Mixed Signals (30 page)

Her closet let her down as well. All her favorite clothes were wrinkled, dirty, or both, so she was stuck wearing baggy jeans and a sweater that made her skin look green.

So far this morning, her hair was the only thing not giving her fits.

Brushing it dry with long, slow strokes, Belle kept one eye on the clock. Should she get to work early, hide in the studio, avoid the inevitable commentary from her coworkers? Maybe getting there late was better, minutes before her show, so no one would have time to razz her.

“Oh, fiddle!” Late or early, it didn’t make one iota of difference. The most humiliating day of her thirty-two years awaited her. The sooner she faced it, the better. Four blocks and forty-four steps later, facing it
later
seemed like a much better plan.

Three of W
PER’S
finest were already gathered around the table in the jock lounge, the incriminating newspaper spread out before them. Cliff in his houndstooth jacket, Jeanette in her rhinestone glasses, Anne wearing a
pencil behind her ear and a smug expression on her face. “Well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour.”

Cliff, ever the salesman, gave Belle a hearty slap on the back. “Great press for the Barter Theatre. An important client of ours. They’ll be thrilled.”

“Great.”

“While we’re on the subject—” Jeanette eyed Belle over her glasses—“I have tickets for you to give away on your show, one pair every hour, starting later this month. For
Much Ado about Nothing
, of course.”

“Great.”

Anne chimed in. “That reminds me, I’d like you to record a spot for the Barter before you go on the air this morning. Cliff’s written it. Kind of a Shakespearean spoof.”

“Great.”

Patrick’s office door opened with a bang. “There you are, Belle!” He waved her toward him, a look of concern on his bearded face. “I need your help on something.”

He knows
.

He pulled her inside his office, closing the door behind them. He smelled of minty soap and a freshly dry-cleaned suit, making her feel frumpier than ever. “Belle, I’ve got the Barter on hold on the phone.”

I knew it
. She managed to croak out a response. “Oh?”

“Since we’re a sponsor for
Much Ado—
”

“A sponsor!”
Great
.

“Hadn’t I mentioned that? Anyway, from a promotional standpoint, I wanted to make sure you got the part of Elsa.”

“Ursula.”

“Whatever. Here’s the problem. The woman in the office said your name wasn’t listed on last night’s audition roster. According to the paper, you were supposed to be there.”

“Believe me, I was there.”

His face brightened. “And?”

She took a deep breath. “Ask them if the name Belinda Oberholtzer is on their list.”

Patrick beamed. “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” He grabbed the phone and punched the button. “Miss, I have another possibility for you to check. Got an actress named Oberholtzer on there?”

Belle watched his expression change from expectation, to confusion, to something like desperation. “I see. Uh-huh.” His eyes met Belle’s when they both heard a peal of laughter coming from the other end of the line.

“No need to make light of it, miss.” Patrick’s face had turned to the color of wet Georgia clay. “And I’m sorrier than you are. Thanks for the … uh, information.” He hung up the phone in silence, bravely keeping his eyes locked on hers.

Don’t let him hug me, Lord. If he hugs me, I’m a goner
.

She almost fainted from relief when he kept his distance.

“Belle, I’m—”

She held up her hands. “Don’t say it. It was awful and it’s over. I’ll survive.”

“But all those years—”

“I’ll get over it, okay?” Her voice softened when she saw the pity in his eyes turn to compassion. “Not a problem, Patrick. I’m a big girl.”

“Actually, you’re kinda small.” He grinned, obviously relieved. “But you’ve matured into quite a woman.” The creases around his eyes deepened. “David’s a lucky guy.”

Her stomach turned into a neatly tied square knot.
So much for secrets
. “Th-thanks. I think Norah’s pretty lucky, too.”

Patrick let out a loud guffaw, chasing away any tension in the room. “Are you kidding? I’m the blessed one in that relationship and you know it.”

She watched a softness come over his bearded face, transforming it so completely her mouth dropped open. “You’re hiding something from me, old friend. Something exciting, unless I miss my guess. Out with it.”

In a few, halting sentences, Patrick described his visit from Norah on New Year’s Day. Belle found her own disappointment fading away as her boss shared his life-changing discovery with her.

When Patrick finished, she was the one hugging
him
. “That’s wonderful!” She squeezed his teddy bear chest then stepped back, brushing away
a tear. “Two kinds of love, eh? One for now and—”

“And one forever.” He nodded sheepishly and Belle decided she’d never seen him so genuinely happy.

“When’s the wedding?”

The ruddy color was back. “Oh no, you don’t. We’re a long way from that, Belle.”

A voice floated in from outside the office. “A long way from what?”

They both turned to find Norah standing in the doorway wrapped in a teal-colored wool coat, a muffin basket resting in her gloved hands. “Did I miss something?”

Belle chuckled. “Nothing Patrick can’t fill you in on. Gotta go, you two. Spots to record and a show to prep.”

“Wait a minute.” Patrick thrust a handful of pink phone message slips into her hands. “You’ll want these.”

“Huh?” Belle thumbed through the stack of unfamiliar names. “What’s all this?”

“Admirers.” His grin covered half his face. “A dozen or so guys read your article this morning and decided if you weren’t happy being single, they might be able to do something about it. Those came in on the business line. Frank took twice that many on the studio phone since six this morning.”

Her groan covered half an octave. “Great.”

“Better not let David see those.” Norah offered Belle a knowing smile as she brushed past her. “You know how jealous these radio men can be.”

David, jealous?
The notion of it warmed her to her toes, buoying her along in a wave of pleasant euphoria all the way to the production studio. All through the recording of a commercial for the Barter. Right up until she entered the on-air studio where reality struck again in the form of Frank Gallagher. A highly peeved Frank Gallagher.

“Mornin’, Frank!” Belle sang out.

“So says you.” He tossed her the music log with little ceremony. “Better pull the tunes for your show now, since you’ll no doubt spend all five hours on the phone with your fans. These are for you as well.” He slapped a second stack of pink phone slips on the countertop. “Though why you’d want
to talk to these love-starved fools only you would know.”

Poor Frank
. Belle understood exactly what prompted his sour mood. She studied his broad back, his carefully positioned toupee, his ancient coffee cup, his newspaper opened to her article.

“Frank, I’m sorry they did a story on me first. Everybody loves your morning show and—”

“You think I’m bothered by this?” He wheeled the chair around so quickly it made her jump. “Not on your life, girlie. Old Frank’s been around long enough to see how this works. A pretty girl sells more papers than a middle-aged guy in polyester pants.” He sniffed for effect and turned back to the board. “Besides, Jake Solomon at the
Mountain View Times
is talking about doing an article on me. Sometime soon, he says.”

“That’s terrific, Frank.”
Bless his heart
. Belle knew the perfect thing to boost his ego. “By the way, I didn’t get the part at the Barter last night. Made a blooming idiot of myself, as a matter of fact.”

He spun around again. “No kidding!”

She almost laughed out loud at the look of relief on his face, especially when he tried hard to appear sympathetic and failed miserably. “Yup.” She shrugged her shoulders, playing it to full effect for his benefit. “No weeks of rehearsing for this woman. My evenings are my own.” She winked at him. “I seem to remember that last night had some disaster-making potential for you as well. How’d your dinner with Millie, the winning contestant, go?”

His eyebrows gathered like storm clouds brewing over the Appalachians. “I’ve been talking about it on the air for the last three hours. Don’t you ever listen to my show?”

“Every single morning, Frank.”
Maybe the man’s ego didn’t need boosting after all
. “But today I was too busy licking my wounds over the article.”

“What’s the matter, wasn’t it accurate?”

“Oh, it was accurate, every painful word. Not a misquote on the page.” She sighed, putting down her things. “I simply forgot the cardinal rule for interviews—never say anything you don’t want seven thousand people to read about.” She began yanking out music CDs for her show, talking over her shoulder as she went down the wooden wall rack. “So, tell me about last night with Millie.”

“It was … nice.”

Whaddaya know
. “Details, Frank, I want details.”

“Tall, slim, my age, curly dark hair, good sense of humor.” He cleared his throat with exaggerated fanfare. “We’re going out again tomorrow night. On my dime this time.”

“Frank, you sly thing!”

He’d already slipped on his cans and turned on the mike for a long stop set, chatting about weather and upcoming events. His bass voice boomed, “Be sure to join our own media darling, Belle O’Brien, broadcasting live from Dollar General Store this afternoon from four until five. Take advantage of their January White Sale savings and meet the Belle of Abingdon.”

Do what?
Her spirits and her jaw dropped in tandem. The minute Frank’s mike was off, she grabbed the liner card promoting her appearance and read the awful news for herself. “Not today, please don’t tell me this. I’m wearing zero makeup, dowdy clothes …” Her diatribe dissolved into a groan. “Whose idea was this?”

“Patrick’s.” Frank flashed a lethal grin. “Figured he’d capitalize on the newspaper publicity. Let you get out there and meet your adoring public, face to face.”

“Great.”

She’d have barely enough time to run home between her show and the remote broadcast to change and slap on some makeup. The fistful of phone slips in her hands convinced her she couldn’t go “as is,” since some of her admirers might show up whether they needed a new set of towels or not.

Minutes later, it was her turn on the microphone. She tossed up a silent prayer for energy and enthusiasm, both of which were sadly lacking at the moment, and dove in. “Belle O’Brien here to keep your day spinning along, starting with a number-one record from January 1970. B.J. Thomas and ‘Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” ’

And that’s about the only thing that hasn’t happened today. Not yet, anyway
.

Frank’s advice about needing to get her music ready turned out to be prophetic. The studio request line rang nonstop all morning with calls that fell into two categories, same as the messages on the pink slips. Some
wanted her to know how disappointed they were, the usual “you don’t look like you sound” comments. In ten years of doing radio, the only response she’d come up with to that one was, “Sorry, I’ll try harder tomorrow.”

Or—and this was by far the majority—the callers were men wanting to know if they could “meet her sometime.” Prepubescent teenagers whose voices changed keys three times in one sentence. Salesmen on cell phones, yearning for a little human contact on the road. Men in their sixties who kept calling her “young lady” and saying how much she reminded them of their own daughters. Lonely guys from neighboring towns like Meadowview, Chilhowie, and Damascus, the town she’d driven through back in November. Students from Emory & Henry College and VHCC, back from the Christmas break, assuring her she “didn’t look bad for an older woman.”

Great
.

During the network news feed at noon, she made the unfortunate mistake of choosing the Grill for her take-out lunch. A newspaper rack waited silently inside the door, hitting her between the eyes with that headline one more time. While she stood at the counter, trying to ignore the sidelong glances and elbow nudges her presence had set into motion, Leonard came lumbering out from behind the sizzling grill, wiping his hands on his grimy apron and grinning in greeting.

“Take a look at that fishbowl, Miss O’Brien!” He grabbed it off the display rack and shook it at her. “Betcha got twenty new ones since this morning. Guess that makes you the Belle of the
Bowl
, huh?”

“Very clever, Leonard.” She smiled in spite of herself. “How about a turkey on whole wheat, light on the mayo?” He was back with her sandwich in record time, but not soon enough to prevent a few good-natured verbal volleys from the regular diners who knew her. Thanks to the paper’s thorough reporting, now they knew even more about her.

Studying the group of photos for the tenth time that day, she decided they might not be as awful as they’d first seemed. Had she ever seen a photo of herself she really liked? The one with the hot air balloon crew, a pose of her climbing into the big rattan basket they called the gondola, was
a nagging reminder that her own “date with a winner” would be coming up in a little over a month. The listener part made her nervous, but the ballooning itself was scarier still. Patrick had convinced her she’d be plenty safe, despite David’s insistence that he’d get a group from church to pray for her from takeoff to landing.

Where
was
David, anyway? She dashed back up the steps, sandwich in hand. She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him all day. He usually stuck his head in the studio while she baby-sat the news feed and nibbled on lunch, but not today. The afternoon dragged on. Though the music was upbeat—Animals to ZZ Top—she found her spirits were sagging, especially each time she promoted her upcoming remote broadcast.
Why today, Lord?
His silence spoke volumes. Clearly she was expected to cram all her misery in one day, get it over with, then jump back into joyful living on Thursday.