Mixed Signals (3 page)

And all because he’d made the cardinal mistake of falling in love with her. His own employee, his own protégé, and he’d almost ruined everything. By letting her go, he’d spared her from ever having to choose between him and fame.

She’d thank him, if she knew.

“Does Belle know?”

Patrick came out of his reverie with a guilty start. “Know what?”

“Know what a jerry-built, shoestring-budget kind of operation this is?” David was grinning as he said it, apparently meaning no offense. “You’ve got stuff here manufactured in three different decades, wired into a board with only eight channels. This isn’t exactly Chicago.”

“Yeah, but the price was right.” More than once, he’d happened upon a perfectly good piece of radio gear propped against someone’s trash can. King of the Road Kill, his last staff had called him. So he got a kick out of finding treasures hiding in people’s junk piles. So what?

Besides, he had to cut corners somewhere or he couldn’t afford to hire Belle. “Mark my words, she’ll take the job.”
Say yes, woman. I need you here
.

He slipped out of the studio and moved down the hall to his private office, tossing his raincoat over a set of deer antlers he’d dragged around the country with him, station to station. The antlers made a great coat rack and a better conversation piece, right along with the nine-foot marlin mounted and hanging behind his desk. He loved to tell people he’d harpooned it off the coast of Mexico, but usually ended up telling the truth: He’d found it sticking out of a Dumpster in Slidell, Louisiana.

David stuck his head in the post office and found it buzzing with late-afternoon activity. People came and went with packages and plastic tubs full of letters while he ducked in the side door and headed for his box—the smallest, cheapest one in the place.

He’d be happy if just one piece of mail was waiting for him. One particular piece. He pushed the hair off his forehead, stalling.
Please, Lord
. He shoved his key in the lock, hesitating.
I haven’t asked for much. Let it be there
.

Swinging open the metal door, he felt his whole body tense. On top of the small stack of mail was an envelope with a handwritten address, neatly printed. He slipped his hand in the narrow box and pulled out the fistful of letters and postcards, forcing himself to shuffle through the rest of it—bills, mostly, and advertisements.

Nothing that couldn’t wait.

He opened the long, white envelope last … the one with a return address that was permanently etched on his memory, written in handwriting he immediately recognized, even before he saw the name.

Sherry Robison
.

His hands, tanned by the sun and torn up by nails and boards, were shaking. He told himself it was caffeine, but he knew better.

A single sheet of paper was inside, a short note written by the same hand, with small, carefully formed letters in plain blue ink. He scanned the words that told him nothing new.

Until he got to the postscript.
I understand what you’re asking for and it’s only fair. I’ll send it soon, I promise
.

Soon?

Soon beat never, but not by much.

T
HE BELLS OF
A
BINGDON
United Methodist Church chimed a joyous melody into the crisp November air as Patrick pulled his ’71 Eldorado up to the curb on Church Street. He pointed the blue behemoth with the coffinlike hood in the direction of Norah’s brick Victorian on the corner of Main Street, where the third floor was ready and waiting for a new tenant—Belle O’Brien.

He checked his watch. Almost noon. Norah promised to call him on the cell phone when Belle arrived, but he’d gotten antsy waiting around his apartment all morning.

Now he felt like a stalker.

Even
he
didn’t know what he was doing there early, sitting and waiting for her like some lovesick adolescent.
Ridiculous
. It was eight years ago, a lifetime ago. Then, as now, he’d hired Belle because she was the best person for the job, period. Any personal feelings for her had faded away to nothing but a warm memory.

Keep telling yourself that, buddy
.

Clearly the Chicago deal had been rough on her—it had shown in the strained sound of her voice on the phone, in the cynical bent of her words—but she’d get over it. Like him, Belle was a survivor. One with talent. And brains. And huge amber eyes in a small, heart-shaped face … and a low voice that wrapped itself around listeners’ hearts and wouldn’t let go.

Funny thing was, Belle didn’t have a clue about any of that. Personal
appearances put her over the edge. Listeners gawking at her, saying inane things like “I thought you’d look different.”

The fools
.

He’d been in radio long enough to understand the problem only too well. No matter how beautiful she was—and she
was
beautiful—when Belle sensed that her five feet, two inches of Carolina casual didn’t meet her audiences’ expectations, her spirits sank, taking her confidence with it.

That, by jig, won’t happen in this town
. He’d see to it she was crowned the Belle of Abingdon in six months. Less.

The doors of the church swung open, launching a buoyant wave of townsfolk streaming along the sidewalk past his car. He’d been in Abingdon just over six weeks, long enough to recognize a few faces, not long enough to nod as if he knew them. That’d happen soon. He was in Virginia to stay, no question. Belle wasn’t the only one weary of being jerked around from one city to another.

A thirty-something guy with a high-voltage smile was walking toward Patrick’s car, evidently on a mission. Patrick rolled down the window and put on his best public relations smile. Everyone in town was a potential WPER listener.

“Matthew Howard,” the younger man offered, thrusting out his hand with puppylike exuberance. “I’m the new associate pastor. Were you waiting for someone?”

“Not exactly.”
Then what exactly
are
you doing, Reese?

“Well, don’t be shy. Next Sunday, why not come in and join us?”

Given enough time, Patrick could think of several reasons why not, though none popped into his head at the moment.

“Appreciate the invitation, Reverend Howard.” He returned the man’s handshake. “I’m Patrick Reese, the owner of WPER, a brand-new radio station in town that’s going on the air Tuesday.”

“Oh, sure!” The pastor’s eyebrows shot up toward his neatly trimmed, wavy brown hair. “ ‘Oldies 95,’ isn’t it?”

Patrick’s smile widened. “That’s us. Hope you’ll tune in, Reverend.” After all, the guy was smack dab in the middle of the station’s target demographics—eighteen to fifty-four.

Unless, of course, the pastor’s favorite music was hymns.

“Tell you what, Mr. Reese. I’ll listen to WPER if you’ll come listen to
me
sometime soon.” Matthew winked then turned away to shake hands with an elderly man waiting behind him.

Pretty good salesman
. Patrick watched him work the crowd still flowing past his Cadillac convertible. Belle might decide to attend church here. Handy enough, right across the street from her apartment. When they’d worked together in Kingsport, she’d often talked about going to services.

He was a Christmas and Easter man himself. Twice a year, just to keep his name in the hat. Maybe in a few weeks, he’d give Abingdon UMC his business for the holidays.

His attention abruptly shifted toward Main Street as a Pontiac slowed to a crawl in front of Norah’s place, then turned on Church. When the car slid into the space reserved for Norah’s tenant, Patrick sat up with a start.

Belle
.

Though he couldn’t see clearly from half a block away, he kept his eyes trained on the car nonetheless. A small, red-haired woman in a dark green coat and blue jeans slipped out and headed for Norah’s back door.

Yeah, she’d always looked good in green.

He took a deep breath, letting it out with a noisy hiss.
Showtime
.

Staring at his cell phone propped on the passenger seat, Patrick willed it to ring.
C’mon, Norah, I feel like a fool sitting and waiting. She’s here now, so call me. Please?

Belle searched for a doorbell until she gave up and tapped firmly on the back porch door. This was definitely the right address, since the house fit Patrick’s description to a T. Her eyes drank in the weathered brick exterior—1871, he’d said—and freshly painted white trim. Three full stories and a tin roof with two promising chimneys.
A fireplace? Hope so
.

She’d already fallen in love with Abingdon. Driving in on East Main, she’d nearly had a fender bender twice while trying to take in all the historic buildings on both sides. Antique stores, gift shops, restaurants, and one quaint residence after another were crowded along the narrow, hilly
street. It had been a struggle, but she’d pulled her attention back to concentrate on the house numbers.
Plenty of time to explore later
.

And explore she would. Abingdon was the quintessential small town, population 7,003.

Soon to be 7,004
.

Patrick had pushed all her buttons to make her say yes to this place, pleading one minute, needling her the next. “What are you afraid of?” he’d demanded. That was the question that’d made her so mad she finally said yes.

“I’m not afraid of anything!”

Liar
. She was knee deep in fears. Afraid to see Patrick and risk falling in love with him. Afraid the station would fold after six months and leave her jobless again. Afraid that after dreaming of doing professional theater for so many years, she’d embarrass herself with an amateurish audition.

Afraid of being single forever in a sleepy Virginia town.

Though she had to admit, it was a
nice
sleepy town.

At Court and Main she’d snatched a quick glance at the building that housed WPER and liked what she saw. She’d continued the four short blocks to Norah’s, expecting the eye-pleasing architecture to dissolve into twentieth-century mediocrity, but it never happened.

No wonder Patrick raved about this place.

All at once, the back door opened with the tinkle of tiny bells and Belle was greeted by two unmistakable scents: fresh bread baking and Shalimar perfume. Both were quickly followed by a tall, slender woman in a fluttery silk jacket of rose and black. Her large silver earrings and necklace, though striking, didn’t overpower the woman’s dramatic features, now decorated with a wide, welcoming smile and silver hair cut in a flattering, chin-length style.

“You must be Belle!” The ageless beauty threw open the door further and stepped back. “I’m Norah Silver-Smyth.” Her voice was husky and musical, laced with laughter. “And you’re just in time. The soup has simmered all morning and our bread will be done any moment. Here, let me take your pretty coat.”

Belle slipped off her green wool coat, suddenly feeling too casual in her
long sweater, jeans, and boots. Why didn’t Patrick warn her they’d be lunching with a fashion plate? Then again, Patrick probably hadn’t noticed Norah’s pricey wardrobe, so enamored was he with outlet store bargains.

“I’m afraid I’ve dressed for travel rather than for dinner.”

Norah lifted her brows in a graceful arch. “My dear, if I looked like that in straight-legged jeans, you’d have to cut them off my dead body.”

The woman laughed again and Belle was instantly put at ease.
Well, well. A real person
.

Her hostess waved in the direction of the pots, pans, and baskets dangling dangerously low from dark oak beams that ran the length of the room. “This place needs a Watch Your Head sign, doesn’t it?”

“Not for me.” Belle couldn’t hold back a smile.

“Ah, lucky you, then. Patrick conked his head on that lethal frying pan once.”

Belle looked up, remembering only too well how her first boss had towered over her. The memory sent a tingle of anticipation down her spine.
Won’t be long now
.

Norah gestured toward an inviting doorway and flashed a sly grin. “I only let people I
like
use the kitchen entrance. Come have a seat in the dining room.” She winked. “It’s safer there.”

And it was even more impressive. Belle’s gaze took in a heady mix of muted plaids, large florals, polished cherry, and solid oak. A warm, sophisticated style one wouldn’t find in any magazine, but style nonetheless. “Your house is amazing, Norah.”

“You’re too kind.” Norah followed her into the dining room, where high ceilings, pale yellow walls, and dark oak floors served as a neutral backdrop for a host of vibrantly hued quilts and a rich Persian floor rug in an exotic pattern.

In the hands of an amateur, the eclectic ensemble might have jarred the senses. Clearly, Norah Silver-Smyth was not an amateur.

“Ohh.” Belle sighed. “This is lovely.” She gazed out the tall dining room windows that stretched floor to ceiling, offering an enticing view of a deep, wraparound porch that would surely call her name on lazy summer evenings. “I hope the apartment upstairs is half this nice.”

“Shall we find out?” Norah disappeared back into the kitchen for an instant and returned, shaking a ring of keys. “Right this way, Belle. Forgive me for being so chummy, but Patrick has told me a great deal about you.”

Belle felt her cheeks heating up. “I can imagine what he said. Promise me you believe only half of it.”

“On the contrary, I chose to believe every word.” Norah led her into a front hallway and gave her another dazzling smile. “I know all about your growing up in North Carolina and attending ASU and your passion for theater, not to mention the radio career that’s taken you across five states.” She slipped a silver key into a solid door, opened it to reveal a long, curving flight of steps, then turned to regard Belle with a look that hinted at understanding, even sympathy. “I also know about Chicago.”

Belle laughed and shook her head. “Does everybody know?”

“No, bless your heart.” Norah tipped her head slightly. “One way or another, we’ve all been there, Belle. You’re in much better hands now.” She started up the steps. “Come see your new digs.”