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.
“This might make a decent study. Another fireplace, lots of natural light—”
“Patrick, when did you start paying attention to home decor?”
He colored again. “Since I’m the one who made the initial arrangements, I hoped … well, I’m glad you’re pleased.”
And so they went, stumbling through inane conversations about floor plans and ceiling heights, talking about everything except what was on their minds. At least, what was on her mind. Belle restrained a groan. How had they gotten off to such a prickly start?
When they stepped into the next room, with its adjacent tile bath, Patrick muttered something about its being the obvious choice for her bedroom then immediately suggested they see how lunch was progressing downstairs.
She nodded quickly. “Yes, let’s do.” Before I jump out of my skin.
Norah greeted them in the dining room with fragrant bowls of black bean soup, rich and dark, served with a dollop of sour cream and crusty Irish soda bread. Belle was grateful for something to focus her attention on other than memories and feelings, and sensed that Patrick felt the same way. “Mmm,” was all that was heard around the table until they put their spoons aside at last. From the looks on Norah’s and Patrick’s faces, Belle was sure they were as thoroughly sated as she.
She was feeling more at home by the minute, thanks to Norah’s amiable ways. The woman was wise and confident, at peace with life and comfortable in her skin, which Belle found enormously appealing. In Norah she saw the inklings of more than a business relationship, landlady to tenant. She saw a woman who might provide something sorely lacking in her life: a good and true friend.
Belle chuckled to herself. Calling Norah at four in the morning would be easy. All she’d have to do was bang on the floor.
The cell phone in Patrick’s pocket rang while Norah and Belle gathered up table linens. “If you two’ll excuse me …” He punched buttons on the phone. “Patrick here. Yes, David. The transmitter what? Oh, bother.”
He noticed Belle watching him intently, her eyes like twin lamps, warm and glowing. He could barely concentrate on what David was saying about reflected power and plate current, so taken was he with seeing her again.
“Uh-huh.” The stream of engineering jargon flowed on.
She’s older. Of course, she would be. Wasn’t he? And yet the eight years had been good to her, he decided. Most things hadn’t changed—her tiny frame, her long braid, her penchant for jeans and boots, her contagious laugh. Other things were new, like the maturity and confidence he hadn’t counted on. She was truly a woman now, not a fresh-out-of-college ingenue. And to think I called her “kid.” The picture in Radio & Records didn’t begin to do her justice.
Some women had rosebud lips. Belle insisted hers were more like asparagus—two straight, thick lines drawn across her face. Yeah, right. Asparagus, my foot. Her full lips were the stuff of dreams, not casseroles.
“Uh, yes, I’m listening, David.” Now. “Sounds like we might be looking at a new loading capacitor. Want me to come take a look? Not a problem, we just finished lunch. And what a killer meal it was.” He winked at Norah, eyeing him across the kitchen. “See you in fifteen minutes.”
He disconnected and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “It seems we have a serious glitch at the transmitter site, according to my engineer. Norah, you’ve met him, haven’t you?”
“You forget I’ve lived in Abingdon all my life.” Her animated features grew still for a moment. “David Cahill grew up here. I knew his father, John Cahill, too, though I haven’t seen either of them since David joined the air force. A determined young man. Trustworthy. Good with his hands, too.”
“Right. Anyway, he’s out at the stick now, trying to figure things out.”
Norah raised her hand like a confused student. “The stick?”
“The radio tower. Where the antenna and transmitter are located, out on Old Jonesboro Road. David lives there, you know.”
Belle looked at him as if he’d swallowed a live frog. “He lives in the transmitter shack?”
“Almost. When I bought the land, it included an old farmhouse that was in such bad shape I planned to tear it down. David talked me out of it. A win-win, I’d say. Saved me the money and hassle of having it removed, and gave him something to do in his spare time.”
Spare time was not in Patrick’s vocabulary and they knew it. It amazed him to discover that his employees had so much of it. “You’ll be meeting David and the rest of the gang at our first staff gathering tomorrow morning at ten.” He searched Belle’s face, looking for a clue to what she might be thinking. Or feeling. “See you then, Belle?”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
He lowered his voice, hoping to sound as sincere as he felt. “Forgive me for leaving so soon?”
Both women nodded in his direction, then smiled at one another. What’s that about? He didn’t have time to analyze the situation but instead pulled on his coat and offered his farewell from the doorway. No way could he handle another brief embrace from Belle, not when he wanted to pull her into his arms and never let go.
Admit it, man. David’s distress call was a godsend.
He needed air and he needed out—quick. Trotting down the steep sidewalk toward the Blue Boat, which was still parked next to the church, he sifted through the hour he’d spent with Belle and decided that although his feelings for her hadn’t changed, there was obviously zero interest on her part.
She seemed happy to see him, but not overjoyed. A little skittish, even.
At least I know where I stand. Nowhere.
He threw the car into drive and took off for the outskirts of town where a sharp young engineer and a dying old capacitor were waiting for him.
Transmitters were a piece of cake.
Women were impossible.
“Impossible. The man is truly impossible.” Belle draped herself across an overstuffed chair placed at an ideal angle for toasting her chilled feet by the cozy fire. She and her new landlady had spent the afternoon on the third floor measuring windows and room dimensions, then had settled down to share a pot of tea in Norah’s elegantly offbeat living room. The old house was charming as could be but, as Belle quickly discovered, difficult to heat.
“I’ve never seen so many mixed messages.” Belle, unlike the house, was plenty hot, certain that steam must be pouring out her ears. “One minute he seems thrilled to have me here, the next minute he’s hugging me like I’m his sister. His little sister.” She shivered—and not only from the cold. “I don’t know what to make of it.”
Norah’s slender feet, wrapped in snug lambskin slippers, stretched toward the grate as the logs popped and spit, sending sparks shooting up the flue. “Belle, it’s really not Patrick’s fault that he’s confused. Look at the scenario. He’s a dozen years older, yes?”
“Mmm.” She couldn’t deny that.
“You two haven’t seen each other in ages, correct?”
She sipped her
lemon-scented tea, letting it warm her from the inside out. “We talked on the phone a few times each year, but you’re right, we’ve not laid eyes on one another since Kingsport.”
“Plus … he’s your boss.”
Her shoulders sank further. “Ay, there’s the rub.”
“Hamlet,” Norah murmured. “Act 3, scene 1.”
She sat up straight, nearly spilling her tea. “Norah!”
The older woman, curled up in a massive matching chair, gave her a sideways glance. “One needn’t major in theater to know the bard.”
“Enough about my life. You’re holding out on me, Mrs. Silver-Smyth.” A teasing hint of reproof lingered in her voice.
Norah shook a manicured finger in her direction. “None of that ‘Mrs. S’ business with us, please. You might as well know the truth. I adore the stage, serve as a lifelong contributor to the Barter Theatre, and in fact did a turn on those boards myself a long time ago.”
Belle’s late-afternoon lethargy disappeared without a trace. “The Barter? Oh, Norah, tell, tell. I want to know everything.”
Norah gave her a brief history, describing Robert Porterfield, an out-of-work actor who started the theater during the Depression, allowing patrons to barter food for first-rate entertainment.
“Ham for Hamlet? Is that still how it works?”
Norah released a throaty laugh. “No, now they take your VISA card like everybody else. But it’s a lovely legacy, don’t you think?”
She nodded and listened as Norah spun tales of meeting Ernest Borgnine backstage and being in the audience for the debut of a Tennessee Williams play as a young girl. “All I ever wanted to do was act.” Norah’s slim shoulders lifted in a poignant shrug.
“I’m with you there. What happened?”
“A man. Men, really.”
Belle tried to mask her surprise. “Men, meaning plural?”
“Good heavens, it’s not like it sounds!” Norah stirred the fire with a black iron poker. “It was two men, and I married both of them.”
Her regally raised brows halted the comment teetering on Belle’s lips. She settled back as Norah went on.
“Harry Silver was my first love.” She propped the poker against the bricks and added in a hushed tone, “My only love. We were married for eleven months before he was killed in a single-engine plane crash.”
“Norah, how awful!”
“Tragic. I was not to be comforted. And because we’d met on the stage at the Barter, I couldn’t bear to set foot in the place. For several seasons.”
Belle slipped the quilted cozy off the teapot and poured them both a fresh cup of the fragrant liquid. “Of course you couldn’t. And your second husband was … ?”
“The pilot of the plane.”
Belle gasped again, and Norah held up her hand, warding off an imaginary blow. “In very poor taste, I know. My mother certainly thought so. But you see, Randolph Smyth—of Smyth County, mind you—was the only survivor and felt terribly responsible. He kept coming around to offer his condolences, and he had all this lovely money with no one to spend it on, and all this crushing guilt that needed mending, and—”
In spite of the sad tale, Belle laughed. “Say no more. The first time you married for love. The second time—”
“I married for money. Exactly. What a fool I was.” Norah stared out the lace-draped window for a moment, then turned back to her tea. “The money lasted longer than the relationship. He left me fifteen years ago for a woman half my age.”
“With half your wisdom, I’m sure.”
“Naturally, dear, but most men don’t fall in love with your wisdom. Take Patrick.”
Belle grinned. “I wish you would.”
“Do what?”
“Take Patrick. No, I mean it! You two would make a perfect couple.”
“Out of the question.” Norah’s impeccably groomed eyebrows disappeared under silvery bangs. “We have almost nothing in common.”
“Like I said, you two together would be perfectly … dreadful!”
Their laughter rang around the room like the church bells next door, clanging merrily.
Belle shook her head. “The tightwad and the spendthrift, eh?”
“Or the good, the bad, and the ugly.” Norah waved her fingers affectionately at a monstrous ginger and white cat, padding into the living room on tufted paws the size of silver dollars. “And here comes ugly now.”
The rotund feline examined her through golden slits, as if calculating the effort required to jump up and join her. The appeal of his mistress and her cushy chair proved too much for the animal to resist. He leaped with surprising grace and landed squarely in Norah’s lap.
“Sit, Harry.”
The cat obeyed, though Belle suspected he intended to sit anyway. Meanwhile, Belle’s curiosity was killing her. “You named your cat after your first husband?”
“Why not?” After a few strokes from Norah’s bejeweled hand, the cat began purring with such a roar that Belle could hear him from several feet away. “I’ve always loved the name Harry. You could say I was wild about it.” Norah giggled at her own pun. “And he is hairy, this Harry.” She dropped her head back on the chair and sighed wistfully. “Tell the truth, Belle. How do you feel about Patrick?”
Patrick. Now that was a hairy subject.
“The truth? I had a crush on him for two years. I was certain he never knew. Never noticed me.”
“Ha.”
“Obviously, I missed something.”
“Obviously. Now what?”
“I don’t know.” Belle stood up, suddenly restless. She circled the room, lightly touching an antique spinning wheel here, a handwoven basket there, then stopped to stare at her reflection in the beveled mirror over the mantel.
Was Patrick her friend, her employer, or her future beau?
All of the above? Two out of three?
“I know what I should do.” She took a deep breath as if to give the idea room to expand. “For the sake of WPER, and our friendship, the best thing I could do right now is locate some good-looking guy for me to focus on and let Patrick find the right woman for him.”
Except he is good-looking. And that “right” woman might be me.
Norah, meanwhile, was studying her carefully. “How wise of you.” Her low tone reminded Belle of the contented Harry. “Shall we find you a handsome buck in Abingdon?”
She tossed up her hands. “Norah, I’ve been here exactly six hours!”
“Wise women don’t waste a minute.” Norah deposited Harry on the floor and rose to her feet. “But I suppose tomorrow is soon enough. On another note entirely, what are your lodging plans this evening?”
“Since my furniture won’t arrive from Chicago until tomorrow afternoon, I brought a sleeping bag with me—”
“A what? You mean penny-pinching Patrick didn’t put you up at the Martha?”
“Martha who?”
“The Martha Washington Inn. It’s only a block up the street. Stunning place, built in 1832.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Not even one night in a fine hotel? Belle, that’s criminal. There’s no way I’ll let you sleep on that hardwood floor up there. The very idea! Bring in your suitcase and I’ll get you settled in my guest room down on the first floor.”
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 p
ecan, 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.”
four
People have one thing in common: they are all different.
ROBERT ZEND
HERE 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, majormarket 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.
Mixed Signals Page 4
