Mixed Signals (28 page)

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 production 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.

Belle flashed her most dazzling smile at the two journalists as they made their way down her apartment steps, arms loaded with cameras and notepads. She prayed they’d be merciful. Show restraint. Run only the flattering photos.

Come next Wednesday morning, she and the rest of Abingdon would find out if her prayers had been answered.

T
HE
T
URTLES WERE SINGING
full throttle when Patrick Reese pushed open the door to the on-air studio. WPER’s Happy Together contest was kicking into high gear this morning with their first official drawing. He’d collected Frank’s fishbowl from the Court Street Grill a few minutes earlier, and handed it to the morning man with a grin he knew was ornery.

No big mystery who was going to win
this
drawing. Millie, Frank’s groupie, had stuffed the bowl with dozens of paper fishes with her name neatly printed on each one. Yeah, looked like Frank and Millie would be headed to the Hardware Company for dinner next week.
What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wallpaper for that meal!

Still smiling, he closed the door to his office, tossed his coat onto the antlers, and settled into his leather chair, stretching out the last of the kinks in his neck. The place was eight o’clock quiet, his favorite time of day. Spreading open his new desk calendar, a gift from the WPER staff, Patrick turned to the first of January and drew in a deep breath of satisfaction. Pristine squares waiting to be filled with busy, money-making appointments. Nothing like a new year to invigorate the senses.

Unless Norah Silver-Smyth was involved, in which case there was no comparison. The woman invigorated every sense he’d ever thought about and some he didn’t know he had.

When did all this happen?
He knew the Advent service was the start of
it. Sitting next to her, inhaling her perfume—Shalimar, she called it—watching her dark eyes drink in the sights and sounds of Christmas. Yeah, that was the beginning for him. Earlier for her, it seemed. It really didn’t matter when, it only mattered that it had indeed happened, for both of them.

Whatever “it” was.

So what if she was five years older? She had more grace and beauty in her silver-ringed fingers than five women half her age. Bright, witty, well-traveled, well-read. Scary, actually. He didn’t deserve such a rare jewel and he knew it. What she saw in him, a rough-around-the-edges radio guy, was beyond him. He was just glad she saw it.

Then there was her cooking. He wouldn’t let himself go down that street. Not this morning, not when he’d skipped breakfast, hoping she’d bring him a few muffins later in the morning, like she had all week long, ever since Christmas.

What a day
that
had been. He laughed, shuffling papers around his desk, remembering the whole scene with Belle and David. Those two, with their emotional highs and lows, deserved one another. He didn’t need all that youthful angst. Give him a woman who was settled, relaxed, comfortable with herself. Solid. Mature.

A woman of deep faith.

Never thought I’d find that so appealing
. But he did. Norah’s faith was a real, living thing. It gave her wisdom, strength, compassion for others, and a bunch of other qualities he couldn’t put his finger on but very much admired. The final result was the most incredible package of feminine beauty and spiritual depth he’d ever come across in a lifetime.

It scared him to death. No, it scared him to
life
. A new life, with Norah and with the God that she shared so freely with him.
Yeah, so it makes me nervous, so what? My life can use a little shaking up
.

A new year, a new life, a new future.
Such a deal, Reese
. No man deserved it less. Or needed it more.

Patrick snapped back to the present at the sound of a gentle tapping at his door. He was surprised to find himself choked up and needing to clear his throat before he could call out, “Come in.”

The oak door swung open and his two favorite scents wafted in the
room—cinnamon muffins and Shalimar—followed by a beautiful woman dressed in a silver gray something that floated around her like a billowing mist.

“Good morning, Patrick.” Norah’s voice wasn’t too many notes above his own, deep and tinged with the sultry drawl of a Southern woman who favored Shakespeare. Country and culture, all wrapped up in one amazing woman. She held out her basket, draped with a checked cloth, and smiled her angel’s smile. “Breakfast, beloved.”

It was all over.

He had no intention of fighting it for one second.

“The muffins look delicious, Norah. You look better.” He took the basket from her hands, setting it aside for later, and moved around his desk to take both her hands.

She seemed only a little surprised at his boldness, not returning his grasp but not pulling away either. Her eyes shimmered, smiling along with the rest of her angelic face.

He drew in a steadying breath.
Say it, man. Now. Go!

“Norah, I … I …”

“I know, Patrick. Me, too.”

He exhaled in relief. “Really?”
Boy, that was easy
.

“Yes. I hope this isn’t moving too fast for you.”

“No.” He shook his head, stunned, relieved. “How can things move too fast when you’re our age?”

She laughed. It sounded like music. “Exactly. Now what?”

He hadn’t thought that far.
Just tell her the truth, fool
. “I … I only know that you’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been. Ever, Norah.”

Turning her head to the side, she blushed like a schoolgirl. It was enchanting to watch. Her tone was sweet but firm. “I’m not the only one who’s made you happy, Patrick. You know better.”

“Yeah, I do.” He lifted his head toward the ceiling, feeling a new kind of strength infuse him, a vitality that had nothing to do with youth and everything to do with newness of life. “Norah, will you pray with me?”

He saw tears spring to her eyes. Two more silvery stars in his growing universe, shining up at him. “Yes.”

He knew she meant yes to all of it. To his prayer, to their future together, to him.

She said it again, with more conviction. “Yes, I will.”

He closed his eyes, pretty sure that’s how such things were handled. “Dear God—” he felt awkward yet as certain as he’d ever felt in his life—“Uh … happy New Year.”
Happy what?
He could tell his palms were sweating.

Norah squeezed his hands and a sense of peace overtook him.

Yeah. Okay. Happy New Year, that’s good
. “Thanks, God. For loving me before I loved you. And for Norah. For loving me before I loved her. I don’t deserve all this, Lord, but I’ll take it. I need it.”

His chest tightened around his heart even as he felt it expanding, making room for Norah. No, not just for her. For the one who made him, loved him, died for him.
Yes, you, Lord. It’s
you
I need
.

In the blink of an eye, the tightness was gone and a sweet, cleansing breath slipped out of him.
Whew. Not so hard
. Almost as easy as telling Norah he loved her. He
had
told her he loved her, right?

He cracked open one eye.
Yeah, I must have. Look at her face
.

She was smiling, wasn’t she? Crying, too, bless her beautiful self. What a woman.
My woman
.

Happy New Year wasn’t the half of it.

Belle gripped her script and checked out the competition. Shakespeare would have been astounded to find so many potential Ursulas waiting in the wings of the Barter Theatre on a cold Tuesday night in Abingdon. The women, a dozen or more, stood surrounded by painted backdrops from a dozen productions and the colorful litter peculiar to theater.

Alone in the darkened house, the Barter’s artistic director was seated center orchestra, waiting to discover his Ursula for the upcoming staging of
Much Ado about Nothing
.

Out of the corner of her eye, Belle sized up the women around her. One was exceptionally tall and slim, like a ballet dancer with a swan’s neck. Beside her, a petite woman with a few extra pounds and a lot of mascara.
Forty-something. Not the typical attendant for the fair Hero, but as any drama student knew, Shakespearean comedy was open to interpretation.

Next to her, a regal young woman with smooth blond hair tucked into a neat French twist. Her long, simple dress fit the character of a Renaissance gentlewoman. Two or three others also seemed dressed to impress, conveying the message that they’d been waiting their entire lives to step on stage as Ursula.

Belle surveyed her own appearance in a backstage mirror and let loose a heavy sigh. Her slim skirt and boots looked out of place, anachronistic. The sweater was the wrong century completely.
Me, too. All wrong
. Too short, too old, too many freckles, too many curls, not enough practice, and zero theater experience for the last decade.

Lord, what am I doing here?

She knew why she was there, what this audition was about. It was about proving to herself that her college degree wasn’t wasted. She’d always considered drama a calling, God’s clear design for her life. Had she heard him correctly?
You’ll know soon enough, honey
.

Belle’s attention to her script was momentarily diverted by the shadow of someone moving behind the sets on the other side of the stage. He—definitely a he—was carrying a load of lumber on his broad shoulders. She couldn’t make out a face or his hair color, but the way he moved looked oddly familiar.

“Carpenters,” a young brunette whispered in her ear, nodding at the crew dressed in jeans and sawdust. “They brought a new bunch of construction guys in tonight to start hammering together the set. Don’t let it throw you.”

Like she needed something else to make her nervous.

The women were each to read one scene. Those who impressed the director would be called back to read a second scene with Hero. Silence fell over the backstage gathering as Ursulas were summoned one by one to read with a handsome New York actor already cast as Antonio. His wavy hair and carefully clipped beard were perfect for the part, Belle thought, watching the swan-necked woman glide out for her audition.

She was excellent, much as it pained Belle to admit it. Crystal-clear diction
and classic Shakespearean phrasing.
Harrumph
. The petite woman was equally talented, seeming to grow in stature with every line. Belle’s spirits sank. The blond princess auditioned next, her acting abilities as close to perfection as Belle could imagine.

“Let’s leave now.” It was the friendly brunette again, giggling.

“Not a bad plan.” But Belle knew it was not an option for her. She had to go through with this, had to know where she stood.

“Belinda Oberholtzer.”

Belle almost didn’t hear her name being called out. Her given name.
Belinda
. Since all her acting credits, her degree, everything connected to the theater appeared under her real name, she didn’t have much choice except to use it. Besides, she was neither Belle nor Belinda tonight.

She was Ursula, attendant to Hero.

Propelled by this last burst of confidence, Belle moved swiftly to center stage. It was hard to glide in leather boots with noisy heels, but she did her best. Planting her feet just so, she lifted her chin. Opened her arms, hoping they appeared graceful, poised. Turned her body ever so slightly toward the audience of one, and flashed Antonio a disarming smile as she held up an imaginary mask and delivered her first line.