Mixed Signals (15 page)

“Belle, you have to believe me. I did this for you.” The sincerity in his voice merely fueled her outrage.

Grabbing her coat and purse she stood, not risking so much as a glance in his direction, and bolted for the stairwell. She heard his chair scrape
behind her, heard him call her name. She hung onto the railing for dear life, fearing in her rush to get away she’d tumble headfirst down the steep, well-worn steps.

“Belle, wait!”

His heavier footsteps behind her spurred her forward, through the reception area and out the door into the dark, misty night. She paused only long enough to shove her arms into her green coat, but by then Patrick was behind her, reaching for her.

His grip on her arm was less than gentle as he swung her around. His words were tinged with anger. “Belle, give me a chance!”

She was gasping for air as she struggled to speak. “A chance to do what? Lie to me again?” The traffic on Main Street gave her all the permission she needed to shout. “How
dare
you, Patrick! How dare you? I trusted you. In my own naive way, I loved you.”

“And I loved you, Belle. I still do. Don’t you see, I wanted you to have … to have …”

A possibility dawned on her all at once, like the first streak of sunlight penetrating a gray morning sky. “Of course. You wanted me to have something that you knew you’d never have. A shot at my own show in a major market. Is that it? A vicarious thrill for you, another feather in your manager’s cap?”

“No, Belle, that’s not true!”

Don’t lie to me
.

It was worse than she’d imagined. He’d loved her but never told her. He’d sent her away but never told her why. He’d hired her again, knowing all that but revealing nothing. He’d manipulated her career, her heart, her life, all for his own satisfaction.

She shook off his grip on her arm and buttoned her coat with exaggerated motions, her rage and frustration making her hands shake. She could feel her once-tidy hair spilling down her back, scattering pins everywhere. How different things had been when she’d tucked them into place only two hours earlier. Now her eyes were trained on his, ignoring the pleading she saw there. “You are singularly the most selfish person I have ever known, Patrick Reese. You brought me to this station under false pretenses—”

“No!” He didn’t seem angry so much as desperate. “I brought you here because you were the best person for the job and—”

“If you say that one more time I’m going to throw up!”

“Belle, it’s the truth. I swear to you.”

“The truth?” She snorted. “What would you know about the truth?” She managed the last button on her coat and stepped back to take in a deep breath. “I think we can safely say our relationship is over. It was a charming three days while it lasted. Too bad I didn’t know it was built on a foundation of lies.”

Patrick loomed over her, a thundercloud of a man, his eyes piercing hers, his face wearing so many conflicting emotions she couldn’t begin to sort them through.

Nor did she intend to, now or ever.

She took another ragged breath. “Effective Monday, I will no longer be working for WPER.” She practically spat out the call letters. “Find yourself another midday woman, Patrick. This one is history.”

“You can’t do this, Belle.” His voice sounded like a wounded bear.

“I can and I will!”

“No, I mean you
can’t
do this.”

He paused.

She waited.

When he continued, his voice was low, his words spoken with great care. “Belle, you have a personal contract with WPER. You signed it Monday, remember?”

I remember. You don’t … you can’t …

“You agreed, in writing, to remain in my employ for six months. In order to get the station established, if you recall. An unusual contract, but you agreed to it completely. After the six months are up, of course, you’re free to pursue your career wherever it may take you, but until the second of May … you’re mine.”

“No!”

She turned on her heel and practically ran up the street, her high heels catching on the uneven brick sidewalk. Patrick was right behind her, grasping at her sleeve. “Belle, I’m sorry. I’ll help you find something
else, something better, come May.”

She turned back abruptly, knocking him off balance. “Don’t you dare mention helping me. You’ve done quite enough.”

Belle continued her staggering path up the steep bricks, determined not to let him see her stumble.

“Wait!” He was mere feet behind her. “I can … I can let you out of your contract, Belle. If you’d rather not—”

“Forget it!” She stopped again, whirling around to confront him. Her face, covered with wayward curls and hot tears, was feverish with anger and embarrassment at being so foolish. “Get this straight, Patrick Reese. I’m going to work every day of that six-month contract for the sheer joy of making you miserable. And unless I give you cause, unless I’m found drunk in the local pub or naked on the Town Square, you can’t fire me. Isn’t that right?”

His expression was one of pure agony. “That’s right. Unless tonight could be considered insubordination—”

The last straw snapped.

“Don’t even think it!” It was close to a shriek. “You can’t fire someone for … for hating you!”

Leaving him slack-jawed, standing there on the sidewalk, Belle stormed off toward home, five blocks away. She let the tears flow unabated, not caring what her makeup looked like anymore, no longer concerned with impressing her date.
Ha!
She scoffed at the thought of how much she’d yearned for a memorable evening.

It had been memorable. Yes, indeed. An evening she’d never forget as long as she lived.

She crossed the street, heading past the Greenway-Trigg building, when she heard the rumble of a Cadillac motor coming around the corner. The car slowed to a crawl beside her and she heard the driver roll down the window.

“Belle, at least let me drive you home.” Patrick’s voice, muffled by the wind, was pleading.

“I am perfectly capable of walking, thank you. I’ve done it every day this week and I’ll do it every single day until May.” She shot him a withering
glance as he steered the car along the sidewalk, his window down, his eyes imploring.

“Please, Belle. Please let me explain. You can quit if you want to, you can do whatever makes you happy, but please let me try and make you understand.”

“I understand that I’ve been made a fool of, sixteen ways to Sunday!” She marched over to the car, spotted the theater tickets sticking out of his shirt pocket, and snatched one. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to salvage what I can of this evening and take myself to the Barter. Alone.”

He didn’t try to stop her as she crossed the street and kept walking, and for that she was grateful. She wasn’t ready to face Norah with the unhappy news, nor could she imagine sitting alone in her apartment, rehashing this dreadful night in her head, over and over.

No.
The Taming of the Shrew
was the perfect diversion. She’d let the wit of Petruchio and Katherina keep her company. At least
their
love story had a happy ending.

P
ATRICK WATCHED
B
ELLE MARCH
across the street and out of his life, disappearing into the mist like a forgotten dream.

Except this one had turned into a nightmare.

For a guy who enjoyed being in charge of things, he found his sense of frustration almost debilitating. Why couldn’t Belle see what was so blooming obvious to him? That he’d sent her tape to WRVQ for
her
sake, not his. That he’d done it out of love, not selfishness.

That he loved her still.

He was shaking so badly he didn’t trust himself behind the wheel, so he pointed the Cadillac toward the nearest open curb space. The engine rattled to a wheezing halt as he slumped over the steering wheel.

You blew it, Reese. Big time
. She’d continue working for him, she said. Even though she hated him, she said.

Hate was a strong emotion, he reminded himself. One born of passion, not apathy.
At least she cares about me enough to hate me
. For some odd reason, the thought comforted him. When she’d first arrived in town, he wasn’t sure she had any feelings for him at all. Now she had all kinds of feelings. Not the right ones, but it was a start.

He sat there for several minutes replaying their conversation—
Argument, Reese, it was an argument
—looking for holes in his reasoning or in hers, searching for clues to figure out where exactly he’d gone wrong.

I shouldn’t have told her about sending the demo tape
. She wouldn’t have
known if he hadn’t told her. Never would have found out, either.

I shouldn’t have sent the demo tape without asking her
. That was closer to the truth, though he had done it for the right reasons. He could fret over his mistakes all night long, but it didn’t change the fact that Belle felt manipulated and misled. The bedrock of any relationship, including boss to employee, was trust. Well, he’d simply have to earn hers back.

Shaking his head as if to clear the gloomy fog that had settled over him, he pulled onto Main and continued west, not sure where he was heading. What he needed more than anything was a friend. He’d been so busy his first few weeks in town, working every minute to get the station on the air, he’d had zero time for developing much in the way of friendships.

That oversight would be corrected, effective immediately.

He considered swinging out to the transmitter site to check things over … see if David was home.
Nah
. The guy was probably busy working on his house. He didn’t need somebody getting in the way, talking his ear off, slowing him down.

Heather was on the air right now, her first night alone on the board. Maybe he’d drop in and see how she was doing, keep her company.
Dumb idea
. He was the owner of the station, for Pete’s sake. He’d make her a nervous wreck. Which didn’t take much, with Heather.

He remembered the theater ticket that remained in his pocket. The one for the seat right next to Belle’s.
That’s it
. He’d find her at the Barter, beg her forgiveness, do whatever it took to make her happy and keep her in Abingdon.

No. The timing was wrong, the place was worse. He didn’t want another scene like they’d had at the restaurant. If anyone figured out who they were, it would be bad for the station’s image.

Not to mention your ego
.

Yeah, that too.

The Methodist church was coming up on his right, the Silver Spoon was on his left. Norah’s place. Belle’s place. The top two floors were dark, but he could see lamps glowing in the gift shop downstairs. Security lights, maybe. Or Norah baking muffins, getting ready for a busy Saturday morning.

Wait!
Norah could use the ticket. Join Belle at the theatre, offer her some female companionship, maybe say a kind word about him. The image of Norah’s stern expression last time he’d seen her flashed through his mind.
Okay, maybe not
. Anyway, it was worth a try.

The spaces along the curb were filled, so he parked the Cadillac in the church lot and crossed the street in a handful of brisk strides, heading for the first-floor entrance with the classy, hand-carved sign swinging out front. He rang the bell, an old-fashioned contraption in the middle of the door. A flick of his wrist on the silver handle sent bells ringing inside, same as the set Norah had jingling on her back door upstairs.

If it isn’t one “belle,” it’s another
. He grinned in spite of himself. Some night this was turning out to be.

Norah’s face appeared in the window, looking confused, then concerned. He felt foolish standing there alone, knowing what must be running through her mind. He shrugged and pointed to the door, which swung open seconds later with another loud jangle.

“Patrick, what’s happened to Belle? Were you in an accident? Is she hurt?” Norah’s words came in a breathless rush while her dark eyes searched the brick porch, as if he were hiding Belle behind a wooden post.

“Belle is fine,” he protested, holding up his hands. “Well, no, she isn’t fine at all, she’s …” He sighed. “May I come in for a minute?”

Norah’s eyes, tinged with suspicion, scrutinized him. “I have a feeling this will take more than a minute, Patrick.” A mild reprimand lingered behind her words. “I’ll work on my muffins while you explain to me exactly what’s going on here.”

He followed her through the dimly lit shop to the kitchen, where bright lights, warm ovens, and the aroma of apples and cinnamon greeted him. Taking in a deep whiff, he tried to lighten the mood. “Mmm … delicious. Can I move in here?”

“That’s what everyone says, and no, you certainly cannot.” She was stirring batter with a wooden spoon that was getting a serious workout,
whomp! whomp!
against the side of the bowl.

“Norah, you know I’m kidding.” He sank down into a kitchen chair, tossing his keys on the table, dreading the direction this conversation
would need to take. The sooner he got to it, the better. “Belle and I had an argument.”

Norah’s spoon paused in mid-whomp. “And … ?”

“And she stomped out of the restaurant and walked to the Barter Theatre by herself.”

“She
walked
to the Barter? What kind of man would let a woman walk the streets at night? And alone, of all things?” She shoved her spoon into the batter and slammed her hands on her hips. “Patrick Reese, I’m ashamed of you!”

“I’m ashamed of me, too, but she wouldn’t get in the car. Believe me, I tried. Followed her for a block.” He ran his hands through his hair and exhaled in noisy frustration. “It’s no good, Norah. The woman will never forgive me.”

Norah’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive you for what?”

“Have you got an hour or so?” He studied her expressive face, looking for a clue as to how she might react.
Compassion or judgment?
It was hard to tell for sure. “Look, I really stopped by to see if you wanted to use this other ticket for the play tonight. Sit with Belle, keep her company?”