Mixed Signals Page 12

  Nor did she intend to, now or ever.

  She took another ragged breath. “Effective Monday, I will no longer be working for WPER.” She practically spat out the call letters. “Find yourself another midday woman, Patrick. This one is history.”

  “You can’t do this, Belle.” His voice sounded like a wounded bear.

  “I can and I will!”

  “No, I mean you can’t do this.”

  He paused.

  She waited.

  When he continued, his voice was low, his words spoken with great care. “Belle, you have a personal contract with WPER. You signed it Monday, remember?”

  I remember. You don’t … you can’t …

  “You agreed, in writing, to remain in my employ for six months. In order to get the station established, if you recall. An unusual contract, but you agreed to it completely. After the six months are up, of course, you’re free to pursue your career wherever it may take you, but until the second of May … you’re mine.”

  “No!”

  She turned on her heel and practically ran up the street, her high heels catching on the uneven brick sidewalk. Patrick was right behind her, grasping at her sleeve. “Belle, I’m sorry. I’ll help you find something else, something better, come May.”

  She turned back abruptly, knocking him off balance. “Don’t you dare mention helping me. You’ve done quite enough.”

  Belle continued her staggering path up the steep bricks, determined not to let him see her stumble.

  “Wait!” He was mere feet behind her. “I can … I can let you out of your contract, Belle. If you’d rather not—”

  “Forget it!” She stopped again, whirling around to confront him. Her face, covered with wayward curls and hot tears, was feverish with anger and embarrassment at being so foolish. “Get this straight, Patrick Reese. I’m going to work every day of that six-month contract for the sheer joy of making you miserable. And unless I give you cause, unless I’m found drunk in the local pub or naked on the Town Square, you can’t fire me. Isn’t that right?”

  His expression was one of pure agony. “That’s right. Unless tonight could be considered insubordination—”

  The last straw snapped.

  “Don’t even think it!” It was close to a shriek. “You can’t fire someone for … for hating you!”

  Leaving him slack-jawed, standing there on the sidewalk, Belle stormed off toward home, five blocks away. She let the tears flow unabated, not caring what her makeup looked like anymore, no longer concerned with impressing her date. Ha! She scoffed at the thought of how much she’d yearned for a memorable evening.

  It had been memorable. Yes, indeed. An evening she’d never forget as long as she lived.

  She crossed the street, heading past the Greenway-Trigg building, when she heard the rumble of a Cadillac motor coming around the corner. The car slowed to a crawl beside her and she heard the driver roll down the window.

  “Belle, at least let me drive you home.” Patrick’s voice, muffled by the wind, was pleading.

  “I am perfectly capable of walking, thank you. I’ve done it every day this week and I’ll do it every single day until May.” She shot him a withering glance as he steered the car along the sidewalk, his window down, his eyes imploring.

  “Please, Belle. Please let me explain. You can quit if you want to, you can do whatever makes you happy, but please let me try and make you understand.”

  “I understand that I’ve been made a fool of, sixteen ways to Sunday!” She marched over to the car, spotted the theater tickets sticking out of his shirt pocket, and snatched one. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to salvage what I can of this evening and take myself to the Barter. Alone.”

  He didn’t try to stop her as she crossed the street and kept walking, and for that she was grateful. She wasn’t ready to face Norah with the unhappy news, nor could she imagine sitting alone in her apartment, rehashing this dreadful night in her head, over and over.

  No. The Taming of the Shrew was the perfect diversion. She’d let the wit of Petruchio and Katherina keep her company. At least their love story had a happy ending.

  ten

  Being a woman is a terribly difficult trade,

  since it consists principally of dealing with men.

  JOSEPH CONRAD

  PATRICK WATCHED BELLE MARCH across the street and out of his life, disappearing into the mist like a forgotten dream.

  Except this one had turned into a nightmare.

  For a guy who enjoyed being in charge of things, he found his sense of frustration almost debilitating. Why couldn’t Belle see what was so blooming obvious to him? That he’d sent her tape to WRVQ for her sake, not his. That he’d done it out of love, not selfishness.

  That he loved her still.

  He was shaking so badly he didn’t trust himself behind the wheel, so he pointed the Cadillac toward the nearest open curb space. The engine rattled to a wheezing halt as he slumped over the steering wheel.

  You blew it, Reese. Big time. She’d continue working for him, she said. Even though she hated him, she said.

  Hate was a strong emotion, he reminded himself. One born of passion, not apathy. At least she cares about me enough to hate me. For some odd reason, the thought comforted him. When she’d first arrived in town, he wasn’t sure she had any feelings for him at all. Now she had all kinds of feelings. Not the right ones, but it was a start.

  He sat there for several minutes replaying their conversation—Argument, Reese, it was an argument—looking for holes in his reasoning or in hers, searching for clues to figure out where exactly he’d gone wrong.

  I shouldn’t have told her about sending the demo tape. She wouldn’t have known if he hadn’t told her. Never would have found out, either.

  I shouldn’t have sent the demo tape without asking her. That was closer to the truth, though he had done it for the right reasons. He could fret over his mistakes all night long, but it didn’t change the fact that Belle felt manipulated and misled. The bedrock of any relationship, including boss to employee, was trust. Well, he’d simply have to earn hers back.

  Shaking his head as if to clear the gloomy fog that had settled over him, he pulled onto Main and continued west, not sure where he was heading. What he needed more than anything was a friend. He’d been so busy his first few weeks in town, working every minute to get the station on the air, he’d had zero time for developing much in the way of friendships.

  That oversight would be corrected, effective immediately.

  He considered swinging out to the transmitter site to check things over … see if David was home. Nah. The guy was probably busy working on his house. He didn’t need somebody getting in the way, talking his ear off, slowing him down.

  Heather was on the air right now, her first night alone on the board. Maybe he’d drop in and see how she was doing, keep her company. Dumb idea. He was the owner of the station, for Pete’s sake. He’d make her a nervous wreck. Which didn’t take much, with Heather.

  He remembered the theater ticket that remained in his pocket. The one for the seat right next to Belle’s. That’s it. He’d find her at the Barter, beg her forgiveness, do whatever it took to make her happy and keep her in Abingdon.

  No. The timing was wrong, the place was worse. He didn’t want another scene like they’d had at the restaurant. If anyone figured out who they were, it would be bad for the station’s image.

  Not to mention your ego.

  Yeah, that too.

  The Methodist church was coming up on his right, the Silver Spoon was on his left. Norah’s place. Belle’s place. The top two floors were dark, but he could see lamps glowing in the gift shop downstairs. Security lights, maybe. Or Norah baking muffins, getting ready for a busy Saturday morning.

  Wait! Norah could use the ticket. Join Belle at the theatre, offer her some female companionship, maybe say a kind word about him. The image of Norah’s stern expression last time he’d seen her flashed through his mind
. Okay, maybe not. Anyway, it was worth a try.

  The spaces along the curb were filled, so he parked the Cadillac in the church lot and crossed the street in a handful of brisk strides, heading for the first-floor entrance with the classy, hand-carved sign swinging out front. He rang the bell, an old-fashioned contraption in the middle of the door. A flick of his wrist on the silver handle sent bells ringing inside, same as the set Norah had jingling on her back door upstairs.

  If it isn’t one “belle,” it’s another. He grinned in spite of himself. Some night this was turning out to be.

  Norah’s face appeared in the window, looking confused, then concerned. He felt foolish standing there alone, knowing what must be running through her mind. He shrugged and pointed to the door, which swung open seconds later with another loud jangle.

  “Patrick, what’s happened to Belle? Were you in an accident? Is she hurt?” Norah’s words came in a breathless rush while her dark eyes searched the brick porch, as if he were hiding Belle behind a wooden post.

  “Belle is fine,” he protested, holding up his hands. “Well, no, she isn’t fine at all, she’s …” He sighed. “May I come in for a minute?”

  Norah’s eyes, tinged with suspicion, scrutinized him. “I have a feeling this will take more than a minute, Patrick.” A mild reprimand lingered behind her words. “I’ll work on my muffins while you explain to me exactly what’s going on here.”

  He followed her through the dimly lit shop to the kitchen, where bright lights, warm ovens, and the aroma of apples and cinnamon greeted him. Taking in a deep whiff, he tried to lighten the mood. “Mmm … delicious. Can I move in here?”

  “That’s what everyone says, and no, you certainly cannot.” She was stirring batter with a wooden spoon that was getting a serious workout, whomp! whomp! against the side of the bowl.

  “Norah, you know I’m kidding.” He sank down into a kitchen chair, tossing his keys on the table, dreading the direction this conversation would need to take. The sooner he got to it, the better. “Belle and I had an argument.”

  Norah’s spoon paused in mid-whomp. “And … ?”

  “And she stomped out of the restaurant and walked to the Barter Theatre by herself.”

  “She walked to the Barter? What kind of man would let a woman walk the streets at night? And alone, of all things?” She shoved her spoon into the batter and slammed her hands on her hips. “Patrick Reese, I’m ashamed of you!”

  “I’m ashamed of me, too, but she wouldn’t get in the car. Believe me, I tried. Followed her for a block.” He ran his hands through his hair and exhaled in noisy frustration. “It’s no good, Norah. The woman will never forgive me.”

  Norah’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive you for what?”

  “Have you got an hour or so?” He studied her expressive face, looking for a clue as to how she might react. Compassion or judgment? It was hard to tell for sure. “Look, I really stopped by to see if you wanted to use this other ticket for the play tonight. Sit with Belle, keep her company?”

  Norah shook her head. “If she wanted company, she’d have come here first. My guess is, Belle’s the kind of woman who requires time alone to work things out. Fear not, I’ll be right here when she needs me.” She finished emptying the batter into the wells of the muffin tin and slid it into the oven with the smooth precision earned from decades of baking. He enjoyed watching her work, admiring her obvious skills. Hadn’t he tasted the fruit of her labors more than once?

  Norah set the timer, then turned to him with a hesitant smile. “Now, suppose you tell me your side of things.”

  Maybe he did have a friend. Norah had been there for him since he’d arrived in Abingdon, showing him around town, offering him advice, feeding him one great meal after another. Like the sister he’d never had. He really oughtta find someone for her, a nice guy, somebody her age or older.

  Maybe Frank.

  Forget it. She’s too classy for Frank. It’d take one sharp guy to keep up with Norah Silver-Smyth, and right now he couldn’t think of a single man he knew who was up to the task.

  He smiled at her, grateful for her willingness to give him an unbiased opinion on the debacle that was his first date with Belle. Loosening his tie, he leaned back in the kitchen chair, stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, then locked his hands together behind his head. Conversations like this required a comfortable chair, which this wasn’t, but it would do.

  Norah, meanwhile, was deftly chopping apples, her eyes still trained on him, waiting.

  He began at the beginning, the night he’d first heard Belle on WASU and offered her a job in Kingsport. Explained how he’d fallen in love with Belle’s voice and the rest of her soon after. How he’d orchestrated her offer from WRVQ. How he’d tucked her in a corner of his heart for eight years, staying in touch, hoping the time would come when they’d work together again, when they’d share something more than their mutual passion for radio.

  Despite the sordid, sorry mess he’d made of things, he was proud of himself in one respect: he resisted the temptation to hide any details from Norah, including those that might make him look like a heel.

  Never mind “look like”; you are a heel, Reese.

  Heel or not, he couldn’t help noticing that Norah listened without interruption. Really listened, with her eyes, her whole countenance, nodding but not condemning—at least not openly so. She poured him cup after cup of decaf hazelnut coffee. He couldn’t stand the taste of hazelnut but drank it anyway while he poured out his pitiful tale.

  It was ten o’clock by the time he finished. Exhausted, he rose to his feet, stretching out the kinks in his shoulders and back. “Norah, I can’t thank you enough for letting me bend your ear tonight.”

  She pulled off an oversized oven mitt and waved her hands as if brushing off his compliment. “That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”

  “Guess so.” He gave her a tired smile. “Hope I can return the favor someday when an undeserving guy steps into your life and turns it upside down.”

  Her own smile was enigmatic. “I’ll be sure and let you know when that happens.”

  “What do I do now?” He yawned expansively. “Any words of wisdom?”

  Norah gazed at the man in her kitchen. Even with wrinkles in his gray suit, a tie hanging around his neck in a loose noose, and his hair sticking up Pomeranian style, Patrick Reese was the best-looking male she’d had under her roof in eons. More handsome than Harry, and much easier on the eyes than Randolph, bless his bulging wallet and tightwad heart.

  Not that looks were the major consideration here. If that’s all she had to resist, she could’ve managed quite easily.

  But Patrick was also charming, funny, bright, and successful. In other words, trouble with a capital T. The fact that he was in love with Belle was a serious problem. Not a problem, a disaster. The fact that his relationship with Belle was falling apart was worse—a tsunami, an earthquake, a five-alarm fire.

  What am I supposed to do, Lord? Give Patrick the prize-winning recipe to woo her back? Stuff Belle with muffins until she agrees to forgive him? Bundle my heart in plastic wrap and store it in the depths of my freezer until further notice?

  None of those options were the least bit appetizing.

  Norah concentrated on steering her last pan of banana-nut muffins into the oven. She would not succumb to the downward pull of self-pity. Hadn’t she wasted enough years saying, “Why me, Lord?” and “Why not me, Lord?” The question now wasn’t why, but what. What wisdom might she offer Patrick to steer him in the right direction?

  He was peering at his reflection in a window, knotting his tie, when Norah finally broke the elongated silence.

  “So, it’s wisdom you want?”

  He turned toward her and winked, sending a few butterflies flitting about inside her. The man was all too aware of his formidable appeal, which, oddly enough, only enhanced it.

  “Got any to spare, Norah?”

  “I might.” She made s
ure he was paying attention before she continued. “A wise man named Solomon once said—”

  “Solomon? You mean Jake Solomon from the Mountain View Times?”

  If he hadn’t been grinning from ear to ear when he said it, she’d have fired a raisin scone right at his prominently displayed nose.

  “I know, I know.” He held up his hand to deflect her grimace. “Solomon from the Bible, yes?”

  She nodded, watching for his reaction. “He said a man of integrity walks securely, but the man who takes the crooked path will be found out.”

  “Oops.” His shoulders slumped. “I’ve definitely been found out.”

  “Solomon also said with humility comes wisdom. Your willingness to admit your mistakes should go a long way toward softening Belle’s heart. Meanwhile, you need to figure out what sort of relationship you want with her—friend to friend, employer to employee, or man to woman.”

  His look was pure exasperation. “Can’t I have all three?”

  “Silly man, of course not.” She forced a smile to her lips in a feeble attempt at keeping things light and her feelings hidden. “It isn’t fair to either of you or to your staff. You’ll need to choose, big guy.”

  He sat down again, stroking his beard, obviously weighing her words. “My choice is a moot point, Norah. Belle told me she hates me. That rules out friend, employee, or anything else.”

  If only it were that easy.

  She sat in the chair across from him, knees to knees, then realized it was the closest they’d been to one another all evening. She caught the faint scent of his tangy aftershave, sensed the warmth of him radiating like coals in a grate, noted the sheer size of his tall frame dwarfing her kitchen chair.

  His proximity unnerved her, yet moving her chair back might send the wrong signal. How did things get so complicated? “Hate is a strong emotion,” she murmured.

  Patrick’s face broke into a wide smile. “My conclusion exactly. If she hates me, can love be far behind?” His expression softened. “Great minds think alike, huh, Norah?” He rested his hand lightly on hers, his teddy bear paw easily covering both her hands with room to spare.