Patrick had pushed all her buttons to make her say yes to this place, pleading one minute, needling her the next. “What are you afraid of?” he’d demanded. That was the question that’d made her so mad she finally said yes.
“I’m not afraid of anything!”
Liar. She was knee deep in fears. Afraid to see Patrick and risk falling in love with him. Afraid the station would fold after six months and leave her jobless again. Afraid that after dreaming of doing professional theater for so many years, she’d embarrass herself with an amateurish audition.
Afraid of being single forever in a sleepy Virginia town.
Though she had to admit, it was a nice sleepy town.
At Court and Main she’d snatched a quick glance at the building that housed WPER and liked what she saw. She’d continued the four short blocks to Norah’s, expecting the eye-pleasing architecture to dissolve into twentieth-century mediocrity, but it never happened.
No wonder Patrick raved about this place.
All at once, the back door opened with the tinkle of tiny bells and Belle was greeted by two unmistakable scents: fresh bread baking and Shalimar perfume. Both were quickly followed by a tall, slender woman in a fluttery silk jacket of rose and black. Her large silver earrings and necklace, though striking, didn’t overpower the woman’s dramatic features, now decorated with a wide, welcoming smile and silver hair cut in a flattering, chin-length style.
“You must be Belle!” The ageless beauty threw open the door further and stepped back. “I’m Norah Silver-Smyth.” Her voice was husky and musical, laced with laughter. “And you’re just in time. The soup has simmered all morning and our bread will be done any moment. Here, let me take your pretty coat.”
Belle slipped off her green wool coat, suddenly feeling too casual in her long sweater, jeans, and boots. Why didn’t Patrick warn her they’d be lunching with a fashion plate? Then again, Patrick probably hadn’t noticed Norah’s pricey wardrobe, so enamored was he with outlet store bargains.
“I’m afraid I’ve dressed for travel rather than for dinner.”
Norah lifted her brows in a graceful arch. “My dear, if I looked like that in straight-legged jeans, you’d have to cut them off my dead body.”
The woman laughed again and Belle was instantly put at ease. Well, well. A real person.
Her hostess waved in the direction of the pots, pans, and baskets dangling dangerously low from dark oak beams that ran the length of the room. “This place needs a Watch Your Head sign, doesn’t it?”
“Not for me.” Belle couldn’t hold back a smile.
“Ah, lucky you, then. Patrick conked his head on that lethal frying pan once.”
Belle looked up, remembering only too well how her first boss had towered over her. The memory sent a tingle of anticipation down her spine. Won’t be long now.
Norah gestured toward an inviting doorway and flashed a sly grin. “I only let people I like use the kitchen entrance. Come have a seat in the dining room.” She winked. “It’s safer there.”
And it was even more impressive. Belle’s gaze took in a heady mix of muted plaids, large florals, polished cherry, and solid oak. A warm, sophisticated style one wouldn’t find in any magazine, but style nonetheless. “Your house is amazing, Norah.”
“You’re too kind.” Norah followed her into the dining room, where high ceilings, pale yellow walls, and dark oak floors served as a neutral backdrop for a host of vibrantly hued quilts and a rich Persian floor rug in an exotic pattern.
In the hands of an amateur, the eclectic ensemble might have jarred the senses. Clearly, Norah Silver-Smyth was not an amateur.
“Ohh.” Belle sighed. “This is lovely.” She gazed out the tall dining room windows that stretched floor to ceiling, offering an enticing view of a deep, wraparound porch that would surely call her name on lazy summer evenings. “I hope the apartment upstairs is half this nice.”
“Shall we find out?” Norah disappeared back into the kitchen for an instant and returned, shaking a ring of keys. “Right this way, Belle. Forgive me for being so chummy, but Patrick has told me a great deal about you.”
Belle felt her cheeks heating up. “I can imagine what he said. Promise me you believe only half of it.”
“On the contrary, I chose to believe every word.” Norah led her into a front hallway and gave her another dazzling smile. “I know all about your growing up in North Carolina and attending ASU and your passion for theater, not to mention the radio career that’s taken you across five states.” She slipped a silver key into a solid door, opened it to reveal a long, curving flight of steps, then turned to regard Belle with a look that hinted at understanding, even sympathy. “I also know about Chicago.”
Belle laughed and shook her head. “Does everybody know?”
“No, bless your heart.” Norah tipped her head slightly. “One way or another, we’ve all been there, Belle. You’re in much better hands now.” She started up the steps. “Come see your new digs.”
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.
three
If love is the answer, could you please rephrase the question?
LILY TOMLIN
BELLE 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 in
to 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.”
Mixed Signals Page 3
