Mixed Signals (8 page)

His voice gentled, too. “Patrick has talked about you nonstop since I signed on. ‘Belle this’ and ‘Belle that.’ I’ve been waiting for six weeks to hear the rest of the story. From the source.”

“I see.” With a sigh, she shared her disastrous tale once more. Unlike the other newcomers, David didn’t look the least bit shocked. He listened carefully. Nodded. No doubt about it, understanding was etched across his face. That, and something else she didn’t have the energy to explore at the moment.

“Betty Boop, huh?” His expression was unreadable. “Why would anyone mess with a voice like—uh … like yours?”

“Good question.”
What does he mean, a voice like mine? Is it that bad?
She turned back toward the control board, hoping he’d take the hint and leave. He was a nice enough guy, but she had serious work to do, a show to prepare for, and an ego that suddenly needed mending.
‘A voice like mine’? Well, thank you very much
.

When she heard him slip out the door behind her, Belle reached for her purse and the aspirin she hoped was waiting for her.
Where does Patrick find these people, anyway? On his front porch?

“They parked it on the front porch, Belle.” Norah tried hard not to sound disgruntled, but she was, truth be told, highly put out. “The moving company—though I hesitate to honor this crew by calling them that—apparently arrived when I was running errands in Bristol. According to Linda next door, it was two beefy guys in a decrepit truck.”

“And they left my furniture where?”

Norah could hear the strain in the younger woman’s voice over the phone lines. “They unloaded your couch, four-poster bed, and everything else, and deposited them on the porch, right at my front door.” Of all the things Norah loathed, incompetence was at the top of her list. “Let me guess. Patrick hired these two.”

“For a discounted rate, I’m sure.” Belle moaned. “What would you suggest?”

“I’d suggest we get Mr. Reese down here and make
him
haul it up to the third floor.” Second on her list of pet peeves were people who cut corners to save two cents. “Your boss probably found the phone number for
these so-called movers written on the wall of a public restroom.”

“Now, Norah, the man’s building a radio station on a slim budget. Suppose I put you on the phone with him while I hustle home? They’re forecasting rain for this evening, so the sooner we get my things inside, the happier I’ll be. See you in a few minutes.”

Norah waited on hold, twisting her silver spoon ring around her finger while she put her thoughts together. Belle was right when she’d said Patrick was impossible. Slapdash, make-do, bargain-basement impossible.

She heard a
click
on the line, then “Patrick Reese here.” His resonant baritone sang across the phone wires.

That was the third item on her list of things to be avoided at all costs: dangerous men with delicious voices.

“Norah Silver-Smyth here.” Her tone was a cool retort. “My friend, we have a problem. Correction,
you
have a problem. Where did you find this … ah, moving company to bring Belle’s furniture from Chicago?”

“Her stuff made it then. Great!”

Norah released a sigh of pure exasperation. “Was there ever a reason for doubt?”

“Well, they gave me such a good price, that …” She could sense him weighing his words. “I wasn’t certain
when
her things would arrive, is all.”

“Oh, it’s here. And it’s all over my front porch. Did you pay them to actually move it inside, Patrick, or was this a door-to-door arrangement?”

Silence. “Her furniture is on your porch?”

“Covers almost every inch of it. You’ll recall it’s a rather large porch. Wraps around the entire east side of the house.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll take care of it. Sorry, Norah. These things happen, eh?” With that, he hung up.

They don’t happen to me, sir
. She slipped the phone in her sweater pocket, her hands shaking. What was it about that man that made her blood boil? She had to admit he was handsome. Very handsome, in fact. And he did have a velvet-lined voice. But he’d clearly used his charm and good looks to weasel his way through life. Hadn’t he talked her into reducing the rent for Belle, giving her an extra-long lease to make sure she’d stay for a while, throwing in free utilities?

The man
was
impossible. Impossible to say no to, among other things.

Prrrrmeow
.

Harry the cat made his presence known, rubbing against her legs demanding attention and, more to the point, food. “Oh, you!” She scooped him up and headed for the kitchen to wait for Belle. “Harry, you’ve kept me company for a decade. Why isn’t your feline affection enough anymore?”

She stared out at the gray November skies. Belle was right, rain was in the making. First day on a new job and already her tenant had a hassle on her hands. Norah had to remind herself not to call Belle a “girl,” though she seemed young, younger than her thirty-two years. Perhaps it was the nomadic lifestyle she led, or that incredible bundle of long hair, or simply the youthful energy that swirled around the world of broadcasting.

Whatever the case, Belle clearly had more than sweaters and jeans packed in her baggage sitting upstairs in the empty third floor. She’d brought a lengthy list of hurts and disappointments along for the ride. Norah was certain of it.

Hadn’t she amassed a sizable collection of her own by that age? One husband in the grave, another whose love had died on the altar of infidelity, leaving her only his name and his money.

Never his heart.

Norah sighed, trying with little success to will away her unforeseen melancholy. She’d been single so long she’d almost forgotten how nice it might be to have a man in her life again. After years of pouring herself into her hometown, her church, her business, serving on every committee and board of directors Abingdon had to offer, she’d found a comfortable rhythm for her solo life.

Hadn’t she?

She balanced Harry on her lap, stroking his thick fur, keeping one eye on the cherry clock above the door.
Almost four
. It was only a ten-minute walk from the station. Belle would be there any moment. Would Patrick come over himself and move the furniture up that narrow staircase to the third floor? He didn’t seem the type to do heavy lifting.

He managed to knock you off your feet, didn’t he?

The realization came out of nowhere, unexpected and unwelcome.

She could categorically deny it. Insist it was hormonal. Call it a midlife crisis in the making. Write it off to a passing fancy. Argue that though they’d spent a great deal of time together since he moved to town, it didn’t mean anything. He simply needed someone to show him the ropes, a welcoming committee of one, and she’d fit the bill.

Only one problem. They were lies, every one of them.

She was falling in love with Patrick Reese as surely as he was in love with Belle O’Brien.

The naked truth of it left her breathless, clutching at her chest as if her heart had taken a physical blow. After so many seasons of singular contentment, why now? And why him, of all people? “Foolish woman.” She sniffed, unable to keep two stubborn tears from rolling down her cheeks. She hugged Harry tight, but his soft fur and rumbling chest couldn’t ease the pain.

Foolish
was an understatement. Patrick was five years younger, never married, and treated her like his sister. “His
older
sister,” she mumbled into Harry’s ample fur. “Besides, every woman in town will have designs on him by Christmas.”

Not to mention the fact that he didn’t share her enthusiasm for spiritual things. They’d be “unequally yoked,” as the Bible called it, unless he had a wake-up call from God.

And then there was Belle. Adorable Belle, who wasn’t sure
what
she wanted. So bright, so personable. The woman didn’t know how beautiful she was.

Norah dabbed her tears dry, taking deep breaths to settle herself down. “Why, Lord?” She aimed her comments at the pots and pans swinging over her head, knowing her words traveled much farther. “And why Patrick? It’s all wrong. You know it and I know it.” She didn’t expect an audible answer but took comfort in knowing God was, as always, listening, even as she agonized about an overgrown teddy bear who’d accidentally walked away with her heart in his paws.

A tap at the door woke her out of her reverie. Slipping Harry onto the terra-cotta tiles at her feet, she patted her cheeks to make sure they were
dry and tugged open the door, setting the tinkling bells in motion.

“Just me.”

“No need to knock, Belle.” She stepped back, waving her inside. “This is your home now. If and when we can find our way to the front door again, you can use that entrance to take you straight up to the third floor.”

“Sorry about your porch.” Belle slumped into a chair, a sheepish look on her face. “I realize it’s not my fault, but I still feel terrible.”

“Pish-posh! We’ll let Patrick worry over it.” She could feel her old, confident self returning, and was grateful to have her pity party behind her. “Let’s cook up something scrumptious for dinner. Whoever ends up hauling that load up the stairs will be ravenous when they’re done.”

Belle agreed, offering to join her in the kitchen as soon as she carried the smaller items and fragile pieces upstairs. “I’ll need to change first. Get ready for my grubby look.” Having issued fair warning, Belle disappeared.

Norah began pulling down pans, emptying cupboards, and exploring the fridge while Beethoven blasted away on her kitchen CD player. Had she ever been “grubby,” as Belle called it? She looked down at her expensive burgundy slacks, French silk blouse, batik swing jacket, and laughed.
Not in this lifetime
.

Sounds of the front door, repeatedly banging open and shut, meant her tenant was putting a dent in the pile on the porch, but it would take some strong-shouldered men to handle the heavy pieces. Soon the front door closed for good and Belle appeared in the kitchen. Even grubby, she was an enchanting sight in gray sweatpants and an oversized emerald green T-shirt tied at the waist.

Green was definitely her color.

“I love this music!” Belle cranked up the volume on the CD player another notch until the dishes fairly danced on the countertop. “Let me help you toss the salad.” She giggled and swirled in a circle as she pitched a tomato in the air and deftly caught it.

It was the happiest she’d seen Belle since her arrival. As they worked together on dinner, Belle had a million questions for her: Where did she find such a fine cutting board, and were the knives really from Sheffield, England, and had she ever seen a more divine color than eggplant?

She paused to watch Belle, a look of childlike joy on her face, slicing potatoes.
No wonder Patrick adores her. No wonder he hasn’t even noticed me
. Norah knew that letting her thoughts—or her heart—drift in his direction again would be sheer stupidity. There was obviously zero interest on his part. The sooner she accepted that, the sooner her emotions would be back in line.

It was only then, during a meaningful pause in Beethoven’s Fifth, that she heard someone pounding on the front door. Shouting, too, as if they’d been at it a while.

“Good heavens, what’s that all about?” Norah hurried through the dining room and peeked through the front windows to see who’d managed to climb over the pile of boxes and furniture to find her doorbell.

“What is
he
doing here?” Not a thing to be done but invite him in. She swung the door open and tossed her arms out in welcome, adding a genuine smile to let him know she meant it. “Come in, you dear man. You’re just in time for our movable feast.”

S
TANDING THERE IN THE
kitchen, Belle’s curiosity got the better of her. Who was Norah welcoming with such abandon? It definitely wasn’t Patrick’s voice at the door. She dried her hands on a dish towel and made her way to the front of the house, only to meet Norah and the newcomer heading her direction.

“Belle, I want you to meet someone.”

With one glance, she wanted to meet someone, too. Thirtyish, tall, with a boyish grin and an abundance of wavy brown hair trimmed close to his ears, the man Norah had in tow was straight out of a men’s clothing catalog.

“Matthew Howard.” He flashed a toothy grin and thrust out his hand. “You must be Norah’s new tenant. I’ve heard all about you, Miss O’Brien.”

Heard all what?
She shook his hand briefly, noting it was smooth as a scholar’s. She fought the urge to match his grin, tooth for tooth. His enthusiasm was difficult to resist.

“Matthew is our associate pastor.” Norah waved in the direction of the church across the street. “Earned his doctorate in ministry last May. You’ve been in town how long, Matthew?”

“Four months.” His eyes were still on Belle.

A pastor, then? Ah, well
.

“Belle has been here all of one day,” Norah was explaining. “That’s her stuff you stumbled over on the porch.”

“Which is exactly why I’m here, ma’am. Weatherman on Channel Five says it’ll be raining by dinnertime. I wanted to see if I could help you get that furniture inside.”

“How thoughtful of you.”
Very ministerial
. “If you really mean it, there’s a delicious dinner in the bargain.”

“The Lord knew I needed one decent home-cooked meal this week.” His dark brown eyes twinkled. “Meanwhile, let’s get started. Are you sure you can handle the other end of the couch, though?”

A male voice floated in from the porch. “I’ll carry the other end.”

Startled, Norah turned toward the silhouette of a tall, lanky man, framed in her doorway. “Well, isn’t this an afternoon for surprises?” Norah’s heels clicked across the hardwood floor, then Belle heard a sharp intake of breath. “My stars! You … you must be David Cahill, yes? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

Belle watched a host of emotions move across Norah’s face before the woman’s features settled into a broad smile. “As the old saw goes, David, ‘my, how you’ve grown!’ ” The woman’s musical chuckle quickly relieved the awkwardness of the moment. “Now, step inside and let me introduce you to my friends. Have you met Belle O’Brien yet?”