five
A blunder at the right moment is better than cleverness at the wrong time.
CAROLYN WELLS
AFTER LUNCH, THE REST of the on-air staff scattered to gather material for their debut shows while Belle made a beeline for the production room, bent on creating a memorable opening, something playful to pique the listeners’ interest.
She settled into the chair, sliding her hands along the carefully restored console, breathing in the mingled scents of cut pine, fresh paint, new carpet. Alone in the pristine studio, she was in her element, surrounded by equipment that gave her the power to be anything she wanted. With a push of an effects button and a dash of dramatics, she could be a sweet shy thing or a wretched old hag, a British nanny or a Spanish siren.
Theater without makeup.
She threaded a fresh reel of tape onto the deck and was pulling the microphone down toward her chin when the mike slipped off its mounting and crashed to the countertop. Bang!
At that instant, the studio door whooshed open and a startled male voice demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”
She whirled around to find a grim-faced stranger storming toward her, screwdriver in one hand, needle-nose pliers in the other, brandishing both like medieval weaponry. A shock of straight, wheat-colored hair fell over his eyes, shrouding them. In his worn jeans and buffalo plaid shirt, he had the look of an engineer.
An angry one.
David Cahill, no doubt. But hadn’t Patrick said he was the quiet type?
“I … it slipped.” She tried vainly to reattach the wayward microphone, her heart lodged in her throat. Engineers could get so testy about their equipment.
“Here, let me do it,” he muttered, leaning over her shoulder, running his hands over his electronic patient—no doubt feeling for broken bones. Not so much as a slight bruise, she was relieved to notice as he mounted the mike back in place.
“I’m very sorry.” She felt terrible and hoped it showed. “Obviously it’s brand new, and the last thing you want to do with a microphone is drop it.” She waved her hand in a gesture of embarrassment and promptly knocked the microphone off the metal stand—again—this time launching it over the console and onto the floor, where it landed with a sickening thud.
“Oh, no!”
“Good grief.”
They both dove under the counter to rescue it. In the dark, cramped space, depth perception became an issue. Their elbows were soon entangled. Two grunts and a gasp followed.
“Ouch! I’ve got it.”
“Excuse me, but that’s the chair leg. This is a microphone.”
“Fine. I’ll handle things from here, if you don’t mind.” At which point their heads banged together with a resounding crack.
“Ohh,” they grumbled in stereo.
Dizzy from bending over and stunned with a searing pain, Belle rested on her knees for a moment, letting her head clear. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Both had merit.
David stood up first, one hand gripping the microphone, the other rubbing his temple where a visible knot was forming. “You are one hardheaded woman, Miss O’Brien.”
At least he knew who she was. The blockhead.
“You’re quite solid yourself.” She nursed her own injury, a nasty lump growing on the crown of her head. She had to look up the long expanse of his Levi’s-clad legs before she made eye contact. “You need to do something about that microphone.” Her tone was sharper than she intended, but she was in pain and more than a little embarrassed. “It shouldn’t release that easily.”
“It was fine until you stepped in the studio.”
She eyed him through narrow slits. “I’ve been in this business a decade longer than you have, Mister Cahill. I’ve worked with all kinds of microphones and never—I mean never—have I seen them fall off their mountings like this one has today. Twice. What does that tell you?”
She stood up an inch at a time, grabbing the back of the chair for balance until she was eye to eye with him.
Or rather, eye to chin.
Like it or not, she had to admit it was an impressive chin, strong and chiseled along classic lines.
“David.” The word was gritted out through clenched teeth.
“Wh-what?”
“Call me David. And what your experience with microphones tells me is that your majormarket engineers let you get away with murder.”
She could still feel the heat coming off his chest as he brushed past her to remount the microphone. The tension in his voice was palpable. “Do you have any idea how long I had to beg Patrick to let me order new microphones, let alone this Electro-Voice?” Although no longer furious, he was clearly still frustrated with her.
“Knowing Patrick’s tightwad ways, I can only guess.” She reclaimed her seat and rolled up to the console, determined not to let her own temper get out of hand. In the smoothest voice she could muster, she said, “Let’s make sure it survived, shall we?”
He dutifully angled the mike toward her mouth as she slid the fader up. “Test, test. 1-2-3, 1-2-3.” She felt him hovering over her and looked up to catch his eye. “Sorry,” she mumbled.
She slipped off her headphones and pulled the fader back down. “Sounds fine, thank goodness. And I really am sorry, David.” Pushing back her chair to put a bit more distance between them, she gazed up into dark blue-gray eyes, the color of storm clouds at sea, snapping at her behind the latest style in wire-framed glasses.
She took a deep breath. “Suppose we start over. I’m Belle O’Brien. Middays.” She extended her hand and watched him turn five different shades of red before he reluctantly shook it. A firm handshake, nonetheless. Strong hands, rough from wrestling with new lumber and old transmitters.
And careless air talent.
He had a swimmer’s build, lean and muscular, no bones, no padding. The glasses gave him an air of intelligence, though she wasn’t fully convinced. He seemed to be struggling to express himself, brushing his thick, straight-as-straw hair away from his eyes as he spoke. “Sorry to be … so …”
“Rude?”
“Yes, rude.” His head snapped back in her direction. “No, not rude. Responsible.” He tossed his hands in the air with a noisy sigh. “Look, I’m in charge of this equipment, Belle. I’d like to keep things working at least until we get the station on the air tomorrow.”
“Understandable.” She pinched off her grin, not wanting to upset the greenhorn further. And he was young, wasn’t he? Fresh out of college, Patrick said. Early twenties, then, though he looked older. “I promise to only speak into the mike but not touch it, okay?”
He smiled then, full lips spreading across his freshly shaven face. “It’s a deal. Now do I get to hear about Chicago?”
She leaned back, dismayed. “Weren’t you at the staff meeting?” She knew, of course, that he hadn’t been, but felt compelled to act as disinterested in this upstart as possible. “I promised myself I’d never tell that story again. Ask Patrick.”
“I did.” His smile took a wry turn. “He said I’d have to hear it from you.”
She shook her head, feeling off balance all of a sudden. It must be from that bump on the head. But she knew better. “What difference does it make?” She waited for his response, watching, fascinated, as his storm-filled eyes steered toward calmer waters. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw empathy reflected in their blue-gray depths.
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.
Mixed Signals Page 6
