Mixed Signals Read online

  She gulped. “No doubt.” Did he understand what she was hinting at? That she’d never known a man? First because they’d shown no interest in her, then because she’d shown no interest in them or in giving herself to anyone but a future husband.

  Could David read that in her expression, in her eyes, so she wouldn’t have to say the words and risk blushing for the rest of her natural life?

  David tugged on her braid, pulling her an inch closer. His voice was a gentle murmur. “What you’re telling me is, you’re not Sherry.”

  “Right!” Her sigh of relief could be heard two blocks in each direction. “I’m … not.”

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, then two.

  Is he crying, Lord? Praying? She forced herself not to move, not to breathe. Only to wait. When he finally opened his eyes, slowly and without apology, Belle saw a light reflected there that pierced her heart with its honesty.

  “To think,” he whispered, “that a woman so … pure …” His voice trailed off. “Grace. You’ve given me the gift of grace. Again.”

  She bit her lower lip. “It’s not my gift to give. It’s God’s.”

  “I know.” A single tear slipped down the plane of his handsome face, tracing his chin line, disappearing into the striped collar of his shirt. “You, Belle, are the living, breathing proof of it.”

  Instinctively, she reached up and pressed her hands against his neck to catch the tear, to spare his shirt. His freshly shaved skin warmed her cold fingers. She felt him swallow, felt his neck tighten as he began to lower his head, saw his eyes sweep closed once more as his lips formed in the unmistakable shape of a kiss.

  Her eyes drifted shut. His warm, mint-tinged breath reached her lips a half beat before his mouth did. Despite the chilly air swirling around them, she sensed her skin warming to a toasty glow.

  David’s hands slipped loosely around her waist, and the tiniest gasp escaped her before she found her lips pressing against his while she held her breath, waiting and wondering and worrying and …

  Oh, my.

  This was … this was too good to be imagined. Their lips were a perfect fit, clearly fashioned for one another before time began.

  She slipped her hands around the back of his neck, separating their lips for only a moment before they touched again. His kiss was a gentle, caring caress, full of emotion and honesty and respect and every other thing she’d ever prayed for.

  Her heart was singing—on pitch! fathom that!—as she broke their kiss at last and tipped her head back, vaguely aware of frosty winds brushing across her heated cheeks. “Merry Christmas, David.”

  His eyes twinkled behind his glasses, which were now covered with a faint layer of steam and ice. “You can say that again.” He bent toward her. “In fact, I wish you would.”

  Norah considered herself an above-average conversationalist. But even a pro runs out of small talk eventually.

  Since the minute David Cahill stormed out her front door, trailed by a tearful Belle, Norah had been preparing for their return. Room was made at the festive table for another guest. Didn’t I want six all along? Symmetry gave her a small frisson of pleasure deep in her bones. The Christmas stocking with David’s name carefully stitched across the top was quickly hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that dear David soon would be there.

  Soon came and went. Late had settled in.

  The food waited, no doubt shriveled beyond recognition, warming in her Silver Spoon ovens downstairs. Her three remaining guests, filled to the gills with hors d’oeuvres and eggnog, sat expectantly around her table, strangers to one another, thrown together only moments before the whole messy drama had unfolded in the foyer.

  This was not at all the day she’d anticipated, planned for, prayed for, hoped for. Which meant God was up to something, and for that she was exceedingly grateful. After all, what would Christmas be without him?

  Patrick was looking at her now, his eyes darker than usual, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. Scoundrel. She should punish him for his carelessness, for inviting David without informing anyone else. What a lot of unnecessary heartache he’d caused. Still, it was hard to stay mad at a man who meant well and looked so crestfallen when he realized what he’d done.

  He’d apologized to her profusely in the kitchen, even after she’d swatted his hand when he reached for a biscuit. He’d grabbed her hand in return, lifted it to brush his lips against her floured palm, begged her forgiveness. When he grinned—his mouth covered with White Lily Flour—she’d laughed until her sides hurt.

  How could a woman stay mad at such an impossibly charming man?

  Belle’s parents were holding up well, considering. A pleasant couple, obviously trying to sort things out, wondering what they’d missed and who the blond stranger was who’d stolen their daughter’s heart. Belle could deny it all she wanted, insist her elders were seeing things that weren’t there, but it was clear that David had eyes for her alone and vice versa.

  Norah smiled to herself. You don’t live fifty years and miss the obvious stuff. The question was, had the two of them figured it out yet?

  As if in answer, the front door swung open, ushering in the snow-covered couple. Belle and David both sported identical red noses and expressions suggesting … astonishment? Norah was certain of one thing. David’s cheek bore a distinct scarlet handprint, and Belle’s neck was a startling shade of pink, showing off a shiny new gold necklace.

  My, this is turning out to be a memorable Christmas.

  “Finally, you two!” Norah hurried to greet them with a warm hug, steering them to their chairs, waiting side by side at the table. “Forgive us, David, for getting our signals crossed. Naturally we wanted you with us for Christmas. Suppose you sit right here and get acquainted with the Oberholtzers while Belle and I bring in the food.”

  David shed his soaking wet suit jacket with profuse apologies and dropped into a chair while Norah practically dragged Belle into the kitchen, her curiosity meter on high. She forced herself to keep quiet during the trip down the back steps to the shop kitchen, but the minute they were out of earshot, she pushed Belle into the nearest chair.

  “Talk.”

  “Wh-what about?” Belle’s expression was pure as the snow on her front steps.

  Norah wasn’t having any of it. “Let’s start with the necklace.”

  “David’s Christmas gift to me.” Belle sighed and held it out for her inspection, smiling wistfully. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  “Hmm. And I suppose your gift to him was that bright red slap in the face, eh?”

  “Not … not exactly.”

  Norah folded her arms with a groan of long-suffering. Young women could be so coy. “What then? Exactly?”

  Belle met her gaze without blinking. “He kissed me.”

  “Aha! Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “On the neck.”

  Norah’s eyebrows shot north. “Belle, he shouldn’t have!”

  “My sentiments precisely. That’s why I slapped him.”

  “I see.” Norah thought about that one for a full minute, then exhaled. “Quite right. Can’t have him thinking you’re anything less than a gentlewoman.”

  “Quite right,” Belle echoed, clearly relieved to have Norah’s support. “But he did apologize, and kissed me again. Properly.”

  “Ahh.” Norah rubbed her hands together, bracelets jingling. “The plot thickens.”

  “No.” Belle stood up. “The soup thickens while we stand here letting it cook down to stew.” Slipping on oven mitts and lifting the heavy soup kettle, Belle called over her shoulder as she started up the steps. “Who knows? Maybe it’s just Christmas. All that holiday cheer and candlelight and mistletoe and presents and so on.”

  Norah watched from behind as Belle continued up the staircase, forcing her to hurry after her with a basket of fresh bread so she could hear the rest of it.

  “Very romantic stuff.” Belle had reached the landing. “But it might not be lov
e. It might just be Christmas.”

  “I wish every day was Christmas.” Joshua’s gray eyes were round with anticipation. “Don’t you, Mom?”

  No, she definitely did not. From Sherry’s vantage point, Christmas was the hardest day of the year. She collapsed onto the saggy cushions of her secondhand couch and surveyed their apartment. She’d scrubbed it clean, fluffed the pillows, hung as much cheap tinsel around the windows and doors as taste would permit, but it still didn’t look like the holidays she remembered from her own childhood.

  No way. Not even a little.

  She’d brought home a pitiful, free-for-the-taking pine tree on Christmas Eve, to which Josh exclaimed, “That’s like the one we saw on the Charlie Brown Christmas special!” Sherry didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She’d been doing a lot of both lately.

  Landing another job had been easy enough. Every store in the mall needed help during the holidays—the drugstore that’d hired her was no exception. They’d made it clear, though, that the job ended on New Year’s Eve. She’d bought herself time, but not security.

  Sherry tipped her head back, willing the tension to drain out of her neck and into the waiting upholstered arms of the plaid couch. When was the last time some nice man had wrapped his arms around her, massaged her neck, rubbed her aching feet, wished her Merry Christmas? Thinking about it bruised her tender heart, already battered from too many maybes and somedays.

  The only mysterious gift under the tree this year was from David Cahill. And it wasn’t for her.

  “Mom, when do I get to open my presents?” Josh’s eyes darted from the big striped box to his mother and back again.

  She smiled at him in spite of her melancholy mood. How could she not? His blond hair was sticking up in tufts, his gray eyes with their expressive brows were practically dancing, his smile—minus two teeth—was ear to ear, his pajamas were two sizes too small, showing off lots of skinny, adorable boy. With a son like Josh, it was hard not to smile.

  “Do you want to eat breakfast first?” Dumb question.

  “No! Presents first, Mom.”

  Of course. She got up and pulled the large package toward him, sharing every ounce of his joy. Vicarious as it might be, it beat no joy at all.

  He ran his small hands over the box, pressed his ear against it, sniffed at it like a curious puppy. It was too big to pick up and shake, so he had to satisfy himself with moving it back and forth across the carpet, listening for telltale clues.

  “Wanna guess, Josh?”

  He assured her that he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t a board game—too big—or a bicycle—too small—or a basketball—too heavy. “Might as well open it, huh?” His hands tore at the paper, turning it into confetti and the floor into a trash heap. “Wow, look! A junior scientist set!”

  Gee, David. Thanks a bunch.

  But she couldn’t be mad at him. Not at David, a man who’d clearly spent many hard-earned dollars on the larger of the two gifts under his son’s tree. “That’s wonderful.” She watched as Josh took out each fascinating piece, turning it over in his hands, wondering aloud what to do with a microscope, and if you could really watch a potato turn green, and did she have one he could “ ’speriment” on right now?

  “Maybe after breakfast.” In the year 2017.

  “Can I send him a thank-you letter?”

  Sherry’s heart skipped a beat. “N-no, honey. I’ll take care of that, okay?”

  Josh put everything carefully back in its intended slot, one eye trained on the other smaller gift still waiting for him beneath the scrawny tree. “Is that one for me, too?”

  “Silly boy, you know it is. Isn’t that your name on the tag, big as life?”

  He yanked the package over, taking his time with his second and last present. “Looks like books, Mom.”

  “Only one way to find out.” She watched him pull off the paper, grateful he was such a good reader and wouldn’t be disappointed to discover that he’d been right. It was books, a dozen of them from the used bookstore, all his favorite space adventures and action heroes.

  “Thanks, Mom! These are cool.” He jumped on the couch with his armload of dog-eared paperbacks, looking judiciously at each title, stacking them in the order he wanted to read them. When he had them lined up just so, Josh turned to her with a twinkle in his eye. “Now, where’s your gift?”

  She felt her cheeks grow warm. “Christmas is for kids, Josh. Moms don’t need presents.”

  “Mine does.” He slipped to the floor, his pajamas hitched up around his knees, and disappeared into his bedroom, returning seconds later with a small box covered with an entire roll of sealing tape.

  Sherry couldn’t see the paper beneath all the tape. She smothered a teary giggle, stretching out her hand to receive his gift.

  “Merry Christmas, Mom!”

  “And to you, handsome boy.”

  She struggled to open the box while Josh hopped up and down shouting, “It’s an ornament! It’s an ornament for our tree! I made it at school, all by myself!”

  Sure enough, it was. The perfect accompaniment to their tree, a fragile little manger made of Popsicle sticks and cotton balls. “Josh, it’s wonderful!” She turned the ornament this way and that, admiring it from all angles. “You made this? I’m impressed. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

  “No problem.” He was beaming with pride as she carried it over to the tree and perched it on the most prominent branch. “We didn’t make the baby Jesus to put inside, though.” He pointed at the empty manger.

  “Did you run out of supplies?”

  “No. Our teacher wanted us to remember that Jesus doesn’t live in a manger anymore or on the cross either. He lives in our hearts.”

  “I see.” Sherry fought a smile. Christian mumbo jumbo. His teacher was always filling her son’s head with a bunch of Bible nonsense. She might have to address that little problem when Josh went back to school in January.

  January. Back to school. Back to no job, no money, no prospects. No use ruining Josh’s big day worrying about it. She had another week at the drugstore, didn’t she? Plenty of time to worry later.

  “Time for breakfast.” Three steps and she was in the kitchen, pulling down the ingredients for pancakes, Josh’s favorite. He sat at the kitchen counter to watch her, his blond head cradled in his hands, his wistful expression almost more than she could bear.

  She was in the middle of cracking eggs when Josh hit her broadside.

  “Mom, how come Dad doesn’t send you a present?”

  Tell him the truth. “Because he doesn’t love me.”

  Josh scrunched up his face in confusion. “Does he love me?”

  “Yes, he does. In his own way, he certainly does.”

  “Then why doesn’t he ever come to see me?”

  She quietly put down her wire whisk, hoping to bring an end to this uncomfortable discussion. “Josh, we’ve talked about this before. Your father and I never married. So—”

  “Couldn’t you get married now?”

  “Please don’t interrupt me, son. And no, we can’t get married.” She wiped her hands nervously on a dish towel, wishing she had some words of wisdom bottled in her spice rack that she could reach for at a time like this. Something to sprinkle over things. Make them taste better instead of bitter. “We don’t love each other. We don’t even know each other.”

  “But he writes you. Every month.”

  “No, Josh, he writes you. Because he loves you and helps provide for you.”

  “Gee, didn’t he ever love you, Mom?”

  That one landed hard, pressing into her heart until she was forced to feel the pain rather than deny it. “I think he did.”

  Liar. She knew he did. He’d said so, over and over. And what did you do with that love, Sherry Robison? You threw it back in his face. Over and over.

  Josh wasn’t giving up so easily. “Can’t he at least come to see us sometime?”

  “Maybe sometime.” She knew that was the wrong
response, knew where it would lead.

  “Sometime? When?” Josh’s eyes sparkled. “Sometime soon?”

  She slapped the whisk on the counter, gritting her teeth to hold back her anger, to fight back her tears. “ ‘Maybe’ means it could happen, but it might not.” She picked up the whisk again, gripping it tight. “Anyway, he doesn’t know where we live exactly. Only our post office box.”

  “He could find us, couldn’t he?” Josh was just like his father, persistent to a fault.

  “He could, but he won’t.” Not unless I invite him. Which she wouldn’t dream of doing. Not David Cahill, king of the write-offs. The minute she thought it, she realized nothing could be further from the truth. A write-off didn’t faithfully send letters and money, month in and month out, for a child he’d never met, born to a woman who’d never loved him, who’d laughed in his face, who’d rejected his proposal of marriage and every offer of help he’d ever extended in her direction.

  That sort of man could find one lonely woman and one small boy without breaking a sweat. But because she told him to stay away, he did. Because she told him she hated him, he believed her.

  Josh broke into her painful reverie with yet another suggestion. “Hey, if he won’t come here, can we go there? To Virginia?” Josh had seen the return addresses over the years, knew when his father had moved all over the world for the air force, for college, and now, of all places, Abingdon.

  Home. Whatever possessed him to move there? She didn’t have a clue. It practically guaranteed that she’d never darken his door.

  “No, son, we can’t go to Virginia.”

  Not to Abingdon. Not ever. It would mean facing her father, Mr. George Almighty Robison, who couldn’t bear the thought of his little princess being pregnant out of wedlock, who gave her a fistful of cash and a one-way ticket out of town. Told her there was only one way she’d be welcomed back. Alone.

  The man didn’t even know about his grandson. Or care to find out. At least David wanted a photo of Josh. Had asked for it for years. Her father didn’t know Josh existed. Barely knew she existed.