Mixed Signals (16 page)

Norah shook her head. “If she wanted company, she’d have come here first. My guess is, Belle’s the kind of woman who requires time alone to work things out. Fear not, I’ll be right here when she needs me.” She finished emptying the batter into the wells of the muffin tin and slid it into the oven with the smooth precision earned from decades of baking. He enjoyed watching her work, admiring her obvious skills. Hadn’t he tasted the fruit of her labors more than once?

Norah set the timer, then turned to him with a hesitant smile. “Now, suppose you tell me your side of things.”

Maybe he did have a friend. Norah had been there for him since he’d arrived in Abingdon, showing him around town, offering him advice, feeding him one great meal after another. Like the sister he’d never had. He really oughtta find someone for her, a nice guy, somebody her age or older.

Maybe Frank.

Forget it. She’s too classy for Frank
. It’d take one sharp guy to keep up
with Norah Silver-Smyth, and right now he couldn’t think of a single man he knew who was up to the task.

He smiled at her, grateful for her willingness to give him an unbiased opinion on the debacle that was his first date with Belle. Loosening his tie, he leaned back in the kitchen chair, stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, then locked his hands together behind his head. Conversations like this required a comfortable chair, which this wasn’t, but it would do.

Norah, meanwhile, was deftly chopping apples, her eyes still trained on him, waiting.

He began at the beginning, the night he’d first heard Belle on WASU and offered her a job in Kingsport. Explained how he’d fallen in love with Belle’s voice and the rest of her soon after. How he’d orchestrated her offer from WRVQ. How he’d tucked her in a corner of his heart for eight years, staying in touch, hoping the time would come when they’d work together again, when they’d share something more than their mutual passion for radio.

Despite the sordid, sorry mess he’d made of things, he was proud of himself in one respect: he resisted the temptation to hide any details from Norah, including those that might make him look like a heel.

Never mind “look like”; you
are
a heel, Reese
.

Heel or not, he couldn’t help noticing that Norah listened without interruption. Really listened, with her eyes, her whole countenance, nodding but not condemning—at least not openly so. She poured him cup after cup of decaf hazelnut coffee. He couldn’t stand the taste of hazelnut but drank it anyway while he poured out his pitiful tale.

It was ten o’clock by the time he finished. Exhausted, he rose to his feet, stretching out the kinks in his shoulders and back. “Norah, I can’t thank you enough for letting me bend your ear tonight.”

She pulled off an oversized oven mitt and waved her hands as if brushing off his compliment. “That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”

“Guess so.” He gave her a tired smile. “Hope I can return the favor someday when an undeserving guy steps into your life and turns it upside down.”

Her own smile was enigmatic. “I’ll be sure and let you know when that happens.”

“What do I do now?” He yawned expansively. “Any words of wisdom?”

Norah gazed at the man in her kitchen. Even with wrinkles in his gray suit, a tie hanging around his neck in a loose noose, and his hair sticking up Pomeranian style, Patrick Reese was the best-looking male she’d had under her roof in eons. More handsome than Harry, and much easier on the eyes than Randolph, bless his bulging wallet and tightwad heart.

Not that looks were the major consideration here. If that’s all she had to resist, she could’ve managed quite easily.

But Patrick was also charming, funny, bright, and successful. In other words, trouble with a capital
T
. The fact that he was in love with Belle was a serious problem.
Not a problem, a disaster
. The fact that his relationship with Belle was falling apart was worse—a tsunami, an earthquake, a five-alarm fire.

What am I supposed to do, Lord? Give Patrick the prize-winning recipe to woo her back? Stuff Belle with muffins until she agrees to forgive him? Bundle my heart in plastic wrap and store it in the depths of my freezer until further notice?

None of those options were the least bit appetizing.

Norah concentrated on steering her last pan of banana-nut muffins into the oven. She would not succumb to the downward pull of self-pity. Hadn’t she wasted enough years saying, “Why me, Lord?” and “Why not me, Lord?” The question now wasn’t
why
, but
what
. What wisdom might she offer Patrick to steer him in the right direction?

He was peering at his reflection in a window, knotting his tie, when Norah finally broke the elongated silence.

“So, it’s wisdom you want?”

He turned toward her and winked, sending a few butterflies flitting about inside her. The man was all too aware of his formidable appeal, which, oddly enough, only enhanced it.

“Got any to spare, Norah?”

“I might.” She made sure he was paying attention before she continued.
“A wise man named Solomon once said—”

“Solomon? You mean Jake Solomon from the
Mountain View Times?
”

If he hadn’t been grinning from ear to ear when he said it, she’d have fired a raisin scone right at his prominently displayed nose.

“I know, I know.” He held up his hand to deflect her grimace. “Solomon from the Bible, yes?”

She nodded, watching for his reaction. “He said a man of integrity walks securely, but the man who takes the crooked path will be found out.”

“Oops.” His shoulders slumped. “I’ve definitely been found out.”

“Solomon also said with humility comes wisdom. Your willingness to admit your mistakes should go a long way toward softening Belle’s heart. Meanwhile, you need to figure out what sort of relationship you want with her—friend to friend, employer to employee, or man to woman.”

His look was pure exasperation. “Can’t I have all three?”

“Silly man, of course not.” She forced a smile to her lips in a feeble attempt at keeping things light and her feelings hidden. “It isn’t fair to either of you or to your staff. You’ll need to choose, big guy.”

He sat down again, stroking his beard, obviously weighing her words. “My choice is a moot point, Norah. Belle told me she hates me. That rules out friend, employee, or anything else.”

If only it were that easy
.

She sat in the chair across from him, knees to knees, then realized it was the closest they’d been to one another all evening. She caught the faint scent of his tangy aftershave, sensed the warmth of him radiating like coals in a grate, noted the sheer size of his tall frame dwarfing her kitchen chair.

His proximity unnerved her, yet moving her chair back might send the wrong signal.
How did things get so complicated?
“Hate is a strong emotion,” she murmured.

Patrick’s face broke into a wide smile. “My conclusion exactly. If she hates me, can love be far behind?” His expression softened. “Great minds think alike, huh, Norah?” He rested his hand lightly on hers, his teddy bear paw easily covering both her hands with room to spare.

More butterflies.

Without warning, his face brightened. “Norah, do you ever pray?”

Pray?
Her butterflies turned into bald eagles, banging around in her chest, trying to fight their way out. “Y-yes, of course.”
Pray?
She certainly hadn’t seen this one coming.

He patted her hands, then leaned back, withdrawing his warm touch. “Well, you mentioned the Bible and I knew you went to church. I thought maybe you’d pray for Belle and me. That things would work out, that she’d trust me again.”

“Do I understand you to say you believe in prayer, Patrick?”

A ruddy tint appeared above his beard. “I figure it couldn’t hurt.”

She chose her words carefully and kept her voice steady. “For prayer to be effective, it helps to know who’s listening.”

He looked at her askance. “I’d figured on God. Did you have someone else in mind?”

Despite her best intentions, a laugh spilled out, setting her earrings in motion. “God is precisely who I’ll be talking to.” Her silver jewelry continued dancing, but her features grew still. “You surprise me, Patrick. We’ve never discussed your relationship with God.”

“Hey, I’m not the one with the relationship,
you
are.” His tone was abrupt, perhaps sharper than he intended. His gaze refused to meet hers. “Look, it was only an idea. Forget I mentioned it.” He looked at her then, and though his words had been gruff, his eyes begged for understanding.

Of course she understood. After Harry’s death and Randolph’s unfaithfulness, hadn’t she worn the same look whenever God was mentioned? Patrick’s face was a mirror of her own in those dark days … hoping there might be someone she could put her faith in, yet doubting that such a miracle existed. It had taken years for her heart to open up again to the truth of God’s love.

She’d honor Patrick’s wishes and back off for the moment. But forget he mentioned it? Not for a New York second.

“You’re right, I do know the Lord.” She knew her easy admission took the pressure off him. “Would you like me to pray for you and Belle right now?”

His cheeks deepened to magenta. “N-now? Oh, no! I was hoping you’d do it later. Alone. Don’t you … uh, pray when you go to … uh, at night?” His discomfort had clearly come roaring back.

“You mean, ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’?”
Bless his heart, look at that blush
. She offered him a gentle smile, hoping it might ease his embarrassment. “I’d be honored to pray for you, Patrick.” Her smile broadened. “Later.”

He looked relieved as he stood up and brushed a dusting of flour off his pants. “You’re quite a woman, Norah. Thanks for tonight.” He reached down and pulled her to her feet with an effortless tug, then surprised her by continuing to hold her hands in his, barely connecting yet still very much there.

She suddenly felt light-headed—did she stand up too quickly?—then discovered she wasn’t breathing.
Foolish woman!
She exhaled with a giggle that sounded as inane as it felt, but at least she was getting oxygen again.

Patrick looked confused. “Did I say something funny?”

“Not at all.”
If I’m not careful, I’ll be blushing
. “My ears are yours, anytime.”
What’s
that
supposed to mean?
“Of course, Belle is my friend, too, so she may come knocking on my door as well. I’ll be as supportive to both of you as I can.”
And keep my own heart out of the fray. Somehow
.

His eyes bore down on her now with an intensity she hadn’t seen before. His hands still held hers, with an ever-so-slight increase in pressure. “And when she does come knocking, she’ll find a good soul who listens without judging, and talks to God in her spare time. Pretty remarkable, I’d say.”

They stood there, smiling at one another, wrapped in a warm cocoon of silence, while she concentrated on remembering to breathe.

Belle made her way along the brick sidewalk toward home, grateful her warm coat held off the misty cold that stung her cheeks. Her solo visit to the Barter Theatre had been awful.

And wonderful.

Awful to be sitting alone, constantly aware of the empty seat next to her, rehashing their conversation, wishing it weren’t true that Patrick had deceived her, no matter how noble his reasons.

Wonderful to be soaking up a first-class performance of one of
Shakespeare’s most entertaining comedies, surrounded by the meticulously restored theater. From the fresh white paint and claret-colored carpet in the lobby, to the elegant light fixtures and spacious stage area, it was every actor’s dream come true.

She’d fallen in love with the place immediately.

As she crossed the street, her dark apartment looming above her, she considered seeing if Norah might still be awake and about. She longed to share the highs and lows of this strange Friday night with someone who understood the situation. Plus, she couldn’t wait to tell her about the audition notice posted near the box office for the Barter’s late February production of
Much Ado about Nothing
. Seasoned actors were handling the major roles, but they were casting Ursula and some of the walk-on players locally, as well as offering positions for set builders and the like.

Spending the balance of her evening alone at the Barter had been the therapy she needed. Things were definitely looking up.

Though Norah’s apartment was dark, Belle could see lights on the first floor so she circled around to the shop’s back entrance. Her high heels made navigating the bricks, damp with the night mist, a treacherous task. Slowly she worked her way toward the door, peering through the darkness, grasping for the bell.

Her hands connected with the old-fashioned handle and she prepared to give it a spin when her eyes caught a slight movement behind the lace curtains. Leaning closer to the glass, Belle felt her stomach drop to her toes yet again that night.

Not five feet away from her, in the warm glow of the Silver Spoon kitchen, Patrick and Norah were standing face to face, hand in hand, gazing into one another’s eyes.

D
AVID SQUINTED UP AT
the Monday morning sun, yawning its way over the roof of the Virginia Gas Company across Main Street. He hadn’t slept worth a flip. After laboring over the letter in his hand last night, he’d floundered around on his lumpy mattress till near dawn.

No use delaying the inevitable
. He jerked the mailbox open and tossed in the envelope. As always, a smidgen of his heart was sealed inside, a tiny piece of himself that would never be retrieved.

Along with a personal check. He’d never see that again either.

David knew to the penny how much money he’d sent Sherry Robison so far. Two hundred bucks a month for eight years. Nearly twenty thousand dollars.

The thing he wasn’t certain of anymore was
why
.