Mixed Signals (4 page)

Belle trailed behind her. “How do you know Patrick?”

“We met at a Washington County Chamber of Commerce mixer. One of those parties where you stand around and smile for two hours, stuffing business cards in strangers’ canapés. Patrick mentioned he’d hired a woman who’d need an apartment. I’d recently received notice that my tenant was moving, and … you know the rest.”

Belle’s curiosity was aroused. “When was that, exactly?”

“Ah, let’s see. Two weeks ago.”

The scoundrel
. She hadn’t come close to a decision until last Monday.

Belle followed her landlady up the enclosed staircase, mulling over the best way to get back at Patrick for telling Norah so much—and her so little. It would’ve been helpful if he’d said something other than “Nice lady, silver hair, great house.”

Talk about an understatement.

Norah continued talking over her shoulder. “My last tenant, Deidre, lived up here for a dozen years. An exceedingly quiet sort. She held court in the Virginia Room at our public library on Oak Hill Street, three blocks away. Ate alone up here, night after night.” Norah turned to give her a
broad wink. “Promise me you won’t be
that
solitary?”

Belle laughed. “I’ve never been accused of being a loner.”

They climbed the last few carpeted steps to an open area with rooms that beckoned on either side and a window before them that was nearly the size of Norah’s huge front door, one floor below. “Hold it, this
is
a door.” Belle stepped forward to admire the view. “Was there a porch out there once?”

“Undoubtedly. These vintage properties have had more additions and subtractions than you can count. This was the house I was born in. When I was … well, single again and my mother became ill, I came back here to care for her, God rest her soul.”

“She passed away, then?”

Norah nodded. “I think Mother would like the changes around here, though. The shop downstairs and this apartment. She’d certainly approve of my new tenant.” Her smile was genuine, making Belle feel more welcome than ever.

“That’s my church, by the way.” Norah pointed across the street. “Almost as old as this place.”

Belle nodded, about to explore the apartment further, when a familiar sight stopped her in her tracks. She squinted out the window in disbelief. “Is it my imagination or is that Patrick’s rusty old Cadillac parked next to the curb?” It was a car like no other. Painted bright blue, it approached the dimensions of a small house on wheels. The
Blue Boat
, he’d affectionately named it in Kingsport. The thing had to be falling apart by now.

“I believe you’re right.” Norah nodded, looking over her shoulder. “One of the most outlandish cars I’ve ever laid eyes on. Can’t imagine why he’s sitting out there instead of ringing my front doorbell. He knows he’s expected for lunch.” The two of them exchanged a conspiratorial glance. “What do you think, Belle? Shall I call him?” Norah reached in the voluminous folds of her silk jacket, pulled out a slender cellular phone, and punched in a number. She knew it by heart, Belle noticed.

“Patrick, she’s here. Yes, all safe and sound.” Norah paused, smiling out the window and winking at Belle. “Tell me, how long have you been watching the house?”

Belle burst out laughing. She didn’t need to get back at Patrick for keeping her in the dark. Her new landlady had neatly handled that for her.

Norah nodded into the cell phone. “Well, these things take time. Let yourself in. The back door’s open. We’ll be upstairs, spending that exorbitant salary you’ve promised Belle. If her taste is anything like yours, every piece of furniture she owns is on its last legs.” Her laugh unfolded like the opening measures of an Italian art song. “Patrick, I suggest you hurry before Belle tells me a secret or two about
you
.”

Belle watched in utter astonishment as Norah slid the phone back into her pocket, cool as fresh mint in May. Never had she seen a woman so thoroughly put Patrick Reese in his place.

Norah trained her dark, carefully lined eyes on her new tenant. “I can see the wheels turning, Belle. You’re wondering what sort of relationship I have with your boss, yes?”

Who, me?
Her cheeks warmed again. “How’d you guess?”

“Come next April, I will have lived fifty years on this grand orb, and therefore fancy myself a good judge of both character and motivation. When you figure out those two, the rest is easy.” Norah folded her arms and leaned back, as if sizing her up. “You thought we were an item, didn’t you?” She shook her head, setting her thick hair and dangling earrings in motion. “Not in the least.” Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Patrick Reese is in love with you, my dear. Has been for a long time.”

Belle’s tongue felt glued to the roof of her mouth. “No … I …”

“Nonsense. It’s in his voice every time he speaks of you. Now that I’ve met you, it’s easy to see why.” Norah laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Not to worry. He and I have never discussed it. He’s so dense about such things, he imagines it’s his little secret.”

Downstairs, the back door tinkled open and shut. Norah added in a stage whisper, “Let’s let him think we’re equally dense on that score, shall we?”

At that, they heard a dull thud and muffled curse drifting up from the kitchen. “The frying pan again,” Norah whispered, sending them both off in a fit of giggles.

They were still trying to pull themselves together when Patrick rounded
the landing and stared up at them, a sheepish look on his face.

“Have I missed something?”

“Not at all, Patrick. In fact, I think you hit it right on the noggin.” Norah winked at Belle then extended her hand, silently inviting Patrick to join them.

His eyes, however, were locked on Belle.

He’s older
, Belle realized immediately. Of course, he would be. Eight years didn’t pass by without taking a toll, but he’d aged more than she’d expected. His handsome head of hair was still thick and full, waving stylishly close to his collar, but his full beard was a new addition and mostly gray at that. So was the hair at his temples.

Then he smiled and became the Patrick she remembered, with a sparkling set of white teeth framed by a permanent tan he’d probably picked up in San Diego. It was a smile that never failed to put her heart into cardiac arrest.

“Patrick.” It was all she trusted herself to say.

Trust had always been a problem for David Cahill. Trust meant believing what someone told you, depending on someone to help you. He couldn’t think of one person he’d ever trusted in all his twenty-seven years who hadn’t disappointed him, hadn’t let him down, utterly and completely.

Until now.

“David, is that seat next to you taken?”

He looked up to find a pretty brunette standing there, eyeing the empty seat next to him. Her name was Jennifer Somebody-or-Other, one of the single adults in the church. Her crisp, striped dress brushed by the knees of his jeans as she sat down, rustling in the morning stillness, falling in stiff folds on either side of her.

It was hard not to catch a whiff of her perfume. Flowery sweet, innocent smelling.
Figures
.

“Nice to see you again, David.” She displayed a line of perfect teeth, no doubt the product of an adolescence spent in braces. Everything about her pointed to a nice childhood with parents who loved her and cared for her,
who sent her to expensive orthodontists and dressed her like a princess. Parents who taught her how to trust God with her whole heart.

It was a lesson he was only now beginning to grasp.

The first time he’d dropped into one of the fold-down seats at Virginia Highlands Christian Fellowship five months ago, he’d been prepared for one of three things to happen: the roof to cave in, the building to be struck by lightning, or the congregation to laugh him out the door.

Or
throw
him out.

None of those things happened. He’d sat there that June day, slumped down in his seat, angry at nothing in particular but angry all the same, while the guy up front in the chinos and the madras shirt talked about grace.

He thought grace was something families mumbled before they choked down their supper.

But Pastor Curt said grace meant forgiveness, and forgiveness was a gift.

A gift? Nobody had ever given David Cahill so much as a sack of free groceries, let alone a gift. Whatever he owned in life had been earned the hard way, through blood and sweat.

And yeah, tears. Not many, mind you, but they’d been there.

Pastor Curt said tears were healing, no matter the reason. “Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy.” Curt was always quoting the Bible like that, by heart, as if he knew the whole thing cover to cover.

David knew zip. Which was why he spent every Tuesday night at Curt’s, studying with a couple of other guys who knew as little as he did. Next week they were starting a series Curt called “The Fruit of the Spirit,” the first of which wasn’t a fruit at all. It was love.

Love.

David knew all about love. About the giving, not the receiving.

And about the wanting. Definitely about the wanting.

B
ELLE COULDN’T FATHOM THAT
Norah’s words were true.
Could Patrick honestly care for me? Not love me, of course. That’s crazy. But … care?

Belle watched Patrick climb the last two steps to her new apartment. Uncertainty danced around them like dust motes.
Would a hug be too forward?
She tried to read his expression. Surely Norah was wrong about his feelings … wasn’t she?

Oh my, oh my
.

He stood before her now, almost a foot taller than she, still the muscular teddy bear he’d always been—broad-chested and solid. His smile crinkled his whole face, including his hazel-colored eyes.

“You look wonderful, Belle.” He slipped his arms lightly around her waist and bent over for a quick, chaste embrace, then stepped back.

Whew
. She wondered if the odd mix of relief and disappointment showed in her face.

Norah politely cleared her throat. “Suppose I set the table for lunch while Patrick gives you the grand tour? He’s seen these rooms before.” She tossed a knowing smile Belle’s way then floated down the steps like a graceful bird.

Belle spoke first, stating the obvious. “Norah’s amazing.”

“Yes, she is.” Patrick looked as if he might say something else, then touched her elbow instead. “Let’s take a quick look around and head down for lunch. I’d hate for our soup to get cold.”

Food was one detail Patrick never missed.

“I’m also anxious to hear more about Chicago.” He grinned. “Or we can skip that, if it’ll ruin your appetite.”

She made a horrid face, looking, she was sure, as if she’d bit into a persimmon. “I’ve been dining on crow salad for three weeks.”

“No problem. This place’ll cheer you up.” Patrick shifted into the role of salesman the instant they walked into the first room. “Okay—” he rubbed his hands together—“You have two identical front rooms, one on each side of the stairwell. This big one would make a great living and dining room combo.” He shot her a sidelong glance. “When you get a dining room set, of course.”

He remembered
.

Patrick angled his head toward an oak mantel. “Don’t you love the fireplace?”

She did love it. And the warm, light gray walls and the immaculate white woodwork and the wide oak boards at her feet. “Patrick, it’s perfect. How can I possibly thank you for finding this for me?”

Wait. Don’t answer that
.

Apparently oblivious to her sudden discomfort, he ambled off to another room. “Back here is your kitchen. Big pantry for storage.”

Belle followed him through to a galley-style kitchen that ran across the back of the third floor, with windows on one side and a wall filled with gleaming white appliances on the other. She groaned theatrically. “There goes my excuse for not cooking.”

He raised one bushy eyebrow. “Seems to me in Kingsport you made lasagna for our whole staff once.”

“So I did. Once. Is that a hint?”

“I’ll buy the groceries.”

“Did I hear you say you’d be willing to
pay
for something?” She did her best to look shocked. “Where’s a tape recorder when I need one? Not a soul will believe me.”

“I’ve changed, Belle.” He looked slightly injured.

“Oh, really?” She chuckled. “Explain to me then why you’re still driving the Blue Boat.”

“Because it runs.” Clearly he felt that was explanation enough. “Now it’s my turn to ask a question.”

She leaned against the sink and swallowed the knot in her throat that was threatening to cut off her air supply. “Okay, shoot.”

All at once, Patrick looked as if his tie were too tight. “It’s … ah, personal.”

Uh-oh
. “No problem.”

“Why did you come to Abingdon?”

Nothing like getting right to the point
. She shifted her gaze to the floor, tapping the toe of one boot on the pristine tile, willing her cheeks not to burn.
Keep it light, girl. Don’t give yourself away
. “Because I …” She looked up at him and gulped down her grin whole. “Because I’ve never seen you in a beard. Seemed worth the drive.”

His suntan brightened considerably as he stroked his whiskers. “I thought it made me look distinguished. More like the owner of Abingdon’s hottest new radio station.”

“Abingdon’s
only
radio station.”

“It does have its competitive advantages.” His eyes were full of mischief.

Belle pushed away from the sink, nervous energy singing through her veins. In the space of ten minutes, she’d shifted from worrying about how she felt about Patrick to worrying about how Patrick felt about
her
. Her emotions were on edge with questions that didn’t have answers. Yet.

“I’m ready to see the rest of the apartment if you are.” She used the most carefree, blasé tone she could conjure up.

His steady gaze told her he’d seen right through her la-dee-da act but was smart enough to keep it to himself. They crossed the landing again and ventured into another square room that also looked out onto Main Street through a trio of shuttered windows. “Nice,” she murmured, folding back the white wooden shutters.