Mixed Signals (37 page)

Belle slipped on her cans, listening to the Marvelettes winding down, singing along in her customized key, making up her own words to “Please Mr. Postman.”

Please let there be a plain white envelope for me …

It wasn’t merely a song, she decided. It was a prayer.

She turned on the mike and trilled, “That was the first number-one single for Motown Records back in 1961. I’m Belle O’Brien, spinning your favorites on W-P-E-R Oldies 95. Weather, coming up.” She flicked off the mike and shook her head.
Dull, girl
. Her whole first hour had been that way, a distracted, disjointed mess, with one eye trained on the studio door, wondering when Burt would come strolling in with the day’s mail.

Her first “All Ears” letter had arrived on Wednesday. He should have received her letter Thursday. Now it was Friday.
Your turn, fella
.

When Burt showed up with a smattering of correspondence, Belle tried to act nonchalant as she waved him back out the door while sliding a letter opener along the seal of a telltale white envelope. The minute the door swooshed shut, she tore out the sheet of paper as her heart leaped into her throat.

Disappointment sent it thudding back into place.
So short!
Not the long, soul-bearing epistle she’d hoped for, just a few brief lines from her mysterious admirer.

Whoever her anonymous correspondent was, he’d chosen a most romantic record for her to play.

Stop it, Belle! Don’t get off track
. She grabbed the appropriate CD for later in her show. This was about getting David’s attention, not winning the heart of Mr. Ears.

Did
David know how blessed he was to have her care about him? Not yet, maybe, but soon. One dinner spent with her mystery man ought to push David over the edge the minute he got wind of it. She’d make sure the news blew in his direction.

The letter from Belle was one thing. David had expected that. Had watched her mail the thing yesterday afternoon, in fact. Before he kissed her. Before
soup. But this note from Norah Silver-Smyth, waiting in his mailbox at work, this was something else again.

David shrugged off his parka and unfolded the letter. No stamp or address. She’d obviously dropped it by the station in person, maybe after her morning muffin round with Patrick. Would Belle bring him breakfast like that every morning?
Nah. Never happen
.

Norah’s elegant handwriting covered the pale silver stationery with loops and swirls that took some time to decipher.

Consider it done, he thought with a grin. He’d even bring his own spoon.

He loved the idea of food. Visitors were another thing. Getting underfoot, slowing him down, asking questions, seeing his house in such a sorry state of midrepair.

Then again. Belle. Dinner. Not a tough decision.

“Stop by” for another dressing-down from George Robison?
No way
. He flung the note at his desk, understanding more clearly than ever why Sherry had left and never come back. The man never knew when to quit.

One problem. Norah was the one who asked him to be there. That was reason enough for him to stop by the bank, even if it meant facing another round in the carpeted ring with George. Maybe the man had taken his challenge seriously, gathered credit reports and so forth. They’d probably called Norah for a reference and one thing led to another.
Who knows?

Six hours from now, he’d find out. Whatever happened there, it wouldn’t matter nearly as much as his rendezvous later with Belle. He glanced down at his jeans and white shirt—he was dressed for the Grill, not the bank. Too bad for George, he figured. Grabbing a stack of engineering logs to review, he stared up at the speakers that piped WPER into his tiny work cubicle. The knot of tension in his chest began unwinding at the sound of her voice spilling out, warm and vibrant.

My beautiful Belle
.

He intended to be all ears, all day, while he worked and waited until she played her last song. No visits to the studio, no risking giving himself away.

He worked diligently for three full minutes, then tossed aside his papers and headed toward the studio, anticipating her intoxicating perfume and luminous gold eyes, less than twenty feet away from him.

Belle was seated at the console, back to the door, her long braid stretched down her back. How he longed to pull out those tidy twists and run his hands through the curly mass of it, spreading it over her shoulders, inhaling the fragrance of her.

“Belle?”

Her head jerked up and around with a guilty start as she stuffed a piece of paper in her purse, never taking her eyes off him. “Hi.”

He knew what the answer was, but he had to ask. “Whatcha reading?”

Her eyebrows arched. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

What if I said, “I do know.” What if I tell her now?

No. He needed to give her time to figure it out for herself. Let her feel in control of things. For all he knew, she’d already put two and two together
and was playing along with his game, strictly to amuse herself. Or embarrass him.

Belle didn’t look amused, though. She looked pensive. “It’s another letter from Mr. Ears. I’m meeting him for dinner tonight, in case you’d forgotten.”

She’s testing me
. “Oh, right. Totally slipped my mind. What time was that again?”

“Five.” Her glance sharpened. “Not planning on joining us, are you?”

“Not this guy. In fact, I have an appointment at the bank around then.”
Which had better be finished in time or George is toast
.

“I thought the bank … well, I thought that was over.”

You think a lot of things, Belle. Bless you, you think about me
. He stood there, grinning what he knew to be an idiotic grin. She’d put it there, that grin of his. Because he loved her.
Keep saying it, Cahill. Practice. I love you, Belle. I love you
.

She stared at him, waiting for an answer.

“I’d love … uh, to know what … the … uh, bank is thinking, too.”
Get it together, man!
He realized the goofy grin had returned. “Guess I’ll find out later this afternoon.”

On that note, he backed his way out of the studio, pointing at the speakers. “Your song’s over.”
And we’re just beginning. You’ll see, woman. Soon enough
.

D
AVID KNEW TROUBLE WAS
afoot the minute he stepped inside Abingdon Bank and Trust. Chuck, George’s young gopher, stood outside the hallowed corner office, frantically motioning him over.

“In here, Mr. Cahill.”

The room was empty, the imposing desk unmanned. David stood and waited, eyeballing the yawning wooden chair.
Not Wednesday. Not today, either
.

George showed up minutes later, striding into his office, shutting the door behind him with a decided bang. “Have a seat, David.”

“I’ll stand, thanks.”

“You’ll
sit!
” The man’s foul mood was written all over his face like a scrawl of red graffiti.

David sat. At least his body did. “Is there a reason I’m here?”

“Don’t be smart with me, young man.” The black eyes shone with a deadly glint, worse than last time. “I’ll make this short and sweet. Norah Silver-Smyth showed up here yesterday. Gave me a piece of her mind.”

I’ll bet she did
. “No kidding.”

“Gave me a piece of information, too. About a boy named Josh.”

Norah knew about Josh?
Impossible. Unless …
Unless Belle had told her. David could barely get out the words. “What did she tell you? About Josh, I mean?”

George leaned over his desk, a pair of meaty hands pressed on the
gleaming surface. His voice was a low growl. “Norah told me the only thing I needed to know. That I have a grandson. You might have mentioned that yourself, Cahill.”

David kept his tone even. “Sherry had eight years to tell you, sir.”

“And you were busy those eight years, I hear. Sending checks for a kid you never met.”

Belle, again
. It had to be. She’d told Norah. Who’d told Sherry’s father. David swallowed hard. “Supporting Josh seemed the honorable thing to do.”

“
Honorable?
Norah used that word, too. Told me what she thought an honorable father ought to do in this situation.”

“And?” It was all David trusted himself to say, so ragged were his thoughts. How could Belle do that? How could she have betrayed him? The woman he confided in … the woman he loved?

George reached in his pocket for a piece of paper. Small, like a check. He slapped it in front of David, face up. “This was her idea of honor.”

David stared. It was a check, but not a small one. Twenty thousand dollars. Made payable to David Cahill. Not drawn on Abingdon Bank and Trust, but on the personal account of George Allen Robison.

“Sir?” It sounded like a croak. It
was
a croak.

“Ten thousand to finish your house. And another ten for … good measure. That’s the way Norah put it.” The man’s voice had become surprisingly steady.

David picked up the check, making sure it was real. “I don’t know what to say.”

“ ‘Thank you’ would be a beginning.”

The check was real, all right. The largest check he’d ever laid eyes on. And it had his name on it. His house could be finished in a month.
Less
. He could buy a decent truck.
Or put a down payment on a new one
. Come March, he could load that truck with his worldly possessions and head for Charlotte, North Carolina. A man with a solid future, a distant past, and no regrets.

Make that one regret. With a long braid.

In thirty days, Abingdon, Virginia, would appear in his rearview mirror
for the last time. It couldn’t happen fast enough to suit him.

George’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Do you have a picture of my grandson?”

“A photo? Why? Do you want proof?” David hadn’t meant to grind out his words like that. The pain of Belle’s betrayal overwhelmed him, seeking an outlet, a target.

George grunted. “Norah’s word is good enough for me. I just … just wanted to see what the boy looked like, that’s all.”

David pulled out his billfold, flipping it open to the school photo Sherry had sent him before Thanksgiving, and held it out for George’s inspection. “Joshua Robison, age eight.”

The man’s face became stone gray, utterly still. He did nothing, said nothing, for a full minute as he studied the blond little boy with the winsome smile. He sighed at last. “The kid’s yours, no question about that.”

No question
. “And yours, sir. Your grandson. No question about that, either.”

“Which is the only reason you’re holding a check for twenty thousand dollars, Cahill. It’s not guilt money. I had nothing to do with … what happened eight years ago. With that baby being born. Consider this a refund. For money hard earned and well spent.”

David folded his wallet and slipped it back in his pocket, his eyes trained on the man across the mahogany desk.
Lord, he’s so hard to read
. It wasn’t clear if George was happy with this solution or felt forced into it.

A scenario that never would have happened if Belle hadn’t told Norah. The check, paper-thin, weighed heavy in his hands. The things he could do with it spun through his mind, over and over. For a guy who grew up poor on the wrong side of town, it was a fortune.

But was it a godsend?

He knew one thing he could do with it. The same thing he did the last time George Robison handed him a check. He could walk out the door and rip it in half. Keep his pride, if nothing else.

Which would leave him no option but to stay in Abingdon for another three months to finish his house and thereby lose the job at WBT. Which would force him to walk through the doors of WPER every day for the
foreseeable future and look at a woman who’d given away his secrets and broken his heart.

“Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Robison.”

The banker stood, buttoning his suit coat closed over his considerable girth. “I don’t expect to see you again, Cahill. Do we understand each other?”

“We do.” David rose to his feet, the folded check tucked in his shirt pocket. “I hope …” It had to be said. “I hope you’ll get to meet that grandson someday.”

The gray granite was back. An impenetrable stone wall that David couldn’t do more than acknowledge with a slight nod. Minutes later, he stood in the twilight of a January afternoon, the last rays of feeble sunlight fading into the horizon that swallowed the end of west Main Street.