Mixed Signals (34 page)

David read over his copy of the loan application again, filled out with care the day before. Although he’d only been employed four months, his college and service records were top-notch. He’d worked hard to make sure of it.

His references were chosen with care: Patrick Reese, because he was his boss, and Norah Silver-Smyth, because she was a class act who knew the whole town. As long as his loan officer was some young guy who didn’t know a Cahill from a katydid, he figured he’d be as good a risk as the next guy.

His house would be collateral. The loan money would go for labor. It would take about ten thousand dollars, he’d calculated, every dime of which would be paid back the minute the house was sold. The way houses were moving in Abingdon, it would be gone in sixty days and he’d still come out ahead. Way ahead, if the Lord was merciful.

The door opened and a thirty-something man in a striped tie and yellow shirt stepped out.
Perfect
.

“Welcome, Mr. Cahill. Sorry to keep you waiting. My manager and I will be happy to sit down and discuss your loan application now.” The young banker waved him into a corner office, one with thick blue carpet, natural woodwork polished to an elegant sheen, and tasteful, gilt-edged paintings lining the walls.

The decor was meant to intimidate. In David’s case, the effort was superfluous. The man sitting behind the huge mahogany desk was intimidating enough. It wasn’t his height, though he was taller than average. Or his strong jawline, carved out of the same marble they’d used for the bank lobby floor.

No, it was who he was. And what he stood for.

“Mr. Cahill,” the young loan officer was saying, perhaps sensing a change in the atmosphere and wanting to do his best to smooth things over. “Meet our brand-new vice president of the loan division, Mr. George Robison. Sir, this is David Cahill.”

The man behind the desk stood, a column of gray granite in his Brooks Brothers suit. His cold eyes shrank to black slits. “No introduction necessary, Chuck. I know Mr. Cahill and his family well. Leave us alone, please. I’ll take things from here.”

Belle placed the two letters side by side. His exquisite letter to her; her own much-labored-over response to him. The man, whoever he was, had clearly
poured his heart out to her. She wished she could do the same. But he had the advantage. He’d heard her on the air, every day, for months. Had read a long article about her, seen her photos. Maybe had stopped by her remote broadcast at Dollar General, not introducing himself, just hanging around to watch.

Ugh
. She didn’t want to think about that. Gave her the willies.

Her show over, Belle was hiding in the production studio hoping no one would come looking for her until she’d gotten this letter safely signed, sealed, and delivered to the post office.

Quick, before she chickened out.

Quick, before someone read the two letters, his and hers, and declared her certifiably crazy. Her plan was iffy, no doubt. But not dangerous. Meeting him at the Grill would keep things from ever going over the edge.

Besides, she had to do it. Had to get David’s attention, force his hand.
Wouldn’t it be easier to simply confess your feelings to him?
The thought had nagged at her all afternoon. Sure, it would be easier. But WBT had complicated things. If he really wanted to move, she had to give him the space to do so. Going with him was out of the question, since their relationship hadn’t reached the happily-ever-after stage.

Yet here she sat writing a letter to a stranger who was already talking about marriage! She might not have the talent for acting, but no question she had the artistic temperament for it.
Up, down, up, down …

Taking a breath to steel her nerves, she scanned her letter for the fourth time that hour.

Then why wasn’t she trusting God to work things out with David? The thought needled her conscience. She ignored the jabbing pain and kept reading.

Was that too much? Too positive, too encouraging? She didn’t want him to think she was ready for the altar. Heaven forbid.
And you will forbid it, won’t you, Lord? Stop me from doing anything rash and losing David in the process?

Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. She pressed on, hoping the next section would let him know her heart was already spoken for.

There. She’d been honest, fair, and encouraging, right? The door stood open for him to walk through, as long as he understood what the situation was.

What is the situation, Belle?
Simple. She wanted this kind stranger to write back immediately. Agree to meet her. Turn out to be almost everything she ever wanted in a man.
He couldn’t be everything. That was David
. But enough to make David see the writing on the wall. To take one solid step in her direction.
One step, Lord. I’ll run the rest of the way
.

David had to make the first move so she’d know it was God’s will and according to his plan. She’d gone off on enough tangents without touching base with God first. Not this time.
Your way or no way, Lord
.

Belle laughed out loud, filling the four empty corners of the brightly lit production studio.
Not
“
My way or the highway
”
? You really have made some progress
.

She signed the letter with a flourish of her dark green pen and folded the thick, creamy paper with care. Sliding it inside the matching envelope, she sealed it with a lick and a promise and flipped it over to add his address. Only a post office box, no name, as secretive and mysterious as he was.

“Your turn, Mr. Ears.” She headed out the door as she consulted her watch.
Minutes away from four
. The post office was a twenty-minute walk. She’d have to hustle to get there in time to buy a stamp and get her letter in the mail.
Good thing the snow hasn’t started yet
. She bundled up, calling out a general good-bye to all within earshot, and charged down the steps.

A cold, biting wind greeted her when she reached the street. Tugging her scarf tighter around her neck, she put her head into the wind blowing hard out of the west and pointed herself toward the post office, ten blocks away. Maybe she’d walk as far as the house and jump in her car.
Nah
. It might take longer to find a parking space. As David had reminded her a hundred years ago or so,
tempus fugit
.

Flying along Main Street as if her boots had wings, she passed Abingdon Bank and Trust, wondering how things had gone with David’s loan. An honorable, hardworking guy like him? Surely a no-brainer for the loan officer. Naturally they’d given him the money.

Which meant if she was going to get David’s attention before his eyes were permanently fixed on WBT and North Carolina, she’d have to make tracks.

D
AVID REMAINED STANDING EVEN
after Chuck, the junior loan officer, backed out of the corner office, tail tucked firmly between his legs. Even after George Robison indicated by a perfunctory wave toward a hard wooden chair that David was expected to sit.

David preferred to stand.

This wasn’t the time or the place or the circumstance he would have chosen, but this meeting was destined to happen someday. He would not face it sitting down.

The banker did sit, finally, pulling a slim file folder toward him and opening it with some ceremony. David could see it was his loan application, a copy of his bank statement, a letter from Patrick stating his employment terms, and his own sketch and photos of the house and property. Everything in order.

Resting his elbows on the paperwork, George Robison steepled his fingers and trained his metallic gaze on him, not meeting David’s eyes but focusing on a point in the middle of his forehead, shutting down any avenue of communication.

The corners of the man’s mouth had not budged from the firm, hard line David had seen there when he’d walked into the office. The older man managed to maintain that line when he spoke. “You know, of course, that a loan on this property is out of the question.”

David felt his stomach drop to his knees. He gritted his teeth to keep his disappointment from showing. “Why is that?”
He knew why, he just wanted to hear the man say it
.

“When the property was originally sold to Patrick Edward Reese last September, that shack you live in was appraised at one thousand dollars. Not worth the wood and nails it’s made out of, in other words. I believe it was of such little value it was slated to be torn down. Am I right?”

“That was the original plan, yes. I offered Mr. Reese three thousand dollars for two acres and the house. You’ll see the property sale agreement in that file folder. The one under your elbow.” David could not, would not be intimidated by this man. He’d followed the law to the letter in this real estate deal with Patrick. Had already paid him off, owned the house and land, free and clear.

What had Sherry called her father?
Mr. George Almighty Robison?
No way, not for this radio engineer. There was only one Almighty in David’s life, the only ultimate authority he answered to.

“A shack is still a shack,” Robison insisted. “Hardly worth my risking a ten-thousand-dollar loan on a pile of wood that could come crashing down around your ears while the unpaid debt crashes around mine.”

David clenched his fists by his side, struggling for control. In the recesses of his memory, the list he’d been studying at Curt’s house unfurled like a banner: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control.
I need the whole fruit basket today, Lord
.

“Mr. Robison, have you looked over the recent photos of the house? I think you’ll see a marked improvement, all according to code, all done with the proper permits and inspections. I had a realtor do a walk-through, and she estimated with the completed work done in time for the big spring real estate season, the house will be worth six or seven times the amount of the loan I’m asking for. She suggested a ninety-day balloon loan. Pay it all off at once, upon sale or three months, whichever came first.”

The man looked as if he’d swallowed a live weasel, so pronounced was his disgust. “Which realtor is that, pray tell?” When David shared her name, Robison merely shook his head. “These weekend open-house types are hardly licensed appraisers, let alone mortgage loan specialists.”

David cleared his throat, fighting for time and begging for patience. “I’d be happy to pay for an official appraisal.”

“Which would be a requirement if we were proceeding with this loan application. Which we are not.”

Here we go
. “I’m afraid your reasoning is not, by law, sufficient to turn down this application without serious consideration, Mr. Robison.” He prayed his nights in the library studying the current laws for borrowing money in the state of Virginia would pay off for him now.

The veins in the older man’s neck were throbbing as he rose to his feet. “What did you say to me?”

“I said I need a detailed response, in writing. Proof that credit reports were done, references checked—”

“
References?
Cahill, the last time we saw one another, I handed you a check and an ultimatum. Do you recall what that was?”

Finally, Robison had gotten to the core issue. It had nothing to do with now. It had everything to do with then. The black slits that served for the man’s eyes had acquired a glint that stiffened David’s spine. He made certain his words were equally straight, like arrows, aimed at the heart.

“Yes, Mr. Robison, I recall it well. The date was August 28. The check was for one hundred dollars, which I ripped in two, if
you
recall. And the message you gave me was to leave town and never tell a soul about Sherry’s pregnancy.”

“And?”

“And that’s exactly what I did, sir.”
Except for Belle
.

“You did much more than that, young man!” The banker’s jowly face was purplish and shaking. “You drove Sherry away. Drove a wedge between her and the parents who loved her, who gave her life and every luxury she could ever want. And she threw it away for what? For
you
. For a lousy, worthless Cahill!” He leaned over and pounded his desk, punctuating his words. “She never called. She never wrote. We don’t know if she’s dead or alive. Because of you. You and your no-good drunk of a father—”