Mixed Signals Page 13

  More butterflies.

  Without warning, his face brightened. “Norah, do you ever pray?”

  Pray? Her butterflies turned into bald eagles, banging around in her chest, trying to fight their way out. “Y-yes, of course.” Pray? She certainly hadn’t seen this one coming.

  He patted her hands, then leaned back, withdrawing his warm touch. “Well, you mentioned the Bible and I knew you went to church. I thought maybe you’d pray for Belle and me. That things would work out, that she’d trust me again.”

  “Do I understand you to say you believe in prayer, Patrick?”

  A ruddy tint appeared above his beard. “I figure it couldn’t hurt.”

  She chose her words carefully and kept her voice steady. “For prayer to be effective, it helps to know who’s listening.”

  He looked at her askance. “I’d figured on God. Did you have someone else in mind?”

  Despite her best intentions, a laugh spilled out, setting her earrings in motion. “God is precisely who I’ll be talking to.” Her silver jewelry continued dancing, but her features grew still. “You surprise me, Patrick. We’ve never discussed your relationship with God.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one with the relationship, you are.” His tone was abrupt, perhaps sharper than he intended. His gaze refused to meet hers. “Look, it was only an idea. Forget I mentioned it.” He looked at her then, and though his words had been gruff, his eyes begged for understanding.

  Of course she understood. After Harry’s death and Randolph’s unfaithfulness, hadn’t she worn the same look whenever God was mentioned? Patrick’s face was a mirror of her own in those dark days … hoping there might be someone she could put her faith in, yet doubting that such a miracle existed. It had taken years for her heart to open up again to the truth of God’s love.

  She’d honor Patrick’s wishes and back off for the moment. But forget he mentioned it? Not for a New York second.

  “You’re right, I do know the Lord.” She knew her easy admission took the pressure off him. “Would you like me to pray for you and Belle right now?”

  His cheeks deepened to magenta. “N-now? Oh, no! I was hoping you’d do it later. Alone. Don’t you … uh, pray when you go to … uh, at night?” His discomfort had clearly come roaring back.

  “You mean, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’?” Bless his heart, look at that blush. She offered him a gentle smile, hoping it might ease his embarrassment. “I’d be honored to pray for you, Patrick.” Her smile broadened. “Later.”

  He looked relieved as he stood up and brushed a dusting of flour off his pants. “You’re quite a woman, Norah. Thanks for tonight.” He reached down and pulled her to her feet with an effortless tug, then surprised her by continuing to hold her hands in his, barely connecting yet still very much there.

  She suddenly felt lightheaded—did she stand up too quickly?—then discovered she wasn’t breathing. Foolish woman! She exhaled with a giggle that sounded as inane as it felt, but at least she was getting oxygen again.

  Patrick looked confused. “Did I say something funny?”

  “Not at all.” If I’m not careful, I’ll be blushing. “My ears are yours, anytime.” What’s that supposed to mean? “Of course, Belle is my friend, too, so she may come knocking on my door as well. I’ll be as supportive to both of you as I can.” And keep my own heart out of the fray. Somehow.

  His eyes bore down on her now with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. His hands still held hers, with an ever-so-slight increase in pressure. “And when she does come knocking, she’ll find a good soul who listens without judging, and talks to God in her spare time. Pretty remarkable, I’d say.”

  They stood there, smiling at one another, wrapped in a warm cocoon of silence, while she concentrated on remembering to breathe.

  Belle made her way along the brick sidewalk toward home, grateful her warm coat held off the misty cold that stung her cheeks. Her solo visit to the Barter Theatre had been awful.

  And wonderful.

  Awful to be sitting alone, constantly aware of the empty seat next to her, rehashing their conversation, wishing it weren’t true that Patrick had deceived her, no matter how noble his reasons.

  Wonderful to be soaking up a first-class performance of one of Shakespeare’s most entertaining comedies, surrounded by the meticulously restored theater. From the fresh white paint and claret-colored carpet in the lobby, to the elegant light fixtures and spacious stage area, it was every actor’s dream come true.

  She’d fallen in love with the place immediately.

  As she crossed the street, her dark apartment looming above her, she considered seeing if Norah might still be awake and about. She longed to share the highs and lows of this strange Friday night with someone who understood the situation. Plus, she couldn’t wait to tell her about the audition notice posted near the box office for the Barter’s late February production of Much Ado about Nothing. Seasoned actors were handling the major roles, but they were casting Ursula and some of the walk-on players locally, as well as offering positions for set builders and the like.

  Spending the balance of her evening alone at the Barter had been the therapy she needed. Things were definitely looking up.

  Though Norah’s apartment was dark, Belle could see lights on the first floor so she circled around to the shop’s back entrance. Her high heels made navigating the bricks, damp with the night mist, a treacherous task. Slowly she worked her way toward the door, peering through the darkness, grasping for the bell.

  Her hands connected with the old-fashioned handle and she prepared to give it a spin when her eyes caught a slight movement behind the lace curtains. Leaning closer to the glass, Belle felt her stomach drop to her toes yet again that night.

  Not five feet away from her, in the warm glow of the Silver Spoon kitchen, Patrick and Norah were standing face to face, hand in hand, gazing into one another’s eyes.

  eleven

  Experience is a hard teacher. She gives the tests first.

  PATSY CLINE

  DAVID SQUINTED UP AT the Monday morning sun, yawning its way over the roof of the Virginia Gas Company across Main Street. He hadn’t slept worth a flip. After laboring over the letter in his hand last night, he’d floundered around on his lumpy mattress till near dawn.

  No use delaying the inevitable. He jerked the mailbox open and tossed in the envelope. As always, a smidgen of his heart was sealed inside, a tiny piece of himself that would never be retrieved.

  Along with a personal check. He’d never see that again either.

  David knew to the penny how much money he’d sent Sherry Robison so far. Two hundred bucks a month for eight years. Nearly twenty thousand dollars.

  The thing he wasn’t certain of anymore was why.

  It wasn’t guilt money. Not really. It sure wasn’t blackmail. She’d never asked him for a penny. He used to tell himself it was the price he paid for being a Cahill. Nobody expected him to be responsible, so he had to go out of his way to prove them wrong.

  Eight years ago he considered it a matter of honor.

  Now, listening to Pastor Curt every Sunday, he wondered if it wasn’t something else altogether: pride.

  Not the good kind of pride, the sort that came from working his muscles or his mind and knowing it pleased God. No, the kind of pride that made him feel superior to other guys, thinking himself a hero when he was a long way from Lancelot.

  What was he trying to buy with all that money, anyway?

  The answer bubbled up from a deep well inside him: respect.

  The new, improved David had a little. Not much, but a little. The old, impulsive David had had none and was paying through the nose for it.

  He sighed and climbed the steps toward WPER, checking his watch as he went. The staff meeting started at eight, so he was right on time. Sure enough, Patrick was waiting at the head of the table, his suit jacket draped over the chair, his bright red suspenders and pearly whites on full display.

  Heathe
r sat by Patrick’s side. Dewy-eyed. Oh, brother.

  Burt was hiding behind the latest issue of Billboard, the newspaper-size magazine extending from his Hoosier belt buckle to the eight remaining hairs on his head.

  Rick, eyes bleary from a long night on the air, slumped in the chair at the opposite end from Patrick, clutching a can of Jolt.

  Frank the Crank was on the air for another two hours.

  Only one person was missing.

  David poured himself a cup of black coffee and settled into a seat opposite the doorway as Patrick stood to call the small group to order. He noted Patrick’s gaze shifting back and forth between the staff and the glass doors.

  He’s watching for her. David smiled into his coffee cup. Something was going on with those two. They obviously had history together, but this was new. Judging by Patrick’s wary look, it wasn’t going too well.

  The doors sprang open and here she came, her green coat open and flapping, her short, powerful strides the equal of any prowling jungle cat’s, her gold eyes snapping.

  “Welcome, Belle.” Patrick wasn’t looking her direction.

  “Morning, everyone.” She returned the favor, glancing only at her peers as she yanked out a folding chair and dropped into it in a small, graceful heap. “Sorry I’m late.”

  For reasons he didn’t want to explore, David couldn’t take his eyes off her. How had he missed those lashes, a thick fringe of dark brown framing her feline eyes? Her generous lips, painted the color of ripe pomegranates, were pouting at the moment. Pressed jeans were smartly tucked into freshly polished leather boots. The little lady was dressed to kill, and the boss man was clearly her mark.

  Should be an interesting meeting.

  The assembly held their collective breath as each eye—except Belle’s—turned expectantly toward Patrick, who exhaled on everyone’s behalf. “Let’s begin with a heads-up from the sales department.” He knocked on the partition and Cliff appeared, computer printout in hand, a crooked smile across his bony features.

  “Have I got good news!” Cliff’s enthusiasm broke the tension that hovered over the table like wood smoke on a chilly morning. He spouted off the new clients he’d brought in their first week on the air, commended them for their voice work on the commercials, then jumped up to answer his phone. “That’s the sound of money, folks. Thanks for making it happen.”

  “Now—” Patrick’s confidence apparently was returning—“Let me share a few faxes and phone messages from our listeners.” He pulled several sheets of paper out of his pocket with a flourish and read them aloud, using his rich voice to full effect, probably in part for Belle’s benefit.

  Yeah, he’s got pipes, but he knows it. It didn’t diminish Patrick in his eyes; it simply meant the man was human, with his own pride issues to deal with.

  On cue, a verse David had recently memorized came crashing through his thoughts. Something about getting the log out of his own eye so he could help someone else with the splinter in theirs. Okay, Lord. I’m listening.

  “So,” Patrick was saying, “all indications are we’ve got a hit on our hands, thanks to your collective efforts. We’ll crank up the Happy Together contest this afternoon on Burt’s show.” He rolled out the details, how listeners were invited to stop by the Court Street Grill and drop their names in four fishbowls featuring the station’s personality photos on the front. “We’ll do that until the first of January, then draw a name from one bowl every two weeks, read it on the air, and give ’em nine minutes and five seconds to call in and claim their prize—a date with their favorite WPER personality.”

  “A date?” Four voices groaned in unison.

  Patrick held up his hands. “Relax, not a real date. Just a chance to be … uh, ‘happy together’ with our listeners. Frank will take his winner to lunch at the Hardware Company. Belle, you and your contestant will take off on a hot air balloon ride—”

  “Balloon ride?” Belle stared at Patrick, clearly stunned. “But I—”

  “Heather’s listener will enjoy a matinee performance with her at the Barter, and Burt will have front row seats and backstage passes for the Turtles concert next March. Stop by Leonard’s place downstairs and you’ll see your fishbowls in place, ready for action.”

  David watched them grouse about the contest, glad he wasn’t part of the deal. Especially that hot air balloon. No way. Very little threw him, but heights came close. Ever since he’d watched a classmate at Virginia Tech come tumbling off a radio tower and injure his spinal cord, David had a healthy respect for the dangers involved with tower maintenance. He’d talked Patrick into hiring a service company to handle all the necessary climbing, inspections, bulb changes, and so forth. Climb straight up three hundred feet above the ground? Not this guy.

  Patrick continued his description of the contest, never once looking at Belle. David, who knew all about wires and volts, would have sworn the atmosphere in the room had become electrically charged. The thickening air was unstable, a perfect environment for sparks to discharge without warning.

  “Now—” Patrick’s voice was lower, his pace slower—“I’d like to hear your impressions on how our first week went.” He folded his arms over his chest, his eyes darkening as he trained them on the auburn-haired woman across the table. “Belle, we’ll start with you.”

  Belle lifted her chin and glared back at him. There he stood, his feet apart in a stance she knew well.

  It was the one that shouted, “Patrick Edward Reese, Complete Idiot.”

  His pale yellow shirt clashed with the silver in his beard, his red suspenders were beyond loud, and his tie would ruin the appetite of most people with taste. Manipulative, a troublemaker, with zero people skills … the man was a born loser.

  And clueless didn’t begin to describe Patrick. It wasn’t an act, either. The man simply had more blind spots than he knew how to overcome.

  She shifted her gaze to the rest of the staff. What are they so bug-eyed about? Surely they couldn’t read her mind or his, couldn’t know what had transpired Friday night.

  It was bad enough that he’d abused her trust. Mangled her career. Broken her heart. But then, to abandon her in the street and run to Norah, looking for sympathy. It was pathetic. Disgusting.

  And that hurts more than everything else put together.

  Which is why she’d gotten up early Saturday morning, thrown her tapestry suitcase into the Pontiac, and driven two hours south, home to Moravian Falls, North Carolina. Her parents were surprised but pleased, and she was grateful to be anywhere but Abingdon, far from Patrick and Norah and more heartache than she knew what to do with.

  The cause of that pain was staring at her now, waiting for her to speak. She suspected the other perpetrator was busy baking brioches and thinking of new, more cunning ways to break her boarder’s heart in two. Patrick and Norah hadn’t seen her on Friday night, but my, had she seen them.

  And to think I signed a two-year lease to live in that woman’s house! She’d confront Norah later. Meanwhile, the tension around the table required immediate attention.

  Belle cleared her throat. “Thanks to Burt’s hard work—” she nodded in his direction—“and David’s engineering expertise, the week went off without a hitch. Lots of positive calls from people in our target demographics. One listener said we were almost good enough to work in Bristol.”

  Rick hooted. Burt shook his head. But Patrick, unblinking eyes trained on hers, didn’t move a muscle. His voice was low when he spoke. “Six months from now, Bristol listeners will be coming to us. And we’ll be right here where we belong, ready to entertain them.” He paused for one beat. “Won’t we, Belle?”

  She smiled sweetly. “More like five months and three weeks, isn’t it, Mr. Reese?” She turned to the wide-eyed blonde by his side. “So, Heather, how was your Friday night alone? On the air, that is?”

  Norah paced the Silver Spoon, needlessly smoothing tablecloths and straightening tea canisters, keeping an eye on the door and both ears alert
to the sound of bells.

  And Belle.

  Something was wrong. Very wrong. Aside from Belle’s falling out with Patrick, Norah sensed some friction in their own relationship. She hadn’t seen her, hadn’t spoken to her, but she felt the schism in her house and in her spirit. Something definitely was not right between them.

  Belle had slipped out before dawn on Saturday morning without saying a word to her about where she was going. Why should she, Norah? You’re not her mother. Still, no note, no phone call, nothing. Since when do your tenants need to sign in and out?

  When she’d heard Belle on the air that morning, she knew she was safely back in town, but here it was after four and she still hadn’t heard from her. Maybe if you put a bell around her neck …

  It was no good. The guilt, deserved or not, was nibbling at the fringes of her conscience. No matter how Norah tried to justify things, the fact was she’d blithely stood in her shop kitchen, mixing muffins and listening to Patrick’s side of the story, while poor Belle sat by herself at the Barter, probably crying her eyes out.

  Norah had spent the last three days replaying Friday night over and over, trying to convince herself she’d done nothing unseemly, that her behavior with Patrick had been in keeping with her faith, if not her feelings.

  Yes, their hands had touched for a brief moment, but it was meaningless, really, and over before it started. She and Patrick were good friends, nothing more. If the man was attracted to anything about her, it was God’s love shining through her.

  Oh? And what godly attraction does he stir in you?

  It was a question she couldn’t answer without blushing. In fact, didn’t want to answer at all. It was mortifying enough that she felt such things. Desire. Loneliness. A longing to love and be loved. Intimate memories from her brief but passionate marriage to Harry were no help at all.

  She sank into a chair at an empty table, battling the tears that pooled in her eyes, preparing to spill over. After so many years content and at peace as a solo act, she felt anything but peaceful.

  Concentrating on any task for longer than a few minutes was impossible. Books were scattered through the house, propped open, half read. Invitations to one social event or another remained stacked on the corner of her antique cherry secretary, unopened. The holidays were right around the corner and she had yet to give her menus a second thought, let alone cook up any decorating plans, upstairs or down.