Mixed Signals Read online

  “Before.” His voice softened. “You looked great, kid. Majormarket material. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”

  Patrick Reese, her first boss in broadcasting, always knew the right thing to say. She felt herself relax for the first time in days. “We haven’t talked since you moved to San Diego. How’s that working out?”

  His masculine hoot was all the answer she needed.

  “Guess it’s my turn to say sorry, Patrick. What happened?”

  “The owner insisted we’d score big in the ratings with around-the-clock Christmas music. In July.”

  She grinned. Good old radio. “So where are you now?”

  “Abingdon, Virginia.”

  Faint images of a small town tucked in the southwest corner of Virginia drifted through her mind. “I’ve been there.” Her memories swirled into focus. “A bunch of us from Appalachian State took a carload there one summer for the Virginia Highlands Festival. Very historic, as I remember. Quaint.” She chuckled. “Not exactly a radio town.”

  “Precisely why I’m here, woman.”

  “Let me guess.” She sighed, so weary she could hardly think. “You have a job offer I can’t possibly refuse.”

  “More than that.”

  She sensed him pausing for effect, imagined him leaning back, leather loafers propped up on a secondhand desk, the sleeves of his striped sport shirt rolled up to the elbows showing off his tanned, muscular arms. Casual. Confident. In control.

  “I have the one thing you’ve always longed for, kid.”

  “Is that a fact?” And don’t call me kid, she wanted to say. He was only a dozen years older than she. Forty-four to her thirty-two. Kid? Buddy, those days were long gone.

  Wait. She frowned. What “one thing” had she always longed for?

  Surely he wasn’t aware of that silly crush she’d had on him all those years ago? She had been a kid then, green as April grass in the Carolinas. They’d kept in touch over the years, simply because they were friends. Right? Just friends?

  There was one way to find out. “W-what thing have I longed for, exactly?”

  “Acting.”

  “Acting what?” Foolish, she chided herself.

  “Belle, I’m talking about theater. Acting on stage. You know, drama? You majored in it, remember?”

  “Oh, that!” Relieved, she grinned into the phone. “Of course I remember. Truth is, I haven’t tramped the boards since you lured me away to WTFM.”

  “I can fix that. Abingdon has a restored playhouse—”

  “Barter Theatre!” Of course. The State Theatre of Virginia. “Patricia Neal played that stage.”

  “And Gregory Peck and Ned Beatty and … Belle O’Brien?”

  “Hmm. It does have a nice ring to it. What shows are they doing this season?”

  “Aha! So you might be interested in Abingdon and WPER.”

  “WPER, huh? Who’s the owner?”

  “Uhh … I am.” He cleared his throat. “WPER stands for Patrick Edward—”

  “Reese!” She chimed in with him, laughing.

  He groaned. “I know, I know, it’s an ego thing.” The man sounded genuinely embarrassed. “The call letters were available so I couldn’t resist. Forgive me?”

  A warm sensation skipped along her spine. She’d forgotten how much she loved sparring with him. “At least I won’t have to worry about whether or not the owner likes me.”

  His tone was more subdued. “No, you won’t have to worry about that at all.”

  Was it her imagination, or was the ground shifting?

  “Uh, Patrick, I … I really do need to think about … things. When do you need an answer?”

  His manner was all business now. “The station goes on the air the third of November. I’ll need you here by the first.” He launched into a description of the format, the hours, the staff he’d lined up, barreling along with his persuasive salesman patter.

  After five nonstop minutes, she jumped in. “Slow down, mister! I’ve heard this song-and-dance before.” She swallowed, determined to make him see what this career was costing her. “Don’t you get it? I have a car with Illinois tags and a Pennsylvania driver’s license and a North Carolina savings account with exactly twenty-nine dollars in it.”

  A week’s worth of frustration came rushing out of her, sweeping her along in its emotional wake. The tears she’d wept alone at home now showed up in Snap’s corner office, unbidden. “Patrick, I’m thirty-two years old and I have nothing. N-not a house, not a husband, not a child, not even a decent dining room set.” She sniffed, looking wildly about her for a tissue. “I have friends all over the country, but not one person I could call at four in the morning.”

  “You could call me.”

  “W-what?” With her eyes and nose running, she stared at the edge of her wool scarf, desperation growing.

  “You could call me. At four in the morning.” The phone line hummed between them. “I’m single, too, remember, kid?”

  “You probably snore and wouldn’t hear the phone ring,” Belle muttered, pouncing on an ancient tissue tucked down in her coat pocket. With her tears quickly dried and voice steadied, she begrudgingly offered an apology. “I’m sorry to sound like a shrew. I’m absolutely—”

  “Exhausted. I know, babe, and I’m sorry to pressure you after a week like this.” The sympathy sounded genuine. Patrick was her mentor, after all, her confidant.

  There had never been anything more between them. She was certain there wouldn’t be now.

  “Look, I’ll get back to you,” she promised vaguely, then hung up the phone before she realized she didn’t have his number. Should I have asked for it?

  She couldn’t deny his offer was tempting. Oldies music, the midday show, small town, smaller egos, no more competition for ratings, the thrill of a brand-new station, the chance to pursue theater.

  The chance to work with Patrick again.

  “Oh, Lord …” She sighed into the smoky air around her. “I don’t know whether to sing a chorus of ‘You’ve Made Me So Very Happy’ or ‘The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore.’ ”

  Patrick dropped the receiver in its cradle with a sigh of satisfaction and exchanged glances with his engineer, standing across from him in the production studio.

  “Is she coming?”

  “Absolutely.”

  David Cahill, radio engineer, construction crew, and all-around handyman, rested his lanky frame in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, one shoulder propped on the salvaged door frame he’d installed and painted only days earlier. He regarded his boss, bemused. “Are you sure that’s what she said?”

  Patrick shrugged. “She may need some time to adjust to the idea of small-market radio again.” Patrick nodded at the felt-topped turntables, one of the many scratch-and-dent specials he’d dragged up to their third-floor studios. Someday it’d be digital equipment, he’d promised David. Today it was electronic leftovers.

  “I’ll warn you, David, these turntables will make her nervous.”

  “Why? Hasn’t she ever played vinyl records on the air?”

  “She’s played ’em, all right. At WTFM in Kingsport, she was interviewing a world-class pianist who was in town to perform a benefit concert for the Bach Society. Belle cued up his latest album to the famous ‘Minute Waltz.’ You know the song?”

  David nodded.

  “As soon as the first note hit the air, this highbrow lowlife flung himself across the console, calling her every name in the book. Poor Belle had forgotten to change the turntable setting, so instead of 33 1/3 RPM, the album was moving along at a zippy 45 RPM.”

  “Ahh.” David grinned. “More of a ‘Half-Minute Waltz,’ eh?”

  “Right. ‘The Chipmunks Go Classical.’ It was hysterical.”

  “Did she think so?”

  “Eventually.” Patrick smiled, recalling her crimson cheeks. “Belle is an ambitious gal who doesn’t cut herself a lot of slack. Always wanted to make it big. Sure enough, she did.”
>
  “Then what happened?”

  Patrick sighed. “I’ll let her tell you about that when she gets here. And she will get here, trust me. I taught Belle everything she knows about this business. I’m the one who convinced her the jingle singers couldn’t handle ‘Belinda Oberholtzer’ and changed her on-air name to ‘Belle O’Brien.’ ”

  “O’Brien? Sounds Irish.”

  “She’s redheaded and stubborn enough to hail from County Clare, I can assure you of that.” An image of Belle suddenly came to Patrick’s mind—small hands on hips, eyes snapping at him, freckled face scrunched up in dramatic disagreement about one thing or another. Probably a song she refused to play on her show.

  He smiled at the vivid memory. “O’Brien’s her name now, legally and professionally. Since I gave Belle her first radio job in Kingsport, I figure she owes me.”

  But not for Kingsport. For Richmond. For the job that took her away from me.

  Patrick felt his smile fade and his chest constrict. Mailing that demo tape of Belle to WRVQ in Richmond eight years ago was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It had cost him dearly, and not only in rating points. He’d sent it anonymously, knowing WRVQ would hear her talent in the first sixty seconds and make her an offer she could not—must not—refuse.

  And all because he’d made the cardinal mistake of falling in love with her. His own employee, his own protégé, and he’d almost ruined everything. By letting her go, he’d spared her from ever having to choose between him and fame.

  She’d thank him, if she knew.

  “Does Belle know?”

  Patrick came out of his reverie with a guilty start. “Know what?”

  “Know what a jerry-built, shoestring-budget kind of operation this is?” David was grinning as he said it, apparently meaning no offense. “You’ve got stuff here manufactured in three different decades, wired into a board with only eight channels. This isn’t exactly Chicago.”

  “Yeah, but the price was right.” More than once, he’d happened upon a perfectly good piece of radio gear propped against someone’s trash can. King of the Road Kill, his last staff had called him. So he got a kick out of finding treasures hiding in people’s junk piles. So what?

  Besides, he had to cut corners somewhere or he couldn’t afford to hire Belle. “Mark my words, she’ll take the job.” Say yes, woman. I need you here.

  He slipped out of the studio and moved down the hall to his private office, tossing his raincoat over a set of deer antlers he’d dragged around the country with him, station to station. The antlers made a great coat rack and a better conversation piece, right along with the nine-foot marlin mounted and hanging behind his desk. He loved to tell people he’d harpooned it off the coast of Mexico, but usually ended up telling the truth: He’d found it sticking out of a Dumpster in Slidell, Louisiana.

  David stuck his head in the post office and found it buzzing with late-afternoon activity. People came and went with packages and plastic tubs full of letters while he ducked in the side door and headed for his box—the smallest, cheapest one in the place.

  He’d be happy if just one piece of mail was waiting for him. One particular piece. He pushed the hair off his forehead, stalling. Please, Lord. He shoved his key in the lock, hesitating. I haven’t asked for much. Let it be there.

  Swinging open the metal door, he felt his whole body tense. On top of the small stack of mail was an envelope with a handwritten address, neatly printed. He slipped his hand in the narrow box and pulled out the fistful of letters and postcards, forcing himself to shuffle through the rest of it—bills, mostly, and advertisements.

  Nothing that couldn’t wait.

  He opened the long, white envelope last … the one with a return address that was permanently etched on his memory, written in handwriting he immediately recognized, even before he saw the name.

  Sherry Robison.

  His hands, tanned by the sun and torn up by nails and boards, were shaking. He told himself it was caffeine, but he knew better.

  A single sheet of paper was inside, a short note written by the same hand, with small, carefully formed letters in plain blue ink. He scanned the words that told him nothing new.

  Until he got to the postscript. I understand what you’re asking for and it’s only fair. I’ll send it soon, I promise.

  Soon?

  Soon beat never, but not by much.

  two

  Friendship or love—one must choose.

  RENÉ CREVEL

  THE BELLS OF ABINGDON United Methodist Church chimed a joyous melody into the crisp November air as Patrick pulled his ’71 Eldorado up to the curb on Church Street. He pointed the blue behemoth with the coffinlike hood in the direction of Norah’s brick Victorian on the corner of Main Street, where the third floor was ready and waiting for a new tenant—Belle O’Brien.

  He checked his watch. Almost noon. Norah promised to call him on the cell phone when Belle arrived, but he’d gotten antsy waiting around his apartment all morning.

  Now he felt like a stalker.

  Even he didn’t know what he was doing there early, sitting and waiting for her like some lovesick adolescent. Ridiculous. It was eight years ago, a lifetime ago. Then, as now, he’d hired Belle because she was the best person for the job, period. Any personal feelings for her had faded away to nothing but a warm memory.

  Keep telling yourself that, buddy.

  Clearly the Chicago deal had been rough on her—it had shown in the strained sound of her voice on the phone, in the cynical bent of her words—but she’d get over it. Like him, Belle was a survivor. One with talent. And brains. And huge amber eyes in a small, heart-shaped face … and a low voice that wrapped itself around listeners’ hearts and wouldn’t let go.

  Funny thing was, Belle didn’t have a clue about any of that. Personal appearances put her over the edge. Listeners gawking at her, saying inane things like “I thought you’d look different.”

  The fools.

  He’d been in radio long enough to understand the problem only too well. No matter how beautiful she was—and she was beautiful—when Belle sensed that her five feet, two inches of Carolina casual didn’t meet her audiences’ expectations, her spirits sank, taking her confidence with it.

  That, by jig, won’t happen in this town. He’d see to it she was crowned the Belle of Abingdon in six months. Less.

  The doors of the church swung open, launching a buoyant wave of townsfolk streaming along the sidewalk past his car. He’d been in Abingdon just over six weeks, long enough to recognize a few faces, not long enough to nod as if he knew them. That’d happen soon. He was in Virginia to stay, no question. Belle wasn’t the only one weary of being jerked around from one city to another.

  A thirty-something guy with a high-voltage smile was walking toward Patrick’s car, evidently on a mission. Patrick rolled down the window and put on his best public relations smile. Everyone in town was a potential WPER listener.

  “Matthew Howard,” the younger man offered, thrusting out his hand with puppylike exuberance. “I’m the new associate pastor. Were you waiting for someone?”

  “Not exactly.” Then what exactly are you doing, Reese?

  “Well, don’t be shy. Next Sunday, why not come in and join us?”

  Given enough time, Patrick could think of several reasons why not, though none popped into his head at the moment.

  “Appreciate the invitation, Reverend Howard.” He returned the man’s handshake. “I’m Patrick Reese, the owner of WPER, a brand-new radio station in town that’s going on the air Tuesday.”

  “Oh, sure!” The pastor’s eyebrows shot up toward his neatly trimmed, wavy brown hair. “ ‘Oldies 95,’ isn’t it?”

  Patrick’s smile widened. “That’s us. Hope you’ll tune in, Reverend.” After all, the guy was smack dab in the middle of the station’s target demographics—eighteen to fifty-four.

  Unless, of course, the pastor’s favorite music was hymns.

  “Tell you what, Mr.
Reese. I’ll listen to WPER if you’ll come listen to me sometime soon.” Matthew winked then turned away to shake hands with an elderly man waiting behind him.

  Pretty good salesman. Patrick watched him work the crowd still flowing past his Cadillac convertible. Belle might decide to attend church here. Handy enough, right across the street from her apartment. When they’d worked together in Kingsport, she’d often talked about going to services.

  He was a Christmas and Easter man himself. Twice a year, just to keep his name in the hat. Maybe in a few weeks, he’d give Abingdon UMC his business for the holidays.

  His attention abruptly shifted toward Main Street as a Pontiac slowed to a crawl in front of Norah’s place, then turned on Church. When the car slid into the space reserved for Norah’s tenant, Patrick sat up with a start.

  Belle.

  Though he couldn’t see clearly from half a block away, he kept his eyes trained on the car nonetheless. A small, red-haired woman in a dark green coat and blue jeans slipped out and headed for Norah’s back door.

  Yeah, she’d always looked good in green.

  He took a deep breath, letting it out with a noisy hiss. Showtime.

  Staring at his cell phone propped on the passenger seat, Patrick willed it to ring. C’mon, Norah, I feel like a fool sitting and waiting. She’s here now, so call me. Please?

  Belle searched for a doorbell until she gave up and tapped firmly on the back porch door. This was definitely the right address, since the house fit Patrick’s description to a T. Her eyes drank in the weathered brick exterior—1871, he’d said—and freshly painted white trim. Three full stories and a tin roof with two promising chimneys. A fireplace? Hope so.

  She’d already fallen in love with Abingdon. Driving in on East Main, she’d nearly had a fender bender twice while trying to take in all the historic buildings on both sides. Antique stores, gift shops, restaurants, and one quaint residence after another were crowded along the narrow, hilly street. It had been a struggle, but she’d pulled her attention back to concentrate on the house numbers. Plenty of time to explore later.

  And explore she would. Abingdon was the quintessential small town, population 7,003.

  Soon to be 7,004.