Mixed Signals (6 page)

Clearly the woman would brook no argument, so Belle did as she was told, carrying her tapestry luggage through the downstairs back door. A small but gaily decorated bed and bath were tucked into one corner of the ground floor that housed Norah’s business, the Silver Spoon, a gourmet bakery and gift shop.

Belle couldn’t resist a quick survey of her surroundings. Small round tables draped in blue-and-white checked linens were scattered among two front rooms, the walls of which were lined with shelves brimming with exotic coffees, teas, and imported foods. Gleaming glass display cases held silver trays with neatly printed signs boasting of the baked goods that
would soon fill those trays: scones, brioches, shortbread, croissants, and muffins in every flavor—pumpkin walnut, spice pecan, apple currant, banana peanut, lemon poppy seed.

Belle decided she’d died and gone to bakery heaven.

A whole spice cabinet full of scents wafted toward her—both faint and pungent, tart and cinnamon sweet. She sniffed the air appreciatively. “Is
this
room for rent?”

“Not unless you want to get dressed with half of Abingdon’s finest watching you while they nibble on cranberry nut muffins.” Norah’s voice floated across the shadowy room. “Keep your door closed tight after seven in the morning and you’ll be fine.” The woman consulted her watch. “Speaking of food, why don’t we head down to the Hardware Company for dinner and call it an early night?”

“ ‘Hardware Company’? What do they serve,
clamp
chowder? Salted nuts and
bolts?
”

Norah groaned. “It’s a restaurant, silly.”

“Let me guess. Right up the street, past the Martha?”

“You’re a quick study, Belle.” Norah wrapped two fluttering sleeves around her and hugged her affectionately.

Warm tears stung Belle’s eyes. It had been quite a day.

Norah pulled back and regarded her with eyes that held their own faint sheen. “Welcome to Abingdon, my friend. Welcome home.”

H
ERE WE GO
.

At two minutes to ten on Monday morning, Belle stood in front of the double glass doors of WPER, summoning her courage to swing them open and walk into her future.

She’d worn the usual—slim jeans and black boots—but added her favorite blouse and Italian sweater, hoping to project some hard-earned, major-market confidence. Norah, her slender hands immersed in bread dough, had nodded in approval when she’d swept past her that morning, which boosted her spirits immeasurably.

Now that she’d arrived, Belle feared her heart might jump right through her fine linen blouse. Would the staff like her? Would the listeners?
Relax. You’ve seen this movie
.

And there was Patrick on the other side of the glass, waiting to welcome her, pushing the door open. “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here.” His broad grin, heightened color, and twinkling eyes told her he was running on pure adrenaline, less than twenty-four hours before his station was scheduled to go on the air.

“You look happy, Mr. Reese.”

“I am,” he assured her, guiding her toward the far end of the large, sun-filled room where a half dozen people were gathered around a rectangular table, all eyes on her. “Folks, this is Belle O’Brien, most recently of WTIE Chicago, our midday star.”

The assembly greeted her with nods and hellos, each face registering its own unique emotion. Curiosity. Surprise. Detachment. Doubt. She arranged her own face to reflect her gratitude at being there and slipped into the one remaining seat, leaving Patrick to plant himself at the head of the table, feet apart.

It was a stance she knew well. The one that shouted “Patrick Edward Reese, General Manager.”

His pale blue striped shirt was ironed to perfection, his bright, patterned tie and navy suspenders carefully chosen, she knew, to make him appear both approachable and in charge. Decisive, a problem-solver, with exceptional reasoning skills … the man was a born leader.

And
persuasive
didn’t begin to describe Patrick. Hadn’t he convinced her to say yes, twice?

Patrick clapped his hands, then rubbed them together, his energy radiating in waves. “Officially, then, welcome to WPER. Each one of you was chosen for your specific gifts, for what you bring to this table.”

Seated inches from his elbow, Belle could feel him gearing up, drawing every eye toward him. She’d forgotten what a captivating speaker he was. It wasn’t an act, either. The man simply had more charisma than he knew what to do with.

Watch yourself, Belle. Friends, remember?

“Yes, we’re an oldies station,” Patrick continued, “but the music isn’t the whole story. Personality is what we’re offering. Genuinely talented individuals with something to say and an engaging way of doing it. That’s why our letterhead, our bumper stickers, our T-shirts, will all say this …” He paused, clearly wanting their undivided attention as he pulled a handful of vivid red stickers out of a box in front of him. “ ‘Oldies 95—WPER—We’re the P-E-R in Personality Radio!’ ”

Nods of approval circled around the table. Belle smiled.
So far, so good
.

T-shirts were tossed on the table next and a scramble ensued while the staff grabbed at the various sizes. She stuffed one marked Small into her black satchel and leaned back, trying not to let her gaze settle on Patrick again—no matter how hard that was to resist.

She’d never seen him look so handsome, so masculine, so utterly in
command.
Whoa, girl. Remember what we decided last night?
She frowned. What was that … ? Oh yes, to “let Patrick find the right woman.”
How disappointed will Norah be when she finds out I didn’t mean it?

Patrick was looking directly at her now, white teeth flashing. “Belle, I know what you’re thinking.”

She nearly slid out of her chair. “You
do?
”

“You’re wondering who’s who around this table.”

Not exactly
.

“Frank.” Patrick looked down the length of the table. “You’ll be the one to spank the life into this baby tomorrow morning at six. Give us a two-minute introduction. Everybody, this is Frank Gallagher, our morning pro.”

Frank was seated at the opposite end of the table from Patrick, obviously staking a little ground of his own. He was definitely the senior member of the staff, Belle decided. Looked about fifty-five, though his toupee made his age harder to nail down. Frank stood up, not as a challenge, but rather, she imagined, to garner their attention.

He soon had it.

“I’ve been on the air at one station or another in the South or Midwest since 1964.” He cleared the gravel out of his throat, then shot a pointed look at the young blond woman to his left. “Longer than some of you have been alive. I’ve done every format out there, from country to gospel to news-talk. Worked at one station owned by a chicken farmer who lined the studio walls with cardboard egg cartons for acoustics. Did play-by-play for a high school football game by climbing up a telephone pole that overlooked the field and tapping the phone line.

“And yes—” he gazed steadily at Patrick—“I was better known as Frank the Crank back in ’67 when I was spinning Top 40 tunes on WHBQ in Memphis. My last gig was mornings in Roanoke. When the numbers went south …” He shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, I’m glad to be here.”

“And we’re glad to have you, Frank.” Patrick led the small group in scattered applause. “Frank was replaced by a couple of young jocks who call themselves the Dual Air Bags.” He snorted in mock disgust. “Roanoke’s loss is definitely our gain.”

Turning to Belle, Patrick softened his voice. “Midday woman, you’re up.”

Belle debated briefly the merits of staying in her chair, but found herself on her feet an instant later, gently guided by Patrick’s hand cupped under her elbow. She plunged in. “I did college radio at ASU.” She looked toward the far end of the table. “Not in ’64, Frank, but it feels like that long ago.” The staff’s good-natured laughter gave her a moment to shake off her stray bit of nervousness. “My first real job was in Kingsport, Tennessee.” She ran through a thumbnail résumé, watching their expressions alter slightly. Detachment gave way to interest. Admiration. And a question mark.

“Some of you probably know why I’m not in Chicago anymore.” A few heads nodded; others gave her a blank look.

She took a deep breath.
One more time
. Five minutes later, the sordid story was behind her. “The hardest part was seeing my friends out of work, right at the start of the ratings period.”

The blonde spoke up first. “No offense, but how come
you
were spared?”

Belle studied her for a moment, taking in the woman’s abundant blond hair spilling to her shoulders, her barely visible makeup, peachy smooth skin, and blue-eyed innocence.

She can’t be a day over twenty-two
.

Belle sighed. “They kept me simply because I’m female. The station had run afoul of the EEOC over not having a sufficient number of women on staff, so they created a new position for me.”

“Your own sports talk show?” the young woman cooed.

“Not quite.” Belle tried not to groan at the woman’s naïveté. “I have zero interest in sports, as they well knew. So they stuck me in a sound booth and expected me to record all their promotional spots, their top-of-the-hour identifiers, their liner cards, their sports scores—”

“Great!” The blonde was still enthusiastic.

“—using the name Belle of the Ball.”

The men shook their heads, groaning. The blonde looked confused.

“They also insisted I record them in a breathy, high-pitched, Betty Boop style.”

The table was silent. The blonde clearly couldn’t help herself. “Who’s Betty Boop?”

Frank leaned over. “She was a cartoon character from the ’30s. Big eyes, short skirts. Squeaky, little-girl voice.”

“Ooh!” the blonde squeaked, rolling her eyes.

Frank winced. “Boop-oop-a-doop.”

Belle shook her head. “Finally I did what I should have done in the first place. I erased every one of the tapes I’d recorded, emptied my locker onto the new program director’s desk, and quit.”

The WPER staff broke into spirited applause as Belle eased back into her chair, flipping her braid behind her, feeling her cheeks stinging from the heat that had quickly found its way there.

She had no intention of sharing that story again, ever.

When the group settled down, Patrick nodded at the announcer seated next to Belle. “Think you can top that, Burt?”

The man rose slowly, his protruding belly catching on the edge of the table as he stood. “Naw, Mr. Reese, that’s got me beat. Only thing I’ve heard worse than that was a station that changed to a format of all classified ads. K-ADS. Pitiful.”

Patrick laughed. “Almost as bad as the all-Christmas-music station I escaped from. Give us your story, Burt.”

“I’ve spent my whole radio career in Indiana.” He reached under his round stomach and displayed a brass belt buckle shaped like the Hoosier state. “See?”

What Belle could see was his stomach covering the northern half of his buckle, from Gary, Indiana, south to Muncie.

“They call me Burt ‘Indiana’ Jones. Been at WGLD as music director for the last ten years, doing afternoons. I’d still be there except Mr. Reese convinced me it was time to move up to program director.” His face split into a wide grin, showing off a sizeable gap between his two front teeth.

Patrick chuckled. “Burt thinks ‘He’s So Fine’ by the Chiffons was the last decent tune ever recorded. We’re honored to have a man with such discriminating taste running the show.”

When Burt dropped down into his chair, the collective attention of the
group turned toward the young blond woman who’d managed to still her tongue for a full five minutes.

Patrick nodded her direction, and she spoke suddenly, as if stuck with a pin. “Hi! I’m Heather Young.”

Belle pressed her lips firmly shut and forced herself to keep a straight face.
Heather Young? Talk about typecasting …

Heather took another gulp of air. “I graduated from Clinch Valley College last May and majored in English with a special concentration in communication.”

“Ever do any radio?” Frank barked.

“Well … sort of. I did a commercial once for WNVA-FM in Wise, Virginia. It ran on the air twice.” She beamed proudly at her coworkers. “Here at WPER, I’ll be doing an all-request show from seven until midnight. This is … uh, my first radio … 
gig?
Is that what you called it?”

Belle felt Patrick’s eyes on her and glanced up. His look was unmistakable.
Be nice
.

Hers was equally transparent.
Who, me?

“Welcome, Heather,” Patrick said, his eyes still locked with Belle’s. “Don’t let these veterans intimidate you. They all had a first gig once, right, folks? We have one more greenhorn on the air staff.” He gestured at a wiry young man with an earnest expression and straight black hair. “Rick Anderson, you’re on.”

“Hello.”

Two syllables and Belle knew they were in trouble. Rick’s voice was tuned to a pitch somewhere between blackboard chalk and a rusty bicycle wheel. Surely Patrick didn’t intend to use him on the air?

“I’m nineteen—” the young man’s eager glance danced from one of them to the other—“grew up on my parents’ farm outside Glade Spring, and graduated with honors from Holston High two years ago.” His enthusiasm was disarming. Despite the squeaky voice, Belle liked him already. “I’ll be running the overnight show, basically keeping the music going. And don’t worry …” His smile stretched another inch. “I’m not allowed to use the microphone. Ever. Burt will prerecord all the breaks for me. My job is to push the right buttons. And stay awake.”

A ripple of laughter traveled around the table as Rick took his seat and the new staff nodded at one another.
So it begins
.

Patrick straightened and assumed his managerial stance once more. “That does it for our meeting. You’ll see three more part-timers in and out this week. Make ’em feel welcome, if you will. I’ve invited our behind-the-scenes employees to join us for lunch down at the Grill at noon.” He indicated the cubicles behind him. “That’s Cliff, Jeanette, and Anne back there, busy building a client base for us. David, our engineer, is installing a new loading capacitor at the transmitter site and should be back after lunch.”