Mixed Signals Read online

Give it up, Sherry. Let it go. She’d tortured herself with this ugly scenario a zillion times over the years. Enough, already. It’s Christmas.

  She forced a bright smile on her face, beaming it in the direction of her only begotten son. “How many pancakes for you, buster?” She winked with pretend enthusiasm. “If you promise to be on your best behavior today, I’ll make all your pancakes look like Santa Claus, okay?”

  Every mother needed a few acting skills in her pocket. To get through the day. To survive.

  seventeen

  Actresses will happen even in the best-regulated families.

  OLIVER HERFORD

  “MY ACTING IS MORE than a little rusty.” Belle held on to the script for Much Ado about Nothing with both hands, embarrassed to find she was shaking at the thought of reading Shakespeare again. How many years had it been since she’d auditioned for a part? More than ten. Even then, at Appalachian State, auditions were among friendly rivals who knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses and were kind enough not to point them out.

  This was different. This was the real thing, professional theater, without a much-beloved college professor doing the casting.

  Radio could be dramatic, touching, funny, but nothing came close to the thrill of performing in front of a live audience face to face. She’d grumbled more than once that radio listeners never applauded, let alone gave standing ovations. Stu MacGregor, the morning jock in Philly, once wisecracked, “If a listener claps in the suburbs and no one’s there to hear it, does he make any sound?”

  The Barter Theatre was her chance to hear the applause, to see if she had the talent to be more than a voice on the radio—to be a whole person, voice and body, on the stage.

  “Norah, if you’ll read Antonio’s lines, I’ll take a stab at Ursula.”

  “Wrong play, my dear. ’Tis Juliet who takes a stab. Tragically so. Besides, I’d much rather read the part of Beatrice in Much Ado. Isn’t she the witty one who says, ‘I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me’? Hear, hear, sister.” Norah held up her mug in a mock toast, winking at Belle, who only laughed.

  “Norah, you own a cat, not a dog, and you’d give anything to hear Patrick Reese say he loves you. Don’t pull that pose with me.”

  Curled up in overstuffed chairs pulled close to the fire, Belle and Norah sipped on hot chocolate, frothy with whipped cream and tiny shavings of dark chocolate. Norah never did anything halfway, Belle thought, smiling to herself.

  Outside, the late December wind blew hard against the brick house, rattling the windows, beating the wreaths against the wavy glass panes. Inside, the two of them tucked their slippered feet under warm pillows and rattled their scripts in preparation for her big audition at the Barter Theatre next week.

  Belle began Ursula’s first scene at a masquerade party. “I know you well enough, you are Signior Antonio.”

  Norah interrupted with a shake of her thick hair. “Belle, you should stand up. After all, you’ll need to do so on stage.”

  Belle sighed in resignation and stood, drawing closer to the fire before she repeated her line. “You are Signior Antonio.”

  Norah held up her script and read with gusto. “At a word, I am not.” Even seated, Norah threw herself into the role, tossing her head back, pretending to wear a reveler’s mask.

  Belle continued with Ursula’s next line. “I know you by the waggling of your head.”

  Silence. “Sorry, Belle.” Norah squinted at the script. “I suppose I should have waggled for you there.”

  Belle grinned. “Let’s take it from the top, then.”

  Back and forth they went, rehearsing Ursula’s four brief scenes, as Belle grew more fretful by the minute. “With less than twenty lines to learn, you’d think I’d have them memorized by now.”

  Norah smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in her worsted wool jacket. “Surely they don’t expect that for an audition?”

  “Not expect, no. But I thought it might impress them.” Belle read over Ursula’s final discourse, a lengthy piece with internal rhyme. “Is it falsely accus’d and mightily abus’d or the other way around? Honestly, Norah, I hope I don’t fall on my face.”

  “With all your education in theater, I bet you won’t.” Norah tossed aside the script. “I’ve always loved this play. Two people, obviously in love but fighting it tooth and nail, until they’re tricked into declaring their feelings for one another.” She paused, clearly for effect. “Has a familiar sound to it, don’t you think, Belle?”

  “You mean Beatrice and Benedick, waging their war of wits?” Belle thought of the two characters in the play and their modern counterparts, Norah and Patrick. She sprouted a mischievous grin. “Yes, it does ring a bell. How does the line go? ‘Nature never fram’d a woman’s heart of prouder stuff than …” ’

  They looked at one another and blurted out in chorus: “Yours!”

  Norah balked.

  Belle bristled.

  “Norah, you can’t be suggesting—”

  “Not suggesting, telling.” Norah rolled her eyes dramatically. “You and David are just like those two, throwing verbal darts back and forth, posing like enemies when you’re the perfect couple.”

  Humph. “Well, look who’s talking.” Belle dropped onto the couch, letting the soft cushions puddle around her. “You and Patrick have created Bea and Ben all over again. Didn’t Patrick make some crack during Christmas dinner about your ‘rapier wit’?”

  “There you go, taking stabs again.” Norah’s silver hair framed an impish expression. “I suppose we’ve both met our match.”

  Belle wasn’t certain that David would see her as his Beatrice, or see them as the perfect couple. The Odd Couple is more like it. Chatty Cathy and Silent Sam. Well, not always silent. Not when they had time to talk. But here it was, three days past Christmas, and all they’d shared were a few brief visits in the studio during her midday show. Song, chat. Commercial, chat. Nothing more, nothing personal.

  Maybe that’s a good thing. She didn’t need another breath-stealing kiss to tell her what she already knew. David stirred things in her better left unstirred.

  “What this rehearsal needs is more hot chocolate.” Belle padded into Norah’s kitchen, helping herself to cocoa and sugar. She felt so at home here, in this house, in this town. All she needed was a chance to act on stage again and her life would be fuller than she’d known in years. So what if the part was small. Hadn’t she always ended up in supporting roles?

  In high school she’d starred as the lead player often enough, but college meant more competition and fewer lines. Her peers all dreamed of New York or L.A. She dreamed of a theater exactly like the Barter. Not a big city—a small town. Not a touring company—a home. Not a star—a stage. A place where she could be someone else for an hour. Theater was the ideal spot for a late bloomer like her.

  Norah called from the living room, “Your Hero awaits!”

  My hero? David?

  Belle grabbed her steaming mug of cocoa and headed for the front of the house, a spark of nervous energy tripping along her spine. Is he really here? Why didn’t I hear him come in? She paused long enough to catch her reflection in the hall mirror and groaned at her messy braid and smudged makeup. Hope he’s ready for a ‘come as you are’ party.

  When she rounded the corner and found only Norah sitting there looking smug and waving the script, she stopped in her tracks, her spirits quickly deflated. “But I thought you said … ?”

  “Act 3, scene 1, Belle. ‘Hero,’ remember her? The female lead in Much Ado? Time to rehearse your scene with Hero.”

  Belle shot her landlady a scathing glance. “Aren’t you the funny one.”

  “I was merely conducting an experiment. Seeing if young Cahill has indeed taken center stage in your heart.”

  “A tad premature, Norah.” Belle resumed her place by the fire, realizing a chill had settled over her that had nothing to do with the howling winds outside. She was anxious to see David, more than sh
e cared to admit to Norah. Or to herself.

  “I’m ready if you are. Start where Hero talks about Cupid’s crafty arrow. I’m ready with Ursula’s first line.”

  Norah winked at her. “The one about fishing with baited hook?”

  “If you promise me you won’t wait with bated breath to uncover my feelings for David, we’ll get along fine. Deal?”

  “Oh, how boring.” Norah reached for her own cocoa, long grown cold. “David is off limits, then. For now, the play’s the thing.”

  David clutched the envelope in his hands, afraid to open it, afraid what the contents might do to his equilibrium.

  Postal customers milled all around him, riffling through their boxes for mail, dropping envelopes in slots. He was rooted to the spot, staring at the plain white envelope with the achingly familiar Sacramento address. It was the handwriting that was different. Not Sherry’s careful printing in ink. These were large letters, some barely recognizable, drawn with a thick pencil. Abington was misspelled, but thank goodness the zip was right or the letter might never have found him.

  He didn’t have to look in the return address corner to know who it was from. Joshua Robison. His son.

  Waiting until he got home was out of the question, but a crowded post office wasn’t the right place to read it either. He slammed the door shut on his postal box, yanked out the key and made tracks for his truck, stuffing the other mail in his jacket pocket.

  The bitter winds whipped past him, nearly tearing the sacred letter from his hands. He settled himself behind the wheel, started the engine, flipping the heater on full blast, and took a deep breath. Josh had never written him before. David had always assumed his mother wouldn’t let him. Maybe she didn’t know about this one, wouldn’t have approved if she did.

  Lord bless you, Josh.

  It was his letter now, his to read and savor. He opened the envelope with exceeding care and unfolded the single sheet of paper, forcing his hands to stop shaking long enough for him to read it.

  December 26

  Dear Dad—

  Hope it’s okay if I call you that. Mom will kill me if she finds out so don’t tell her.

  My science kit is great. I turned Mom’s tablecloth blue. Not on purpose. Thank you for the Christmas gift.

  I wish we could come to Virginia. Mom says I look just like you but not as tall. Are your eyes gray too?

  I gotta go. Can you write me? If not, that’s okay.

  Happy New Year, Dad!

  Your son,

  Josh

  The first sob came without warning, a huge racking sound from deep in his chest. No tears, only sound, like a wounded animal. He tossed the letter on the dashboard and crumpled in his seat, giving the pain free rein, a groaning too deep for words.

  Dad.

  The weight of it crushed him. A hunger and longing he’d kept at bay for a lifetime came roaring back, ravenous, insatiable. A hunger to be the father he’d wanted and never had. A father who cared, who showed up, who loved him.

  He’d never had that kind of dad.

  And neither had Josh.

  All those Christmases Josh spent in California, alone with his mother. All those Father’s Days, so like his own growing up. No dad in sight. No one to thank, no one to slap him on the back, no one to take him to ball games.

  No one to teach him how to be a man.

  David groaned again, the tears beginning to flow, stinging his eyes, filling his throat.

  The memories split open like tombs that had been sealed shut for decades. His past stretched before him, threatening to pull him under, destroy his hope, and obliterate his joy.

  Every unkind word ever tossed his way spun through his mind. White trash. No-good. Loser. Scum. Did Josh hear those words at school, on the playground? Did Josh miss having a real father, every day of his life, like he did, even now?

  At least Josh’s dad was sober, he consoled himself.

  At least your dad was around, he realized, defeated again.

  It was all his fault. His and Sherry’s.

  “Sherry.” He spat out her name like an oath into the cab of the empty truck. The word echoed in the stillness, hung there like an unwelcome guest. It would be so easy to blame everything on her. Easy to curse her. Easy to hate her.

  But it was too late for all that. God had taken over his heart, at his own invitation. Hate and love could no longer coexist there. He couldn’t love his son and hate his son’s mother. Not if he wanted to please God.

  And he did. By all that was holy, he did.

  David pressed his hands hard into his temples, holding back the headache that throbbed beneath his palms. Life had been so much easier when all he had to worry about was keeping the powers that be happy and scraping together two hundred dollars a month.

  Those days were nothing but a memory.

  Things had gotten downright complicated. His job. His house. Belle. Josh. Ties, obligations, commitments. Everything he’d prayed for felt like a noose around his neck, choking the life out of him.

  No.

  David lifted his head, dazed, as if someone had spoken.

  No!

  Those things were his life. Blessings from God, every one. So many blessings he didn’t know what to do with them all. He sat in the silent cab, looking out at the gray, wintry sky while the truth sank deep into his heart.

  From a still deeper place inside him came a rusty chuckle.

  Now what, God?

  It hurt, this laugh that squeezed itself out of an open wound, yet it carried with it a sensation of lightness, of freedom. He chuckled again, felt it move to his face, forcing his lips upward.

  “Lord, I give up.” He laughed a third time. “Okay, since these are your blessings, have at ’em.”

  The sense of freedom grew, filling every inch of his heart and all the space around it.

  David threw the gearshift into first, amazed to find himself smiling broadly at the letter on the dashboard. “I don’t know what the future holds, Josh, but I know who holds the future. Hang on, buddy. Life ain’t over yet. Not by a long shot.”

  “One more, Miss O’Brien?” The photographer from the Washington County News adjusted his wide-angle lens and snapped the last shot on the roll. “Terrific. You’ve been a good sport about all this.”

  “Mr. Monroe, ever since WTIE, I’ve never cared for the phrase ‘good sport.’ ” Belle blinked slowly, trying to bring her eyes back into focus after staring at the bright lights for an hour. Her apartment was a jumbled mess of discarded clothing and displaced furniture, her brain on overload. “We’ve gone through a ton of film. Hope there’s something you can use.”

  Packing away his cameras and gear, the photographer gave her a broad wink. “Guess I’ll have to take these rolls to the darkroom and see what develops.”

  Belle suspected he used that line daily. Hourly.

  Heaven knew they’d spent enough time together. The day had dawned chilly but bright, turning stubborn remnants of snow into a sparkling backdrop for their outdoor shots. There were plenty of those—outside WPER, outside her apartment, outside the Grill, on the hilly field surrounding Virginia Highlands Community College, where she posed with the hot air balloon crew that would send her up, up and away for her Happy Together balloon ride.

  She’d almost forgotten about that.

  A half-mile-high ride with a complete stranger come March. Nothing separating them from certain death but a colorful fabric envelope filled with hot air.

  No wonder she’d put it out of her mind.

  She and Mr. Monroe had shot several rolls indoors, too. In her apartment, in the Silver Spoon, in the studio, in the jock lounge with her cohorts—most of whom seemed relieved she was being subjected to this torture instead of them.

  Except Frank, who, although he hated newspapers, was dad-gummed disappointed when they didn’t feature him. Wasn’t he the morning guy, the one who really put the P-E-R in personality? The nerve of that newspaper, he’d fumed, stomping off to the producti
on room. The very nerve.

  Mr. Monroe took the photos while Ms. Bridgewater asked the questions. Belle handled the résumé stuff with ease, tossing call letters at her until the woman’s pen approached meltdown. Then the questions got harder.

  “Why did you move to Abingdon?” the reporter asked innocently, tapping her tablet.

  The truth? Then? Now? What should she tell her? Belle gave her the chamber of commerce answer—great place to work and raise a family—and hoped the Lord would forgive her subterfuge.

  That “family” answer sent Ms. Bridgewater down another path Belle wasn’t ready to travel.

  “Are you engaged, then? Seeing anyone? Or happy being single?”

  Shaky ground, this. Belle smiled brightly. “No, not really!” She prayed that her dull answer would be left out of the article completely.

  Wait. This is better.

  “I’ll tell you why I really came to Abingdon.” She’d conjured up the consummate detour to steer them away from the personal track and onto something safe. “I’m auditioning for the Barter Theatre.” Ms. Bridgewater’s pen heated up again, taking thorough notes as Belle chattered animatedly about majoring in drama in college, her yearning to return to the stage, her lengthy rehearsals for the role of Ursula.

  Norah was in the room when she hit that part and shot her a curious glance. Lengthy?

  Belle blushed and kept right on talking. An hour was lengthy, wasn’t it?

  “We’ll be interviewing the on-air staff at WPER as well,” Ms. Bridgewater informed her. “See what they have to say about their midday personality.”

  Belle’s stomach did a queasy once-over. “I’m sure they’ll have plenty to say. Be sure and take a new pen.” And steer clear of Frank. Patrick might be a loose cannon, too. Print media was always iffy. Unlike broadcast media, where the reporter only had a recorded voice or image to work with, the print folks could have a field day, easily piecing comments together any which way, making their victim out to be a blinking idiot.

  On the other hand, kindhearted print sources could make the interview sound better than the videotaped version. Take out all the “uhs” and “duhs” and polish the words till they shone like stars.