Mixed Signals (22 page)

A big change.

A new life, maybe in Charlotte at WBT. He’d sent résumés to radio stations in Nashville and Louisville, too. Why not? Any move up was the right move. The Bible encouraged him to ask, seek, and knock, so he intended to knock on every door he could think of. As long as he’d have the satisfaction of slamming one shut on Abingdon, Virginia, he’d be happy.

Meanwhile, he was determined to get WPER in the best shape he could. Tuned up, cleaned up, ready to hand over to a dependable part-time engineer who knew his way around an RCA transmitter. David already had a good prospect picked out: a fella from Bristol who handled several smaller stations and wouldn’t balk at the flea-bitten equipment. It would feel good to walk away having done right by Patrick, having no regrets, no unfinished business, all debts paid in full.

A first for a Cahill
.

He tapped a final nail in place on the door frame, running his hand along the wood to check the finish of the surface. The grain was warm where he’d worked it over, smooth under his callused hands. Without warning or invitation, Belle O’Brien invaded his thoughts.

Again.

He remembered touching her hair, feeling its silky texture under his rough fingers. Her throaty laugh played through his head like a musical refrain he couldn’t shake. Traces of her perfume had lingered in his truck for days.

He’d barely seen her since that morning he’d offered her a ride to the station. The morning he’d caught her in her bare feet. This afternoon, bustling past him down the steps, she’d waved and kept going, saying something about a choir rehearsal for the Christmas Eve program at her church.

Choir?
The woman couldn’t sing worth a lick.

She’d found a home in Matthew’s church, though, and that was good. He’d bumped into Matthew at the post office and mentioned Belle, trying to stir up a little interest there. David told himself it was the right thing to do, but his effort lacked enthusiasm. So did Matthew’s response, which bothered David no end.
What’s his problem? Doesn’t he know a great woman when he sees one?

David didn’t know whether to be angry or relieved.

He settled for confused. Nothing new there.

An hour ago, he’d turned to watch Belle skip down the steps, braid bouncing, boots tapping, a tuneless melody on her lips. Yeah, he’d miss Belle when he left town, no doubt.
Will she miss me?
Maybe so, maybe no. Two things he’d heard through the grapevine recently gave him a pretty good idea what the answer would be. She’d insisted she’d never date a man she worked with again—he had Patrick to thank for that decision—and she wanted to settle down in Abingdon for good.

Guess that’s a big no, Cahill
.

He grabbed a dustpan and broom to clean up yet another pile of wood shavings while his thoughts drifted toward the holidays ahead. He’d mailed his package to Joshua in California two weeks ago, in plenty of time
to arrive by the 25th. According to Sherry, Josh loved anything to do with science, so David had splurged on a junior chemistry kit. Sherry more than likely would hate the mess, but he knew Josh would have a ball doing all the experiments. Growing crystals, turning potatoes lime green, making the most of bread mold. Yeah, Josh would love it.

Lord, let this be Josh’s best Christmas yet
.

Without a doubt, David knew it would go down as
his
happiest holiday on record. He’d be in his own church for the Christmas Eve service—who’d have believed that a year ago?—then a bunch from the singles department planned a caroling expedition up and down Main Street. He couldn’t sing worth a lick either, but the hot cider and cookies sounded good.

Christmas Day, it was dinner at Norah’s.
Man, what a spread that’ll be!
He still couldn’t believe she’d included him and wondered who else was on the guest list. Norah knew half the town, so it could be a big turnout. Or, maybe just Patrick and him.
Whatever
. Food was food, and Norah’s was the best.

Belle hadn’t so much as mentioned it, so he figured she planned to head south for home the minute she got off the air—didn’t her parents live only a couple of hours down the road? Yeah, she’d be halfway to Moravian Falls before the gathering around Norah’s table said grace.

Maybe Norah’d ask him to pray. The Lord knew he had a lot to be thankful for this year. Much as he’d miss Belle on Christmas, it was better this way. She’d be in Moravian Falls with her parents, he’d be in Abingdon with …

The reality hit him like a two-by-four.
Patrick and Norah
. In a strange kind of way, they were
his
parents. Patrick, always building him up, giving him opportunities, teaching him things. Norah, always feeding him, making him feel at home, encouraging him in his faith. His real mother was gone, his real father was drowning in alcohol somewhere, so the Lord had provided a couple of substitute parents.
Well, why not?

David tossed the dustpanful of sawdust in the trash and brushed off his hands, grinning for no reason other than he felt like it. Four shopping days left. Maybe he’d pick up some new clothes for himself while he was
at it. And something for Belle, have it waiting for her when she got back from North Carolina. Small but … well, not too small.

Yeah, this was turning out to be one promising Christmas.

Currier and Ives couldn’t have painted a more perfect twenty-fifth of December. Outside the historic homes of Abingdon, the frosty morning air was filled with plump snowflakes that fell on the brick sidewalks and turned the town into a winter wonderland. Inside, logs snapped and crackled beneath mantels where stockings bulged with hidden treats and frazier firs stretched toward heaven, an angel or star perched on top to lead the way, a pile of colorful packages stacked around the bottom branches in silent expectation.

No place was more picture perfect than Norah Silver-Smyth’s house. Norah made certain of it. She’d turned her fingers into pin cushions threading popcorn garlands for the fragrant tree, so tall it brushed the ceiling. She’d stained her lips red tasting fresh cranberry salad, drawn blood tying holly and ivy sprigs in every possible spot, and nearly tumbled off a chair hanging a huge spray of fresh mistletoe over the entrance to the dining room. And the living room. And the kitchen.

Norah left nothing to chance. Especially mistletoe.

She’d also gone cross-eyed adding each guest’s name to a velveteen stocking in counted cross-stitch, each one neatly hung across the massive cherry mantel.
Norah. Patrick. Belle
. And Belle’s parents.
Maureen. Robert
.

There was room for one more stocking, she noticed. Too bad Belle hadn’t let her invite David. Norah had promised herself she wouldn’t push it, wouldn’t bring his name up again until Belle did, but it was hard.

Just as she felt Patrick moving in her direction—
and he is, isn’t he?—
she wanted Belle to find a man who would simply let her be Belinda Oberholtzer and love her for it.

Maybe David wasn’t the one, but Norah felt certain there was something between them. She could feel it when the two of them were in the room together. Static electricity. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up to watch them circle one another, wary yet curious.

Norah also knew things Belle would probably never know. Memories of a little boy who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks, whose parents ignored him and his siblings the same careless way they dodged bill collectors and landlords. Norah had seen little David Cahill in his tattered jeans and dirty shirt, hanging out on corners, watching ball games through chain-link fences, collecting bottles out of trash cans to earn a nickel each. She’d known his father, too, from high school. A handsome, articulate man very much like David before alcohol and life’s disappointments had dragged him down a hopeless path of self-destruction.

There were other things she knew. More recent discoveries about David. Norah didn’t believe in gossip, shunned it like the plague. But people trusted her, often told her things she didn’t want to know. She hid them in her heart, telling no one. This business about David and money being sent to support a child, for example, disclosed several months ago by a wagging tongue … that story was too private ever to be shared. The young man deserved so much more than an unappreciative banker’s daughter and a son he’d never met.

For some reason, Norah wanted better for David. She wanted
Belle
for David. To teach him the value of joy and laughter. To cleanse his wounds with her clever wit and boundless energy. He’d be good for Belle as well. Solid, wise, feet-on-the-ground David would give Belle the roots she longed for without clipping her wings.

Too bad Belle wasn’t getting the same message.

Norah had stitched a stocking for David anyway, intending to invite him over for a visit later in the week, then thought better of hanging it on the mantel.
Why upset Belle on Christmas?
Next year, perhaps.

Meanwhile, it was noon and time to tie on her apron and tackle the honey-drenched ham waiting in her refrigerator. In three short hours, the bells dangling from her front door would officially ring in Christmas.

“No, I will
not
play ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.’ ” Belle made sure her voice was gentle but firm. Pint-sized callers on the request line stretched her patience boundaries an extra inch. On Christmas of all days,
she was determined to remain cheerful. “I’m afraid
that
single isn’t in our studio.” Not since she’d conveniently knocked the CD into the trash can last week. “How about ‘All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth?’ ”

The child offered a quick response and Belle swallowed a laugh. “Ohh. You already have your two front teeth. Ever heard the tune ‘How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?’ ” She listened and stifled another giggle. “I see. No dogs allowed at your house. Wait a second, I’ve got the perfect song.”

She reached for Burt’s stack of Christmas classics and cued up an old favorite. “Turn up your radio, little guy. The next one’s for you.” Moments later, Jimmy Boyd’s voice crooned over the airwaves, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.”

Kisses beat reindeer prints on Grandma’s face, hands down.

Belle glanced at the clock. Less than an hour and she’d be smooching the man who’d played Santa for her Brownie troop so many years ago: Bob Oberholtzer.
Dad
. She was anxious for her parents to meet Norah, see her place, meet Patrick. It would be a small but cozy Christmas with the five of them. Nothing romantic, nothing exciting, but special nonetheless.

She had gifts for each one—a gardening book for Mom, a cordless screwdriver for Dad, a hand-painted silk scarf in Norah’s favorite jewel tones, and a solid brass, engraved money clip for dollar-pinching Patrick. She couldn’t wait to see his face. No—she couldn’t wait to see
Norah’s
face, she thought, grinning to herself as she flipped on the mike and introduced another set of holiday favorites.

Not one song featured grandma-stomping reindeer.

Parking her headphones on the counter, she stretched back in the chair, feeling her joints creak and pop from too much time in one place.
And too many years in one body, eh, Belinda girl?
She stifled a yawn, looking at her watch again, wishing the hands would pick up speed. It’d been an utterly quiet day, not another soul in sight. Not surprising on Christmas, though she half expected David to drop by and check on his obstinate capacitor or his shaky microphone.

Or her.

Nah, that’s silly
. Why would David think about her, on Christmas or any other day?

Maybe because she was thinking about him. About how he was spending December 25 all alone. About how it was her fault. Norah had kindly offered to include him in the dinner festivities.
But nooo, Belle O’Brien couldn’t go along with that one
. She was too concerned about appearances, about her parents—or Patrick—jumping to conclusions.

Selfish, Belle
. Not even a present, a small token of friendship. Nothing.

Her guilty conscience was taking a healthy bite out of her Christmas joy. Should she call him, invite him? “Hi, David, it’s Belle. Want to come over for Christmas dinner in thirty minutes?”

Right
. Make the guy feel like an afterthought. Besides, Norah had decorated the table Martha Stewart perfect. Setting an extra place would be a nuisance. Wouldn’t it?

Belle sighed as she stacked her carts, preparing for the last spot break of her show. There wasn’t time to do anything about David now.
Next year, maybe
. Yeah, she’d make sure he had somewhere to land next Christmas. Thanksgiving, too. But for this year, it was just too late.

The last thing David wanted to be was late for Christmas dinner. He checked his watch, smoothed his tie, buttoned his jacket. The image in the mirror amazed even him. His plaid shirt and jeans were stuffed in the closet in favor of a brand-new suit. Blue-gray to match his eyes, the clerk had pointed out. A red silk tie, the most expensive he’d ever owned. Would it be tacky to tuck that forty-dollar investment in his shirt when the gravy went around the table?

He hadn’t looked this spit-and-polished since his air force days. With his hair slicked back, it was Airman Cahill all over again. “At ease, boy.” He saluted the mirror with a grin. Yeah, it felt good to spiff up. Felt good to have somewhere to go on Christmas. Felt good to have friends like Norah and Patrick.

He eyed their gifts waiting on his newly installed kitchen counter. A coffee-table book about cats for Norah. A radio for Patrick’s Cadillac—1971 vintage, totally refurbished, shiny as new. Next to those, a third package. A small box, the most expensive of all. For Belle.

He shook the tiny present and grinned as it tinkled.
Hardly be a surprise
. He’d found it at the classiest gift shop in town, displayed on red velvet in the window. A 14-karat gold necklace of tiny musical bells, intricately strung together in a delicate strand.

For a moment, he imagined himself slipping it around her neck as she lifted her heavy braid, sending a whiff of perfume his direction. He could see the tendrils of auburn hair clinging to the back of her slender neck. Feel the cool necklace, jingling into place on a bed of faint freckles. Hear her low-pitched voice purring, “Thank you, David. I love it.”