “Hi, Delia.”
“You came. I’m impressed.”
He smiled despite her sarcasm and scooted to make room on the bench. After a guarded moment, she lowered beside him.
“If this is about the article with my dad, I did call him the other day. It’s too late to do his campaign any good, but he’s still interested.” Gordon Knox had lost the election this past Tuesday, but Matthew had a feeling the man already had his eye on the future.
It hadn’t been all that pleasant of a phone call—certainly not easy, but necessary.
“That’s not why I asked to meet. I’m going to give it to you straight, Knox.” She folded one leg over the other. “I couldn’t just let the Randi Woodruff story go.”
Matthew swallowed a gulp. How long until the day when every mention of Miranda’s name ceased to pinch a nerve? “Please don’t tell me you’re releasing those photos.”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. You know what happened at the gala with the two guys standing, right? I recognized the husband. The other, I didn’t. So I
did a little checking. Name’s Roberto Pontero. He’s—”
“Miranda’s former fiancé. I know.”
Delia clucked her tongue. “You see the potential for a story, yeah? Who is this guy? Why was he at the gala? He must be hiding out, because no one has the story. So, I figured I’ll trade my photos for the full scoop. Only problem is, I can’t get past Woodruff’s manager. He insists she’s not doing any interviews and won’t even hear me out.”
The bench rasped as Matthew shifted. “And you think I can get to her.”
She shrugged. “You looked awfully cozy that night at that dance hall.”
Matthew allowed room for silence to descend. For days, he’d ignored Dooley’s calls, but here it was again—the opportunity laid out in plain terms. Expose Miranda. Hoist his own career.
Or don’t.
It would’ve made sense to publish the story. If nothing else, it might stop the endless speculation about Miranda’s love life ever since the gala.
But he’d already made the decision. Made it the day he slipped his flash drive into an envelope and dropped it in the mailbox.
“Delia.” His jaw twitched as he spoke her name. “I didn’t come here so we could talk work. I came to say I’m sorry.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “You won’t do the article with me.”
“No, I mean, I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for taking you on that one date and then pretending like it never happened. I’m sorry for dragging you into the story about my father. I’m sorry for not working harder to make sure you came out of that mess unscathed.”
With each sentence, she fidgeted more, twisting her hands in her lap, disbelief mixing with confusion in her green eyes. “What’s your angle?”
“No angle. Just an apology. I know it’s late, and maybe it doesn’t mean anything to you. But I needed to say it.” Because maybe he couldn’t change the wrong in his past, but he could do the right thing now. “I truly am sorry. I know it doesn’t make up for anything, but uh, when you called, I had a random idea. That is, I got you something.”
He held out the small gift bag.
She couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d bent down on one knee to propose. She accepted the gift, suspicion still lacing her movement. But her fingers crinkled through the tissue paper and pulled up the tickets. She gave him a questioning look.