Mixed Signals Page 14

  Her mind and her heart were full of a yearning that refused to go away. She wouldn’t let herself call it what it really was—a hunger to be held, to be embraced by someone who loved her, a physical neediness that wasn’t about lust or intimacy, but was definitely about more than holding hands.

  She’d held her desires at bay for so long, she was sure they’d died a natural death, snuffed out by time and a deliberate focus on spiritual growth. “I think I just shrank,” she mumbled to herself with a sniff. At her age, it was beyond humiliating to realize she could be so easily swayed by a charming man.

  Yet no matter how strongly she was attracted to Patrick, and no matter how great her need, her desires had to be squelched for two very valid reasons: He’s in love with Belle, not me. The second mattered more. I love God and it seems Patrick doesn’t.

  Simple as that.

  Not simple at all.

  She stifled a sob, her chest so tight she could barely catch her breath. Her head slumped down onto her forearm, now stretched across the small table, as her misery filled the empty rooms of the Silver Spoon. “Oh, Father, help me keep my mind off Patrick and my eyes on you.”

  “I could help you with that.”

  The voice from the kitchen stopped her heart in midbeat. Norah sat up, nearly tumbling over in her haste, and turned toward the kitchen door. Her chest tightened another notch as she felt a wave of heat flow up into her cheeks.

  It couldn’t be.

  But it could.

  In the doorway stood her wayward tenant, arms folded over her green wool coat, a look of accusation and pain clearly etched on her face.

  “Hello, Norah.”

  You should be ashamed of yourself! And Belle was ashamed of eavesdropping on Norah’s anguished prayer. Ashamed, but not sorry. No, the few words she’d overheard had been most enlightening. I need some discernment here, Lord.

  “The back door was unlocked, so I let myself in.” Belle slipped her coat off and draped it over a nearby table, mentally rehearsing the best way to proceed and determining to do so with caution. “Norah, I didn’t mean to interrupt your … uh, prayer.”

  Norah rose slowly, her reddened eyes fixed on the floor. “I wasn’t praying, Belle. I was begging.”

  The woman’s stark honesty was unsettling. “Begging?” Belle repeated, vying for more time to sort out her feelings.

  “Yes.” Norah’s voice was strained to the breaking point. Her usual elegant posture had given way to slumped shoulders and a chin that tipped toward her chest. Faint trails of mascara followed the contours of her cheeks, and her earrings hung motionless, their dancing days behind them.

  Try as she might, Belle couldn’t keep her anger toward Norah alive, not with the woman in such a sorry state.

  Belle had done her best to stay mad at both Norah and Patrick all day, and instead managed to ruin her appetite and blow off her radio show. She couldn’t remember when she’d had a worse day on the air. Fumbling her words, forgetting song titles, pushing the wrong buttons, cutting callers off in midsentence by mistake.

  It was amateurish and awful, not to mention immature. Spinning a well-chosen favorite, “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,” only made her feel better for two short minutes.

  By three that afternoon, Belle had concluded that Patrick’s explanation about Kingsport made sense. She didn’t like it, but she understood it. Maybe was grateful for it, now that she’d had some time to hash it over and realize he’d done it out of love.

  That was another thing she’d realized: whatever Patrick’s feelings for her might be, she didn’t love him.

  The truth had come to her while tending her bruised ego in Moravian Falls all quiet weekend long. She’d confused a girlish crush with mature love, when in fact the two had nothing in common.

  Attracted to him? Sure. She apparently wasn’t alone in that. But a man she could love till the end of her days? No way. She wasn’t sure why, but no. Seeing him at this morning’s staff meeting had confirmed it. After she’d spent the day sifting through her emotions and the conversations she and Patrick had shared over the years, she was more convinced than ever.

  If nothing else, that pitiful excuse for a kiss last week should have tipped her off. Patrick was a friend—a good friend. But nothing more.

  And here was Norah—spiritually solid, sophisticated Norah—so obviously in love with him that Belle marveled at her own blind foolishness. Last Friday over tea, she’d sensed Norah’s coolness and her own reticence. No wonder! Now all those unspoken emotions made sense.

  And needed airing.

  She put down her purse, softly, as if she feared a sudden noise or movement might put Norah over the edge. Stepping toward the older woman, who still hadn’t looked up to meet her gaze, Belle took a deep breath. No point beating around the bush here. “How long have you cared for Patrick?”

  Norah’s head snapped up, her eyes suddenly in focus again. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing, Norah. Honest.” She smiled, hoping to ease the anxiety between them, and tried a different tack. “Do you always pray out loud like that?”

  She took the slight upward turn of Norah’s lips as a good sign.

  “No.” Norah’s face softened. “I generally limit my prayers to a silent conversation.” Her slim shoulders gave a slight shrug. “As I said, this was more of an entreaty.”

  “I’ve been doing a little entreating myself these past three days.” Belle swallowed a lump that appeared to jump into her throat out of nowhere. Here we go, Lord. “You know, I used to be pretty plugged into my church.” She released a noisy sigh. “Okay, very plugged in. Loved God with all my heart and loved being in his house. I’m not sure how all that got away from me in Chicago, but it did.” Her eyes lowered, along with her voice. “Funny how you can convince yourself you don’t need to go to church every week, as if worship were an optional thing.”

  Norah’s expression reflected nothing but compassion. “It happens, Belle.”

  “These last few days, without Patrick to distract me, I’ve realized I need to put the Lord first in my life. If it’s okay with you, I’d … I’d like to join you across the street next Sunday.”

  Norah’s eyes filled with tears as she pulled Belle into an awkward embrace and squeezed her tight. “That’s wonderful.”

  “It’s way overdue. I’m … I’m glad you understand.” Belle was chagrined to feel her own eyes moistening. “Thanks for not pressuring me, Norah, or making me feel guilty.”

  Norah waved her hand dismissively. “I leave all that to the Lord. His voice is much more persuasive than mine.”

  Swallowing her tears, Belle chuckled. “Got that right. Now, speaking of persuasive voices, talk to me about Patrick.”

  Norah turned and walked toward the curtained windows that looked out on the already-darkening sky. Belle waited, content to gaze at the woman’s back for as long as it took to get things out in the open.

  When Norah spoke, her voice was quiet but stronger. “I’ve cared for him since we met earlier this fall. Was attracted to him straight off, which was ridiculous.”

  Belle lifted her eyebrows in surprise. “Why ridiculous?”

  “Because he’s younger, and—”

  She snorted. “Five years, Norah. What’s five years?”

  Norah’s face tightened again. “What I was about to say was, and he’s in love with you.”

  Belle shook her head. “I’m not sure that’s true. Not anymore, if ever. Patrick cared for me, yes. Enough to make sure my career had a chance to grow, enough to keep an eye out for me all these years, but not a forever, the-two-shall-become-one kind of love.”

  “Have you known a love like that?”

  Belle felt her cheeks warm. “No. But I’ve been around long enough to judge when a man is only a friend. And that’s all Patrick is to me, Norah. Trust me, I’ve thought about this all weekend. Patrick and I are friends. Period.”

  Hope dawned in her friend’s eyes. “Are you sure?”


  “Absolutely. If you want him, Norah, he’s all yours.” Simply saying the words lifted a pressure off Belle’s chest she hadn’t even been aware she was carrying. The freedom made her almost giddy. “Though why you’d want such a heathen, I’m not sure.”

  Norah’s features relaxed into the hint of a grin. “The Lord knows there’s plenty to be done in that department, but Patrick’s coming around. The funny thing is, he’s really not my type. Too confident, too accustomed to having his own way, and too frugal with a dollar. The man is—”

  “Tight, Norah. The word is tight!” Without intending to, Belle laughed. Not a loud, honking sound, but decidedly more than a giggle.

  At that, a look of relief filled Norah’s face, as if some burden of her own was starting to lift. Norah’s throaty chuckle echoed hers. “Tight is right.”

  Belle’s laughter became more pronounced. “If he takes you to the Barter Theatre, be prepared to carry a ham.” Another guffaw slipped out. “Of course, he’ll get the ham on trade from the Court Street Grill.”

  Having let her laughter loose, now Belle couldn’t rein it in. The sheer release of letting go of Patrick, and of all the hurt from Chicago, had gone to her head and come out her funny bone.

  Her fit of frivolity continued gathering steam.

  “He’s so tight, he … heeee!”

  Norah watched her, wide-eyed. Belle simply couldn’t stop. She’d pull herself together for a few seconds, then another spell would come over her and send her off howling again.

  “He’s … he’s … hoooo!”

  Without warning, Norah joined her with a most unladylike snort. Then another. Soon they ran together, a staccato string of short snorts that only made it worse for Belle, doing her best to get herself back on solid ground.

  It was a duet of laughter—off-key, offbeat, but right on time to restore their friendship, Belle thought, during a single, lucid moment before she lost it yet another time.

  “He’s … he’s … hawww!”

  Finally, Norah clutched the back of a chair and gasped, “So, what you’re saying is, the man is thrifty.”

  Bad move.

  Another round of whooping ensued, worse than the last. They leaned on the chairs, they sat on the chairs, they bent toward the floor, seriously considering sitting there instead.

  It was in this state that an unannounced visitor found them wheezing, red-faced, and so relaxed their limbs were like gooseberry jelly.

  “Obviously I’ve missed something,” their guest noted with a tone of mild disapproval. “Do either of you have sufficient command of your wits to fill me in?”

  The women turned toward the doorway in tandem and sang out the newcomer’s name on a fresh burst of laughter. “P-paaaatrick!”

  twelve

  Nothing spoils a romance so much as a sense of humor in a woman.

  OSCAR WILDE

  “WHAT IS SO ALL-FIRED funny?” Patrick slid into the booth next to Belle. He’d found himself saying that a lot lately, ever since he’d discovered Belle and Norah reduced to a jellylike state two weeks ago. They’d never told him what it was that struck them as being so blinking hilarious. If he’d correctly read their conspiratorial glances, they never would.

  Silly women.

  Whatever their laughing jag was about, it had made a 180-degree turnabout in Belle’s attitude toward him. The romance angle was shot to pieces, that was obvious, but their friendship seemed stronger than ever. Weird. The good part was, she’d apparently forgiven him. The bad part was, he was having a hard time downshifting his feelings for her into a friends-only gear.

  Except when she acted so dad-blamed goofy. Like now, when everyone at the lunch table was laughing except him.

  “Patrick, surely you’d encourage your disc jockeys to indulge in a little jocularity in their spare time.” Belle handed him a Court Street Grill menu and aimed a broad wink at David and Frank, seated across the booth from them. “Or would that be jock-ularity?”

  “Very punny,” Patrick grumbled, while Frank and David sat there like a couple of harvest pumpkins, grinning from ear to ear.

  Belle was right about one thing. He did like his staff to have fun off the air. It invariably improved their shows. Frank the Crank was in rare form lately, dragging out all his props from the ’60s including his trademark air horn, designed to punctuate his morning patter. Some jocks used a rim shot after delivering their punch lines, but not Frank. Aahh-ooo-gah was more his style.

  Every spot break in Frank’s show was sold out. Patrick didn’t need ratings to tell him the man was a hit. Burt was doing a solid job in afternoons. Heather hadn’t started three songs simultaneously in almost a week. Even Rick had successfully stayed awake and pushed the right buttons every night since the first.

  Then there was Belle. Warm and witty Belle had won the hearts of the whole town in one month, just as he knew she would. Too bad he hadn’t won her heart as well.

  Not a complete surprise, this. Before their disastrous date, before their single kiss—which was, truth be told, kind of a dud—he’d known, deep down, that Belle wasn’t the woman for him after all.

  A beautiful woman, yes. A good woman, sure. A young woman, definitely. Too young. But his woman? Nah. He wasn’t sure why not, but there it was.

  He concentrated on the menu in his hands, then snapped it shut and signaled Brenda, the waitress who usually handled the corner booth that had become Studio G for the WPER crew.

  “Let me guess.” Belle nudged his ribs. “Grilled cheese, a bowl of chili with jalapeños on the side, and a diet soda.”

  He hated when she was right. “Wrong. I’m having tuna salad on toast with a cup of veggie soup.” Okay, so he’d order his favorite lunch next time. It was better than letting the woman win yet again. Still … tuna? He hated tuna. His pride would cost him half a bottle of antacids before the day was out.

  “Just be glad you don’t have a fishbowl sitting next to the register up there, sporting your miserly mug.” Belle rolled her eyes in mock disgust.

  He hoped she was kidding. The Happy Together contest had been his idea. His and Leonard’s, the guy who ran the Grill.

  “What are you worried about?” Frank barked from across the booth. “You’ve already got lots of little fishies swimming around in your bowl.”

  “Whatcha got in your fishbowl, Frank?” She gave Patrick a sidelong wink, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

  “Humph.” Frank was stalling.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll look for myself,” Belle taunted.

  Frank growled in defeat. “Two paper clips, a rubber band, and three official entries.”

  Belle stifled a laugh. “From the same woman, I’ll bet.”

  Frank snorted.

  So did Belle. “I’m right! They’re all from Millie, aren’t they?”

  Millie was Frank’s phone groupie, a woman with too much time on her hands and a hankering for Frank the Crank. She called him every morning, sometimes twice, and sent him homemade brownies on a regular basis, which Frank was only too happy to toss out on the staff lounge table for mass consumption.

  Patrick felt sorry for him. A middle-aged guy with a middle-aged fan club of one. The man had lots of listeners, but only one Millie.

  “Yeah, it’s her.” Frank scratched at his chin. “She must want lunch at the Hardware Company pretty bad.”

  “C’mon, Frank, it’s you she wants.”

  Belle was merciless, but Frank could handle it, Patrick decided. Better than you could, buster. Who knows, maybe Millie was a looker.

  His tuna sandwich had no sooner arrived when Belle turned her golden eyes and bantering tongue in his direction. “So, will you be joining us for the Advent Sunday service, Patrick? You said you might.”

  That one came out of left field.

  The Methodist church celebrated the start of the Christmas season in a big way. “The Hanging of the Greens,” they called it. It wasn’t the first time Norah and Belle had asked him to join them for church
, but it might be the hardest to weasel out of. He’d tag along on Christmas Eve, of course. That was tradition, no problem. But this was different. Not a real holiday to his way of thinking, though they kept insisting it was.

  Belle’s eyes remained trained on his. “Norah’s planning a knockout menu for dinner that afternoon. Sure you don’t wanna come?”

  Dozens of things were easy to refuse in life, but Norah’s cooking wasn’t one of them. He sighed in resignation. “Sure, I’ll be there. What time?”

  “Five sharp for dinner. The service is at seven.” Belle turned to her coworkers across the booth. “How about you two?”

  Frank looked as if he needed his air horn, and fast. “Uh, no, I’ll be … uh, recording ‘Talk of the Town’ at noon, then prepping my show for Monday. Sorry.”

  Patrick had never seen Frank so flustered. The man was beet red and stammering. Maybe he wasn’t the only guy at the table who chose to darken the door of a church as little as possible.

  He watched Belle shift her gaze to the left. “David, will you join us?”

  “Ahh … sure. Be glad to.” His face said otherwise, Patrick was certain of it.

  Belle checked her watch. “You’ll need to let me out, boss. Network news is almost over and I’m back on the air in ten minutes.” She shot him a sideways smirk. “It takes nine minutes just to climb all those rent-saving steps.” The other guys laughed while Patrick slid out of the booth, grumbling under his breath as Belle hurried past him.

  Okay, so I’m frugal. What’s so all-fired funny about being tight?

  Abingdon United Methodist Church was the last place David wanted to be. He should have begged off, told Belle he needed to work on the house, found a valid reason to celebrate Advent somewhere else.

  Anywhere but here.

  Nine years ago, before she’d left town, this had been Sherry’s church. He’d never come with her, of course. Get serious. A Cahill, in this place? Not then, not in a million years.