Mixed Signals (9 page)

Belle watched, dumbfounded, as WPER’s engineer moved toward her, a strained expression on his face.

“Belle and I … ah, bumped into each other earlier today.” He turned to Matthew. “And you’re from Abingdon UMC, am I right? I met you at a prayer breakfast a few weeks back.”

“That’s me. Matthew the Methodist.” Both men laughed, exchanging handshakes. “You’ve got quite a memory, fella.”

A prayer breakfast?
Belle was incredulous.
The same guy who rants and raves about a tiny microphone mishap goes to prayer breakfasts?

David was looking directly at her with a steady gaze, as if reading her mind. “Belle probably finds it difficult to believe I’ve spent much time around ministers.”

“No, I …”

He was grinning now. In fact, he and Matthew looked like a pair of goofy bookends.

Maybe he
had
read her mind. “Okay, I’ll admit it, I didn’t expect you to be the religious type.”

“I didn’t expect it either,” he agreed, further baffling her. “Anyway, I’m here because Patrick sent me on a mission of mercy.”

Norah let loose an elegant snort. “The audacity of that man! Making someone else do his dirty work.”

David shook his head. “Actually, I was grateful for the excuse to … uh, run into Belle again.” She smiled at his intentional pun as he inclined his head toward the porch. “Could I see you alone for a minute, Belle? My ego can only handle this one on one.”

Her cheeks grew unexplainably warm.
Does he really need to see me alone?
She followed him out the door and onto the crowded porch. The wind had picked up since her walk home and the skies had darkened with approaching nightfall and a foreboding mass of steel gray clouds.

She rubbed her bare arms, wishing she’d grabbed her coat. “You wanted to tell me something?”

His hands were stuffed in his pockets, yet she had the strangest feeling he wanted to touch her, as if whatever they had to say to one another would be made easier if there were physical contact, instead of two pairs of eyes locked in silence.

Despite the darkening sky, Belle managed to get a better look at him than she had in the studio. It was hard not to stare at those shoulders. Muscular. Solid. Apparently David had tossed around a few two-by-fours in his time. His shirt was tucked in, showing off his narrow waist, and his long legs were wrapped in jeans more weathered than her own.

He spoke at last, seeming to struggle with each word. “Belle, I behaved like a fool in the production studio today.” He sighed deeply, then his tongue seemed to come unstuck. “What happened was an accident at best, or my own inept installation at worst. I had no right whatsoever to make you feel … well, to suggest that—”

“Relax.” She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “I was less than cordial myself. Let’s pretend it never happened, okay?” She was shooting for breezy and easygoing, but her heart kept skipping a beat.
You work around men all the time. Why is this guy giving you palpitations?
Nice face, nice build,
nice smile. Nice lots of stuff, but she’d been around plenty of nice-looking men before. That wasn’t what got her attention. Not really. Besides, David Cahill definitely was not her style.

“I’m sure you’re dealing with a lot.” She spoke in her most sympathetic voice. “Taking care of all the last-minute technical stuff for tomorrow must be giving you fits.”

“Honestly, it had nothing to do with the station.” His eyes were an ocean wave, rising toward the shoreline, threatening to drown her. “I found something in the mail this morning that I wasn’t ready for, that’s all. Guess I was still dealing with it when I came in the studio. Anyway, I hope you’ll forgive me for acting like a heel about the mike.” Sincerity was written all over his face, from his broad, smooth forehead to his strong chin—not to mention every handsome feature in between.

Handsome?
She felt her eyes widen in surprise.
Girl, get a serious grip
.

She did her best to wipe any telltale emotion from her face and gave a slight shrug. “There’s nothing to forgive, David, but if it’ll make you feel better, you’re forgiven.”

“Forgiveness is a gift, Belle. Thank you.” His gaze was intent, sincere … and something else. Something disturbing.

She turned on her heel, feeling light-headed and off balance. What right did David Cahill have to look at her that way, as if he could see through her, as if he understood, as if he’d known her for years. She’d figure it out soon enough, but right now there were more pressing matters to attend to. A porch filled with furniture, a storm about to split the sky, and a meal to fix for two hungry men …

Coward
.

She clenched her teeth.
No, just smart. Too smart to fall for good looks and sincerity, no matter how charming the twinkle in his eye might be
.

“Smells like heaven in here,” Patrick called out, letting himself in the kitchen door. Norah’s cooking was second to none. He’d found himself scratching at her door more nights than not lately, a hound dog begging for a meal. She seemed happy enough to feed him.

He followed his nose into the dining room, only to find four familiar faces gathered around a candlelit table covered with fragrant serving dishes.

“Greetings, gang.” He rubbed his hands together in gustatory anticipation. “I hope you saved some grub for your hungry boss.”

Belle shot him a look that could toast marshmallows.

David appeared a tad surly himself.

And wasn’t that the minister he’d met across the street?

Norah spoke first. Her words popped out like ice cubes from a freezer tray. “I’m not your employee, Patrick.”

If the floor beneath his feet would open a crack, he’d happily have dropped out of sight without tasting one bite of dinner.

“Of course you aren’t, Norah.”
Time for the two-step shuffle
. “You’re a dear woman who’s fed me on too many occasions, and that’s a fact. I’m glad someone else is joining you at your table tonight.” He nodded in their direction. “Belle. David. And Pastor Howard, isn’t it?”

“Matthew.” He sank his teeth into a flaky biscuit.

Oh, man. Biscuits with honey butter
. Patrick’s mouth started watering as he stared at the heaping basketful. “Did you guys manage to get Belle’s furniture up the steps?” It was a lame question. The porch was empty so clearly the job was done. But he had to say something besides “Please, may I have a biscuit?”

“Yes, Patrick, they did a wonderful job.” Belle’s voice was every bit as chilly as Norah’s. “Too bad you didn’t get here a little sooner to help them.”

No use pretending. “You’re absolutely right. I’m a heel for letting you handle something my half-brain movers should have taken care of in the first place. Will you forgive me?”

The guys nodded. The women were stone-faced.

Joining them for dinner was looking less likely by the minute. “Please, ladies?”
Wait a minute. Belle hated the word
ladies,
didn’t she?
One glance at her face confirmed it.
Yup
.

Wonderful, generous, kindhearted Norah gave in first. “Have a seat, Patrick, your dinner is getting cold.” Her voice, he noted with relief, was a bit less frigid.

He pulled up a chair at the end of the table, then realized he had no place setting. They hadn’t exactly been expecting him. After a brief scavenger hunt in the kitchen, he came up with the necessary plates and silverware and joined the others, who were laughing now—he could only hope not at him—as they shared platters of thin-sliced Virginia sugar-cured ham, scalloped potatoes, fried eggplant, corn pudding, and green beans the way he liked them—cooked to oblivion with ham hock and brown sugar.

“Norah, girl,” he sighed, piling his plate. “They don’t cook like this in San Diego. Gentlemen, I’m in your debt for literally picking up where my movers left off, but you have to admit, you’ve been well paid here.”

David and Matthew, their mouths full, could only nod their agreement.

Norah blushed prettily. Fine-looking woman, especially for her age. Turning fifty next year, he remembered. She looked five years younger than that. Maybe ten.

While he relished every tasty morsel before him, Belle regaled the table with a memorable moment from her stint in Kingsport, their first station together.

“I’d been working at WTFM for all of two days but knew most of the music backwards and forwards from listening to it as a teenager,” Belle explained. “Then I cued up ‘Good Lovin’ by the Young Rascals. It has this long, dramatic pause right near the end.”

Patrick almost choked on his potatoes. Why hadn’t he heard this story before?

“I was on the far side of the studio, pulling some music, and suddenly realized I had dead air. A major no-no in radio. Patrick told me to never, ever, under any circumstances, let a record run out and not be ready with another song, a commercial,
something
. Right, boss?”

She batted her eyes at him playfully, waving her braid. He nodded, cheeks stuffed with eggplant.

“I made a flying leap at the tall stool sitting in front of the microphone, flipping the mike on in midflight. Unfortunately, I had too much momentum going, and the stool and I both kept traveling until we hit the floor with all the accompanying sound effects.”

Belle accurately mimicked the
crash, bang, kersplat
of her journey through space, ending with an anguished, “Aaiieeeee!” Her audience of four was hanging on every word.

“Meanwhile, the Young Rascals dove into the chorus again. Imagine my poor listeners, who heard music, then silence, then crashing and screaming, then more music. Here I was, worried about
dead
air, when in fact the audience heard more
live
action than usual.”

The dining room erupted with laughter and Patrick put down his fork to join them. He loved watching Belle entertain like this, her amber eyes filled with light, her cheeks tinged with a rosy glow. While he was busy crisscrossing the country, she’d grown into a vibrant, beautiful woman. What could possibly interest her in a turning-gray guy like him?
Nothing
.

Belle caught him looking at her and winked, then she plunged on with her woeful tale. “My listeners heard me moaning and groaning all through the refrain, followed by shouts of people running into the studio trying to find out what had happened. Of course, the only thing that got bruised was my ego. We were soon in hysterics, oblivious to the fact that our little melodrama was being broadcast over five counties.”

“And what useful lesson did you glean from this humbling experience, woman?” Patrick put on a stern face, patting his mouth with his napkin in mock disdain.

“Easy.” She flashed him a wicked smile. “Don’t play anything by the Young Rascals.”

David was bone-weary of making do. He adjusted the carburetor of his ’75 Ford truck with another snap of his wrench, then slammed the dented hood down in disgust, slicking back his rain-soaked hair. How many times had he messed with the same doggone engine trouble in the last week?

Too many times. Twice, the truck had left him stranded with no choice but to thumb his way into town and catch a ride home later with Patrick. He already owed the man three thousand dollars for the land and the pile of boards that masqueraded as a house. He didn’t want to be beholden to him for truck repair money, too.

Money
. In the Cahill family, it always seemed to come down to money. Or rather, the lack of it.

He looked first one way down the road, then the other. There wasn’t a soul around, and he was a good two miles from home, so his rusted-out excuse for wheels needed to run and stay running, not only tonight but until he’d saved enough money to buy a new engine.

Correction: new
used
engine. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought anything brand new.

David slid into the cab, ignoring the wet jeans now plastered to his legs, and cranked the ignition. It wheezed, it sputtered, but thank the Lord it started. He tossed up a grateful prayer, shifted into first, and rolled back onto Old Jonesboro Road, a winding two-lane stretch of asphalt that skirted the southwest side of town.

Visibility was less than a hundred yards, so he eased off the gas pedal. With 197,000 miles on the odometer, the truck wasn’t worth much, but wrapping it around a tree wouldn’t help any. The November sky was utterly dark, not a star in sight, the full moon hidden by thick black storm clouds that had stalled over southwestern Virginia a few hours back and were still dumping an inch an hour. David sighed. His house was in worse shape than his truck, covered with a leaky roof that threatened to collapse any minute. He hoped he didn’t arrive home to discover it’d done just that.

Hard to believe that half an hour ago he’d been sitting in Norah Silver-Smyth’s knockout of a house, dry as a bone, his stomach full of the best food he’d eaten in weeks. Months. Nice company, too. Patrick was one funny guy when you got him started, Norah was total class, and Matthew had a genuine faith in God that draped around his shoulders as naturally as a well-tailored coat.

Belle was another story. What was her problem, anyway? One minute she was laughing and telling tales, then she was eyeing the pastor, then she was whispering with Norah over some private joke, then she was winking at Patrick, of all things. Wasn’t the man well into his forties?

She’d barely given
him
the time of day, except on the porch when they’d been alone. What had that lasted, all of three minutes? Not that he cared. After twenty-seven years, the scattered pieces of his life were finally
starting to fit together. The last thing he needed was some radio celebrity knocking him off track. Even if she was a beauty. And she was. A small bundle of fiery, feminine energy, always in motion …

Yeah, a guy could get blown way off course by a woman like that. But David Cahill was not about to let another freckle-nosed, curly-haired woman steer him away from the straight and narrow path he’d chosen for his life.

Not this time. Not for all the honey-colored eyes in the world.

Pulling up to the stop sign at Spring Creek Road, he peered through the driving rain toward WPER’s antenna, a three-hundred-foot steel tower stationed on the hill behind his house. The red light on top was emitting a slow, steady blink. So far, so good. At the base, the cinder block transmitter building could handle any kind of weather, but radio towers and storms were always a bad combination.