Mixed Signals Read online

  “Liz Curtis Higgs … has succeeded magnificently with her first fictional effort. A great story, superb characters, realistic situations, answered prayers, and some surprising plot twists make this wholesome love story a ‘can’t wait to finish’ page-turner. Liz Curtis Higgs can add one more success to her résumé.”

  K-LOVE NEWS & REVIEWS

  “Christian fiction isn’t known for humorous books, so this title is a special joy. This bouncy romantic tale of a devout Christian woman looking for love should please most readers searching for a fun summer read. Recommended.”

  LIBRARY JOURNAL

  “With its underlying Christian theme and well-developed characters, Mixed Signals reinforces the messages that no woman is an island and that a woman’s spiritual and emotional well-being is as important—if not more so—than her career or financial success.”

  BBW MAGAZINE

  “Mixed Signals was my sweet reward at the end of my demanding days. Higgs’s first foray into contemporary fiction—with her delectable description, appetizing-yet-wholesome romance, and dollop of suspense—provided me with a most satisfying treat!”

  JANE JOHNSON STRUCK, SENIOR EDITOR OF

  TODAY’S CHRISTIAN WOMAN MAGAZINE

  “Trust humorous author Liz Curtis Higgs to work everything out to readers’ satisfaction while surprising them at every turn.”

  DIANE JOHNSON, ROMANTIC TIMES

  “Mixed Signals absolutely blew me away! The prose was incandescent, each character fully realized and unforgettable, and it fully captured the magic of falling in love. Bravo!”

  TERESA MEDEIROS, NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “One of the most delightful surprises I’ve had all year—a first novel that moved me to both laughter and tears!”

  SUSAN WIGGS, USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  “I thoroughly enjoyed Mixed Signals. It had everything—great laughs, good solid story, surprises and twists, and great characters. I cared about all of them, even craggy, cranky Frank—all perfectly wonderful.”

  FRANCINE RIVERS, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF REDEEMING LOVE

  “Mixed Signals is a delightful novel and ‘mixed signals’ is also the perfect description of heroine Belle O’Brien’s life. This is a book you will read with a smile on your face and a warm place in your heart. So sit back in your favorite easy chair and get ready to make friends with the engaging characters who people Mixed Signals. You’re in for a treat!”

  ROBIN LEE HATCHER, AUTHOR OF CATCHING KATIE

  “Liz Curtis Higgs has been hiding her talents under a bushel. Though I knew her first novel would be as bright, warm, and encouraging as she is, I had no idea it would be so completely and absolutely wonderful. I fell in love with Belle and Patrick, Norah and David, even as I came to appreciate the skill and insight with which this novel was crafted. An outstanding and heartwarming debut!”

  ANGELA ELWELL HUNT, BESTSELLING AUTHOR OF THE NOTE

  “Reading wattage will go up wherever this book is read. Clearly a go-ahead on Mixed Signals. Tune in to leading lady, Belle, and other real-life characters woven with mystery, intrigue, surprise, and a story line that dares you to read on.”

  PHYLLIS WALLACE, RADIO TALK SHOW HOST,

  WOMAN TO WOMAN, LUTHERAN HOUR MINISTRIES

  “Liz Curtis Higgs has definitely written about radio with unmistakable familiarity. She knows what she’s talking about. Here you will find humor, healing, hope, and human concern for characters whose lives touch your heart. Over it all is draped the warm blanket of God’s loving grace to satisfy you spiritually. I love this book!”

  DIANE SUMMERS, RADIO TALK SHOW HOST, KFUO ST. LOUIS

  “Bravo! Bravo! Bravo! This is a beautiful love story and an excellent example of how success is nothing without someone you love to share your success. This love story also shows the importance of having the right relationship with the Lord from whom all blessings flow.”

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  MIXED SIGNALS

  published by Multnomah Books

  A division of Random House Inc.

  © 1999 by Liz Curtis Higgs

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the New American Standard Bible (NASB) © 1969, 1977 by the Lockman Foundation.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission.

  Multnomah and its mountain colophon are trademarks of Random House Inc.

  For information:

  Multnomah Books

  12265 Oracle Boulevard, Suite 200

  Colorado Springs, Colorado 80921

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

  Higgs, Liz Curtis.

  Mixed signals/by Liz Curtis Higgs.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-78886-3

  I. Title.

  PS3558.I36235M59 1999 98–40625

  813’.54—dc21

  v3.1

  In memory of my father,

  who told me years ago that my future would be in radio.

  Bless you, Daddy, for being right. As always.

  Acknowledgments

  It may not take a village to write a book … it just looks that way!

  First, love and heartfelt thanks to my dear husband, Bill Higgs, my costar in our own radio romance. Bless you for giving me a reason to celebrate every broadcast day.

  And double hugs to my children, Matthew and Lillian, who tiptoed around me while I was writing. I love you with every inch of my abundant body, kids.

  A tip of the headphones to my far-flung radio peers from years past, at WQXA-FM, WKTK-FM, WFBQ-FM, WWWW-FM, WQMF-FM, WAKY-AM, and my last and best broadcasting home, 84WHAS-AM Louisville. Thanks for sharing the air with me, dear friends. (I promise, none of you was the inspiration for Frank the Crank!) A special nod to Joe Fedele at WVEZ-FM, Tommy McCarthy at WOGL-FM, and Randall Bloomquist at WBT-AM for their assistance.

  A big howdy and thanks to my new friends at Multnomah Publishers, especially my precious editor and friend, Karen Ball, and all those in Sisters, Oregon, who’ve helped my prayers come true.

  Where would I be without my friends in fiction? Francine Rivers, Lisa Tawn Bergren, Carolyn Pizzuti, Robin Lee Hatcher, Annie Jones, Angela Elwell Hunt, Terri Blackstock, Robin Jones Gunn, Debbie Macomber, all my LoveKnot sisters, and my first fiction buddy, Jack Cavanaugh. Bless you, bless you, one and all, for looking at my early writing efforts. From my point of view, you are the best in the business. I can’t thank you enough for your generous gifts of encouragement and expertise.

  A huge hug to fabulous fiction writer and online soul sister, Diane Noble, whose support, prayers, and daily accountability made this book happen. Love you, dear heart!

  Cherished friend and literary agent, Sara Fortenberry, managed to laugh and cry at the same time when I read her a passage from Mixed Signals over the phone. Bless you for your boundless encouragement. Belle finally rang true because of you!

  Gloria Looney, amazing office assistant, was the perfect first reader, keeping me going with her generous words of praise.

  Motherin-law Superior, Mary Lee Higgs, did a grand job as Head Grammarian.

  Leesa Gagel served as my helpful proofreader.

  Gayle Roper, talented writer and respected teacher, hauled the first draft to Canada with her, then continued to offer valuable suggestions. What a blessing you are!

  Thanks to Lori and Tim Shahen at the Lovill House
Inn in Boone, not only for your exceptional hospitality, but also for recommending Abingdon as “the perfect setting for a novel.” You were so right.

  Finally, my deepest gratitude to all the wonderful residents of Abingdon, Virginia, who spent time with me on the phone and in person, answering questions and offering ideas. Many of these folks were generous enough to read the manuscript as well … now that’s a labor of love! Special thanks go to Marsha Miller at the Barter Theatre, Rebecca Boyd at the Martha Washington Inn, Joan Hilbert at the Abingdon United Methodist Church, Emily Umbarger at the Washington County Library, Martha Weisfeld at the Abingdon Virginian, Lesa Morrison at the Virginia Highlands Christian Fellowship, Rick and Mary Jayne Stevens at the Silversmith Inn, April Eskridge at the Abingdon Convention and Visitors Center, Craig Sutherland and Larissa at WABN-FM, Betty Cardwell at the Anchor Book Shop, Bonnie Clevinger of Balloon Virginia, and Don Hilton.

  I always save the best for last; don’t you? That means my most heartfelt hugs go to you, my courageous readers, who’ve bravely moved into this fiction adventure with me. You, as always, are the reason I write.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Author’s Note

  Reader’s Guide

  Other Books by This Author

  Let your speech always be with grace, seasoned, as it were, with salt, so that you may know how you should respond to each person.

  COLOSSIANS 4:6

  one

  Failure is the opportunity to begin again more intelligently.

  HENRY FORD

  RAINY DAYS AND MONDAYS never got Belle O’Brien down. Not when her radio listeners were waiting. “Hold On, I’m Coming,” she sang out with off-key abandon. Sam and Dave had nothing on her, she decided, grinning, as she tucked her jeans inside her short leather boots.

  She tamed her unruly hair into a thick braid that reached her waist, and darted out the apartment door. A chilly, mid-October downpour waited to greet her. Overnight, the rain had carelessly washed the leaves out of the maple trees lining Lake Shore Drive, plastering them across the pavement like small scarlet hands.

  Belle was still humming when she spun the wheel of her Pontiac toward the station. Still humming when she tossed the keys toward Max, the parking lot attendant, and made a wet dash for the glass front doors of her radio station.

  The doors with the famous call letters mounted above them.

  Yup. There they were. W … WT … WTI … W-what?

  Her humming abruptly stopped as her heart lurched toward her boots, then snapped back with a sickening thud. Not again. Not this time.

  Numb to the core, she stepped inside the reception area. Her umbrella was hanging open. So was her mouth.

  “Belle!” Her general manager emerged from a huddle of men in suits and moved toward her. “You’re just in time. We’ve … made some major changes here.”

  She gulped. “Starting with the call letters?”

  “Right.” His smile was strained. “Welcome to WTIE, Chicago’s All-Sports TIEbreaker.”

  Sports? Help, Lord! “I don’t do sports,” she croaked.

  “You do now.” He reassured her with a wink. “Come meet your new program director, Snap Davis.”

  She watched the circle of suits move toward her, all smiling, all talking at once. Her mouth had gone dry—past wool, past cotton, clear to the linen setting.

  “There she is, gentlemen.” One of the strangers clenched his cigar in a churlish grin. “The Belle of the Ball.”

  “The what? You have the wrong announcer, Skip … ah … Slap … er …”

  His tobacco-stained smile broadened. “Call me Coach.”

  “Great.” She fought for breath, struggling to get her bearings. Her eyes drifted to the walls covered with thirty years of bold signatures scrawled there by every musical act that had hit the Windy City, from Sam the Sham to Manfred Mann.

  Wait. She blinked. They didn’t! They couldn’t!

  But they had. Her heart sank another foot as she took in the newly painted walls, now a solid navy latex. All those signatures, all that history, all her history.

  Slam-dunked out of existence.

  The suits guided her toward a row of shiny lockers, one of which prominently displayed her name in block letters. BELLE. She did as expected and yanked open the narrow metal door, only to find the shelves stuffed with sports paraphernalia: a Chicago Bulls jersey, a Cubbies cap, two Bears coffee mugs, a Blackhawks hockey puck, and two tickets to a White Sox game.

  The loathsome new call letters were printed on everything.

  She shuddered at the sight and slapped the door shut, turning to find her new boss regarding her with amusement. “You’ve planned this for months, haven’t you?”

  “Smart girl.” Her cigar-chewing coach looked infinitely pleased with himself. “Only took us six hours and a ton of manpower to make the switch last night. None of your golden oldie pals were right for the new format. But we’ve found the perfect spot for you, sweetheart.”

  “But where—where is everybody?” She knew. Of course she knew. Hadn’t she been down this road before?

  “Nothing to worry your pretty head about, Belle. The rest of the staff received a generous severance check.”

  “And the contents of their desk in a box, I suppose.”

  He shrugged. “Ten years in broadcasting, isn’t that right, Miss O’Brien? You’ve been around. You know how it works. Frankly, if you weren’t a woman—”

  One of the suits delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs.

  “A talented woman, that is, you’d be looking for work along with the rest of them. As it is, Belle, we’re delighted to keep you on the payroll as WTIE’s official announcer. Commercial spots, sports scores, station IDs, all yours, ready to record.”

  Great.

  Why, oh why, on this of all mornings, hadn’t she listened to the station on the way to work? Instead of walking in clueless, she could have steered onto 94 South and kept driving.

  The production director chimed in. “Yeah, we’re looking for a sexy, breathy sound, Belle. Higher-pitched than your normal on-air voice. Kind of like … like …”

  Her stomach tightened, desperation setting in. “Like Betty Boop?”

  “That’s it!” the suits sang out in unison.

  Boop-oop-a-doop.

  She knew what she wanted to do. What every fiber of her being insisted that she deserved to do. Tell Mr. Slap Happy to stuff his cigar in his cauliflower ear. Bulk-erase every inch of tape in the wretched place. Plant that hockey puck between her general manager’s chattering, chicken-livered lips.

  That’s what she wanted to do. And more.

  But what she did—what she had to do—was choke down the huge lump in her throat and accept the inevitable.

  She had no choice. Single, living alone in an expensive city, she needed the money. They wanted Betty Boop? They got her.

  All week long, she marched into
the recording booth, put aside her pride, and squealed like a teenager on helium.

  All night long, she sobbed herself to sleep.

  Five stations in ten years, Lord! Her life was like a broken record. The Shirelles singing, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?—tomorrow?—tomorrow?”

  Five times she’d stuffed everything she owned into a moving van and headed for a new horizon—Kingsport, Richmond, Atlanta, Philadelphia, then, two years ago, Chicago.

  Five times she’d prayed this would be the one. Home.

  Five times she’d had her dreams trampled by new management, new formats, and men very obviously from Mars who had no idea how oldies radio worked.

  Finally, Friday afternoon, after a depressing hour of heavy breathing and squeaking in the production studio, she pulled on her green wool coat and started toward the front door, her feet and spirits dragging.

  “Belle.” She turned to see the receptionist signaling her. “Line three is for you. Pick it up in Snap’s office if you like. He’s already left for the Sox game.”

  She ducked into his crowded corner office, wrinkling her nose at the stale cigar smell that permeated the air, and perched on the edge of his chair. Clearing her throat as if an imaginary On Air light had blinked to attention, she cradled the receiver against her ear and punched the third button. “Hello, this is Belle.”

  “Sorry about the format switch, babe.” The male voice was warm, familiar, empathetic.

  “Patrick!” She tightened her grip on the phone. “You heard about it, then?”

  “Everybody heard about it, Belle. It was in all the trades today. Front page of Radio & Records. And above the fold, no less. Big story with a photo of the staff.”

  Her throat suddenly felt drier than melba toast. “The staff? Before or after?”