Mixed Signals (33 page)

“Fear not. After I’ve chosen one, I’ll let everyone read the man’s letter and get their opinion. Plus, I’ll meet him in a public place. Not a thing for you to worry about, David.” She patted his hand, steering him toward the door. “Get a good night’s sleep. Dream happy dreams of WBT and Charlotte and all that lovely money.”

He stumbled out the door and down the steps, evidently thrown off by her ploy. She
would
pick one of these letters. Yes, indeed. Write the stranger back, arrange to meet him soon, throw her arms around him if necessary. Whatever it took to make David Cahill jealous, make him understand that the future he’d always hoped for was right here in his hometown.

In her arms.

The salary was awful, but she’d make certain the benefits were positively breathtaking.

B
Y
W
EDNESDAY MORNING
, B
ELLE
had narrowed her choices down to two of her on-paper admirers—the store owner and the college professor. Stable types. Not as likely to move away to, say, North Carolina, like the med student who’d take off the minute he finished his residency.

Not as likely to sue her as the attorney might, once he figured out what she was up to.

She’d already started writing her responses, doing her best to sound interested but not
too
interested, when Burt stuck his head in the studio and tossed her the day’s mail.

“Found a boyfriend yet, Belle?” His gap-toothed smile made him look like a pirate.

She couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m keeping my options open.”

“Couple of ’em here worth looking at.” He nodded at the latest stack, then disappeared when she whirled around to introduce the next song.

Belle flipped on the mike. “It’s quarter after eleven on a barely-above-freezing Wednesday, but we’re keeping things cooking in the studio with this number-one-with-a-bullet hit from October 1967, the Box Tops singing ‘My Baby, She Wrote Me a Letter.’ ”

She talked right up to the post, hitting the last word before the vocalist punched in. It always made her feel sharp, on top of her game.
Who knows who might be listening?
A future beau, for all she knew. A hot L.A.
programmer, driving through town.
Nah
. She’d found her home. The perfect town. A wonderful church. Only one heartfelt desire left.
Well, two
. But the husband had to come first, then the kids.

Which brought her to the newest pile of mail. She sifted through the letters quickly, reading a few lines then moving on, intending to give them the interest they deserved later. One envelope caught her eye, though. Made her pause longer than usual. Plain white bond paper, nothing fancy. Neatly typed, probably on a computer. An Abingdon post office box for a return address, but no name. The usual postmark, a dual cancellation stamp for Bristol—Tennessee
and
Virginia—mailed yesterday.

Hmm
. She sliced it along the flap, taking care not to cut the letter in half with her razor-sharp opener. The page was covered with type.
A chatty sort, eh?
Single-spaced, business-looking. Until she read the words.

He had her attention. Yes, he most certainly did. The letter was signed “All Ears,” so no clue there. She kept reading.

Definitely a guy with his head on straight. No question his letter beat the college prof’s, hands down. Maybe she’d make this one her second choice. There was more:

Belle was surprised to find her hands had grown clammy, her throat dry. This guy didn’t mince words. That “receive my love with open arms” part touched her at the core. And what a clear, unapologetic faith! The Lord knew how much she needed that, to keep her strong, keep her on track, to lead by example.

Clearly, this letter was her first choice. Maybe her only one.

How could she be getting teary over a stranger’s letter?

And how dare the Box Tops decide to stop singing so suddenly like that? She jammed another button on the control board and segued directly into the next song, throwing the music format right out the window. Junior Walker and the All-Stars crooned, “What Does It Take to Win Your Love?” while she finished the letter, sniffing all the way.

She used the letter to fan herself while her head was spinning.
Who is this guy?
Surely not a real person. Still, there
was
a post office box number. It may have been written on a computer, but not
by
a computer.

Nope, this was a real man. Close to thirty, he said. Single, local, a committed Christian.
And what a way he has with words!
Belle kept fanning her heated cheeks and punched up another tune, her third in a row, this one a classic from 1966, the Righteous Brothers’ “You’re My Soul and Inspiration.”

Without warning, the studio door burst open. Startled, she slapped the letter against her chest and spun around. “David!”

He stood there, hands on hips, looking like nothing short of a majormarket engineer. In other words, unhappy with the on-air talent. “When I heard three in a row and no Belle, I thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep at the switch.” One expressive eyebrow arched above his glasses. “Are you planning on talking today, or did we change to a ‘less talk, more rock’ format while I was gone Monday?”

The nerve of this man!
She refolded the letter and slipped it into her purse, intentionally delaying her answer while she built up a good head of steam. “Since when do you worry about what I say or don’t say on the air, not to mention which music clock I’m working with?”

His shrug was clearly meant to infuriate her further. “Burt asked me to keep an eye on things while he’s meeting with a client.”

“Humph.” She’d turned her back to him, stacking up carts and doing her best to give him the cold shoulder. Two of them, in fact, plus a cold neck. A very cold neck.

He was standing directly behind her now. If she backed up, she could
roll over his toes. Twice, if she rolled fast enough.

“Speaking of meeting people, Belle, you looked pretty interested in that letter when I came in. Is he the lucky guy you’ve chosen to meet?”

She tipped her head back and looked straight up at him. Confound it, the brute even looked handsome upside down. “What’s it to you, I’d like to know?”

He spread his hands apart. “Not a thing. Curious is all.” His tone lost its teasing edge as he slowly turned her chair around and knelt down so they were eye to eye.

Her bravado slipped away as quickly as it’d appeared.

“Do me a favor, will you, Belle?”

She gulped and nodded.
Anything except throw that letter away
.

“Today is the day I meet with the bank. About a loan for the house, so I can hire a couple of guys to help me finish in time for W
BT
. Nobody else knows about the offer but you. Nobody. Will you pray for me? In fact, will you pray
with
me, right now?”

She nodded. “Let me get in and out of this next commercial set before Patrick comes in here asking for my head on a platter.”

David stayed where he was while she spun around and did a quick back-sell, listing the songs and artists of her three-in-a-row “special music sweep.” She read the weather and a liner card, then punched up the first commercial, relieved to let the equipment handle everything else automatically.

“Now.” She turned back, her heart skipping a beat when she discovered he’d slipped to both knees, inches away from her. “Well, well, just what I’ve always dreamed of. A man kneeling at my feet.”

“Get used to it, Belle. Every man in town is willing.”

Not every man
. “Let’s pray.”

They bowed their heads and David went first, begging the Lord for mercy when he met with the bank at three o’clock, asking that the loan officer be fair and hear him out.

Belle echoed his prayers, adding her own silent entreaties between the lines.
Your will be done, Lord. If he’s supposed to go to Charlotte, let everything happen that needs to today at the bank. If it doesn’t happen, then give me the
courage to ask him to stay, Lord. For me
.

Belle could hear the stop set ending, her cue to be ready to introduce the next song. She cleared her throat and clicked on the mike. “From 1967, one of Dionne Warwick’s dozen top-twenty hits. ‘I Say a Little Prayer for You’ on Oldies 95 W-P-E-R.”

She winked at David making his way toward the door, obviously amused by her selection, and turned off the mike. “Hey, it’s my show, right? Let me know how it goes at the bank.”

Minutes later, she stole a glance at the letter sticking up out of her purse.
Very tempting, that
. Would it hurt to meet him? If David
did
get the loan, if he
did
take the job, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have such a man as a friend?
Don’t fool yourself, Belle. You are not thinking brotherly thoughts about this guy, whoever he is
.

The truth was, she felt guilty for thinking about him at all.
And I wouldn’t be thinking about him if David weren’t so circumspect about his feelings!
If he’d simply say, “I’m leaving town, it’s been nice,” she’d be fine with it. In a few years.

Or, if he’d announce, “We’re getting married and moving to Charlotte,” she’d be fine with that, too. And be dressed in thirty seconds.

One thing was certain. Despite her promise to David to let everyone read this letter and give her an opinion, she intended to keep it safely tucked away from prying eyes. Norah would think she was crazy to consider meeting a stranger like that. Patrick would insist she have a police escort. Heather would tell her to throw the letter away, then dig it out of the trash and write the man herself. Especially after Heather’s disastrous movie date with her not-so-Happy Together winner. The tub of hot buttered popcorn in her blond hair was apparently only the beginning of Heather’s dreadful night at the cinema, poor thing.

And David would undoubtedly be jealous if he saw this listener’s letter …

Which was why, come to think of it, he’d be the one person she
would
show the letter to, the one person she’d tell about her plans to meet the man. A little jealousy might prompt David to articulate his own feelings for her. Though she doubted he’d be half as eloquent as her mysterious “All Ears.”

Hmm. Hope they’re not big ears
.

Belle reached for the letter again while the Casinos waited in the wings to sing their one big hit, “Then You Can Tell Me Good-bye.” She went through the motions of introducing the tune as her eyes scanned the opening words of a letter she suspected she’d be reading off and on all afternoon.

David sat in the outer office of the bank, cooling his jets, waiting his turn. He gazed through the wooden venetian blinds. The afternoon sun was doing its best to shine, eclipsed by heavy cloud cover. More snow in the forecast, Belle had announced.
Welcome to midwinter in the Virginia Highlands
.

The marble floor glowed with the rich patina of age. And money. Abingdon Bank and Trust had been around a long time. David, who kept his checking account at a bank in Bristol, had chosen this location for two reasons. First, because Patrick banked here and assured him his name would help grease the skids. David hadn’t told Patrick why he needed to borrow money for the house remodeling, just that he did. Patrick hadn’t batted an eye or asked a single question.

The other reason he’d picked this place was simpler: Sherry’s father didn’t work there. The last David remembered, Robison was at Citizens First Bank. Or whatever their name was now. Banks seemed to put their names up with Velcro lately. He hadn’t seen the man since he got back to town in October. Who knows? Robison might not live in Abingdon anymore. In any case, this wasn’t his bank and that was all that mattered.