Mixed Signals (29 page)

“I know you well enough, you are Signior Antonio.”

Something was wrong. He was staring down at her, a look of dismay crossing his chiseled features. After a lengthy silence, he blurted out his line, then it was her turn again.

“I know you by the waggling of your head.”

But his head didn’t waggle, his tongue did, hurrying faster through his lines, as if to end her audition as quickly as possible. She straightened her back, determined to continue, deliberately slowing her words hoping he would follow her lead.

It wasn’t helping. The others had sounded so professional, so polished, so right for the part. Any of them would suit. But she did not suit. Her delivery was stilted, unnatural.

Amateurish.

Somewhere, deep inside, a tiny voice whispered the awful truth:
You’re not good enough
. Not as good as the others and nowhere near talented
enough to win the part of Ursula or any other role.

Her lips moved, the lines were spoken, but her heart heard only the voices of directors past. What had they been trying to tell her, year after year? Why hadn’t she listened?

“Belinda, have you ever thought about directing? You have such a good eye.”

“With that voice, you could certainly do radio, Belinda.”

“Don’t be discouraged. The theater isn’t for everyone. Do it for pleasure, not for profit.”

When she spoke her final line, the truth of Shakespeare’s words nearly sent her to her knees: “Graces will appear, and there’s an end.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Antonio murmured in a stage whisper, obviously intending her to hear him. Suddenly he was a good deal less handsome.

From the darkened theater seats beyond the edge of the stage, a voice floated out of the silence. “Thank you, Miss Oberholtzer. Next.”

Belle turned, her joints stiff from tension, catching a glimpse of Antonio’s smile returning as the next actress swept into the pool of light at center stage. Belle hurried past her, not looking left or right but walking a direct path toward the stage door that would take her into the street, into the night, and far away from the Barter Theatre.

Thank the Lord no one she knew had been there, had seen her make such a fool of herself. No photographer had snapped her picture, no producer had taped her performance—if you could call it that.

She would begin immediately to block out the entire agonizing experience. It never happened. It simply never took place at all.

Who are you kidding?
No one except herself. Her decade-old dream of doing professional theater had died, stillborn, with a handful of lines on a bitter cold night. Dead and buried, with nothing left to show for it but a broken heart and an ego left in tatters.

Grabbing her purse, discarded what seemed like hours ago on top of a precarious stack of props, Belle found her way through the shadows to the exit sign above the back door that led to freedom. Freedom from the single most embarrassing ten minutes she’d ever spent in her life.

“Belle!”

She turned with a frightened gasp.
Who in the world?
The red safety lights backstage and the swirling dust motes around them made it impossible to see farther than a few feet. She squinted at the form moving toward her, taking shape.

It can’t be
.

“David?”

He reached her side, his eyes wide with concern. “Belle, I’m—” “W-what are you doing here?” She recognized the anger in her voice, knew that fear and shame were not far behind it.

“I’m one of the carpenters on the stage crew.” His face, what she could see of it, shone with empathy. “I needed the money for new carpet for the house, so I signed on several weeks ago to help with set construction. I had no idea …”

“Did you see me—” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Maybe he didn’t see her. Maybe he was back in the set room, hammering away, and missed the whole horrible thing.

But no
.

His head was nodding, slowly. “If you mean did I see you audition, yes.” His voice gentled to a whisper. “I was standing stage left, in the wings, so I wouldn’t distract you and ruin your performance.” She could hear him swallow in the darkness. “I prayed for you, Belle.”

“Oh, David.” Her knees buckled underneath her. She felt his strong hands catch her elbows and pull her back up. Pull her into his arms in a crushing embrace.

She sensed him nuzzling her hair with his chin as she sobbed against his broad chest. Arms pinned to her side, she could do little else but remain tucked against him, a small bird sheltered from the raging storm.

In the long moments that followed, David gave her the kindest gift of all.
Silence
. No words. No questions. What could he say that would make it better?

Her tears slowed, then stopped. Mortified, she pressed against his chest with her head, trying to push herself away. He finally let her go, though he rested his hands on her shoulders.
Smart man
. He knew her
well. Knew she would turn and bolt out the door if she could.

She stared at the floor, not trusting herself to look into his eyes, afraid of what she would see there. Afraid she would cry again.

Something had to be said, though. “Thank you, David.” It came out on a noisy hiccup.

“No problem.” He hiccuped back at her and grinned.

“Aren’t you ashamed of me?” She looked up and sniffed, petulant, hiccuping again. “Ashamed of my … whatever that was?”

“No way.” His grin disappeared. “You weren’t ashamed of me.” David’s eyes looked right through her, offering hope, giving absolution. She basked in the light of it, too grateful to risk turning away from his compassionate gaze, no matter how much it cost her to let him see her so humiliated.

“When it comes to handing out grace, Belle, you do it better than anyone. I’m simply trying to return the favor. Remember what you said to me? ‘Your past is just that—passed.’ Let it go, babe. You gave it your best shot. No one can ever say otherwise.”

She stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “Antonio would probably say otherwise.” A third hiccup, more pronounced.

David shrugged. “A Shakespearean actor. What does he know?”

He was baiting her and she took it. Her hands moved to her hips, preparing for battle. She was beginning to feel like her old self again. It felt good. “I’d like to see
you
try and read Shakespeare.”

He assumed a pose remarkably like Antonio’s, though Belle had to confess David was the better-looking one by far. “At a word, I am not,” he chirped an octave higher than necessary.

Clever David had paid close attention indeed. Belle rolled her eyes in feigned disgust. “Your British accent is deplorable, sir. Next!” She hiccuped again. Loudly.

From stage right came a chorus of giggles. Belle couldn’t keep herself from joining in the laughter. “We’ve been found out, Antonio. Our ruse is up.”

“Or our goose is cooked.”

“Something like that.” She stifled yet another hiccup. “Look, I’ve gotta locate a glass of water before I embarrass myself further.”

He gallantly offered her his arm. “ ’Twould be my privilege, fair maiden,
to escort you to yonder Hardware Company for a spot of tea.”

“ ’Twould it now?” She draped her arm on his with great ceremony. “Carry on, good sir. Will there be a carriage?”

“ ’Twill not be, m’lady. The night, though cold, was made for walking. This way, then, shall we?”

They paraded out the exit door, dissolving into laughter before they reached Main Street. Thirty minutes later they were still seated in a cozy restaurant booth, round candles glowing on the table, the freezing darkness held safely at bay while they sipped hot cider and enjoyed breathing the same toasty warm air.

“David, David.” She rested her fingers lightly on his, noting how strong his hands were—masculine, with sawdust hidden in the creases, yet the nails were clean and trimmed. An enigma, this man. Did he know, could he comprehend, what having his support meant to her this night? Did he understand what he was doing to her heart, building a home there as surely as he was building a set at the Barter, board by board?

She’d never known a man like David Cahill. Never felt about anyone the way she felt about him. It didn’t have a name yet, this feeling, but the fog was starting to lift and the view was getting clearer by the minute.

If you don’t stop staring at his hands, he’ll think he’s grown an extra knuckle
. Smiling as she tipped up her head, Belle spoke her heart, straight out. “David, I could never have survived this evening without you.”

“I’m glad I was there.” His eyes, made darker and more liquid by the candlelight, said infinitely more than his words. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

He wasn’t going to make this easy on her. Maybe that was good. She considered his invitation for a moment, bearing the weight of it, then sensing it lift as she spoke the words like a confession. “I learned that I don’t always have to be on stage or the star, that it’s possible to enjoy something as a spectator without having to be a performer.”

“So …”

“So maybe I’ll buy a season pass to the Barter and let the pros do the acting.”

“You
are
a pro, Belle. Just in a different arena.” He squeezed her hands,
then leaned back in the booth. “Do you know you’re the best radio personality I’ve ever heard?”

Gee, that’s original
. “C’mon, how many have you really heard?”

He counted on his fingers, one hand then the next. When he got to fifteen, she swatted at him and he backed farther away from her.

“Are you getting ready to slap me again, woman? ’Cause if you are, give me some warning. It took half a day for that last handprint to disappear.”

A wave of heat swept out of her sweater and up her neck. “I didn’t mean to do that. Honest.”

“Huh. I’ll bet.” He winked at her. “Was there anything else you learned tonight?”

She groaned and slumped farther into the booth. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?” Pensive, she played with her braid, sorting through not only the evening’s emotions, but a decade of dreaming about theater. “I discovered that I’m pretty good at denying the obvious. My professors, not to mention my friends in college, tried to tell me that acting might not be the best use of my … uh, talents. If I have any, that is.”

“Of course you have talents.” He nodded emphatically. “A bunch of them. Knocking off microphones, storing furniture on porches, falling on the ice, slapping men silly—”

She swatted at him again, closer this time. His smile was so disarming she almost missed his next question.

“These professors of yours at ASU. What did they suggest you do with your degree instead of acting?”

The point hit home. “Radio.”

“Ah.” He nodded in silence. “When God calls, he also equips, Belle. Radio is clearly your calling. Why fight it?”

She sat up, suddenly invigorated. “You’re absolutely right. I
have
been fighting it. Thinking it wasn’t enough, that unless I was in a major market with a number-one-rated show, it didn’t count. That unless I was on stage, my education was wasted.” She slapped the table in lieu of leaping on top of it. “You wait until I hit the air tomorrow morning, mister. We’ll find out if this late bloomer can’t blossom right where she’s planted.”

His smile stretched from coast to coast below the blue-gray ocean of his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

His girl?

It wasn’t until much later, after David had walked her home, after she’d avoided Norah and her inevitable questions about the audition, after she’d scrubbed off her makeup and climbed into bed, that Belle remembered the significance of the next day.

Wednesday.

The
Washington County News
would hit the newsstands, as it did every Wednesday morning. Except this time, she’d be the featured story.

She scrunched up her pillow, smiling into the darkness of her bedroom. That should make up for tonight. Something to boost her confidence, get her back on her feet again.

Wait
.

Hadn’t she said something during that interview about auditioning for the Barter? Not much, surely. Just a mention, wasn’t it? They’d probably skip it completely. Not to worry.

She’d almost drifted off when another thought poked her awake.

Wait
.

What had they asked her about her single life, about dating? Had she said she was or was
not
happy about being unattached? She couldn’t remember. Mustn’t have said anything too important. Nothing to lose sleep over, that’s for sure.

She didn’t lose a second of shut-eye. Slept like a log. Right up until Norah knocked on her door well before the crack of dawn and shoved a newspaper under her face, one with a full page of ghastly photos of her and an enormous boldface headline:

“The Belle of Abingdon: Local Radio Personality Seeks Love and Applause in Small Town America.”

“ ‘Love and applause’?” Belle groaned, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Please tell me it’s a misprint.”

Norah held out a cup of steaming black coffee. “You’ve already had your first suitor, Belle. The guy who sold me the newspaper wants to know if you’re interested in dinner Friday night.”

“He
what?
”

“And speaking of applause, how’d you do at the Barter last night?” Norah pointed to the article while Belle stared at it, dumbfounded. “See, there’s a whole column about your plans to audition. Everybody will be dying to know what happened. Do tell. Were you the Belle of the Barter, too?”

T
HE COFFEE DIDN’T HELP
.

The steamy hot shower didn’t help.

Even Norah’s best applesauce muffins didn’t improve matters.

Belle’s eyes were so puffy from crying she couldn’t get close to them with mascara, liner, or eye shadow. Why bother with blush when her cheeks were already stained a permanent pink? No point to lipstick, either, since she was blowing her nose every ten minutes.