In less than two hours, it would be her turn.
Belle made good use of the time, reading various newspapers scattered about the table—Washington County News, Mountain View Times, and Abingdon Virginian—clipping out articles worth mentioning on the air. She intended to play plenty of music, tossing out a topic of local interest each hour to involve her listeners in her show via the phone lines.
“Belle.” Patrick was motioning at her from his office door. “Mr. Kildaire would like to do a brief interview with you, then take a few shots in the production room. You game?”
They exchanged a longer-than-necessary look—one that said, “Let’s talk later”—then she directed the newspaper man to the production room for a photo shoot. He asked the usual questions, from “How did you begin your broadcasting career?” to “What brings you to Abingdon?”
Tact was called for here. Answering with “An eight-year-long crush on Patrick Reese brought me to town” would not serve the station or her career well.
Though the thought of it made her smile broadly for the camera.
“Could you roll up to that microphone for me, Miss O’Brien?”
Roll up to it? Yes. Touch it? No way. Not after yesterday.
She posed as naturally as possible, hoping that the headphones didn’t force her curly wisps into a strange new hairstyle. “Headphone hair” was worse than “hat hair” for depleting a woman’s self-confidence.
She reached up to check for damage and discovered an entire section of curls poking out on top, poodle-fashion, when the door whooshed open and David walked in, tool box in hand. The reporter took that as his cue to exit, quickly gathered his gear, and was gone. David, meanwhile, pulled out various test meters and diodes, prepared to do battle for the worthy cause of clean-sounding audio.
“You didn’t touch my microphone, did you?” His voice sounded stern but his wry grin suggested otherwise.
“No, David, I barely breathed on your mike.” Belle pointed her nose to the ceiling, pretending to be greatly offended, and yanked off her headphones with a sweeping gesture, smoothing her hair.
“My, aren’t we the little actress.” He busied himself with the stack of audio processors in the corner. Belle found her eyes drawn to his broad shoulders, slim waist, long legs. She was used to working with older engineers complete with middle-age spread, thick glasses, and a pocketful of drafting pens. The only thing in David’s shirt pocket was David. It was difficult to ignore the pleasant scenery his muscular chest provided.
Good thing he’s too young, too green, and too hardheaded. In more ways than one.
“What’s wrong with acting?” She deliberately formed her red lips into a petulant pout, on the off chance he’d look her direction.
“Not a thing wrong with acting.” He kept his back to her, not missing a beat in what he was doing. “I’m merely waiting to see who the leading man will be.” He finally glanced over his shoulder at her from beneath a blond sweep of bangs, his eyes a deep gray. No storm clouds today.
“I never share the stage with anyone if I can help it.” Belle gave an exaggerated sniff. She stretched back in the rolling chair, tempted to prop her boots on the counter, then thought better of it. Engineers didn’t approve of anything propped on their countertops except elbows. “I prefer doing a one-woman show.”
His back was toward her again. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
David’s tone was so neutral it threw her off kilter. Is he kidding or serious? She had to know. “Why? Why doesn’t it surprise you?”
He stopped tweaking the meters and swung around to give her his full attention. “Because you’re a star, Belle, and you love being the center of attention.”
Ouch.
She jerked her chin at him. “Patrick sees that as an asset.”
“I guess it is, in your business.”
“Radio’s your business, too.” She didn’t mean to sound so perturbed. But stuff it, she was perturbed!
He shrugged. “I’m a behind-the-scenes kinda guy. My ego doesn’t need to be stroked five hours a day.”
“W-what?” She bolted to her feet. The nerve of this guy!
“Belle, I’m only teasing.” His generous mouth twitched into the slightest of smiles. “Honest.”
“Humph.” She tossed her braid in frustration and jammed her hands in her pockets. “Teasing, huh? Tormenting might be a better word for it. Anyway, bedeviling people seems to be your favorite pastime.”
“Not all people.” He shook his head. “Just you.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Huh?”
“You heard me.” He turned and crouched down to reach one of the bottom meters.
She suspected he was smiling broadly now and trying to hide it. The turkey.
“Most women get their feelings hurt easily, Belle, but you actually enjoy a fight. Creating a scene is your style. It’s that actress thing in you.” He turned to look at her again, his smile still in place, not a hint of animosity in his calm expression. “It’s not a negative, Belle, it’s who you are.”
“Oh?” She snapped out the response, feeling her fists clench in her pockets. “And how’d you manage to figure that out in two days?”
“Easy. You talked a lot.” His smile broadened slightly. “And I listened.”
Heat shot into her cheeks. “Humph.” Nothing was more aggravating than a perceptive man.
“Don’t get your pretty nose out of joint, Belle.” His gaze was steady, his tone warmer. “I like feisty women. Besides, WPER needs a few stars.”
Did he say pretty?
She willed her face to cool down, forced herself to look back at him with equal aplomb. “Speaking of which, this little star needs to twinkle herself over to the air studio.” Moving toward the door, she tossed the back of her hand over her forehead, dramatically rolling her eyes. “My audience awaits me.”
It was definitely time to get out from under this engineer’s too-accurate scrutiny. It was also time to get back into theater, or her coworkers would carry her away in a straitjacket. Seconds before the sound lock cut him off, she heard David’s gentle laughter.
At least he was in on the joke. Nothing was worse than waging a battle of wits with an unarmed man.
Frank was waiting for her in the main studio, stacking up the few commercial carts she’d need for her first hour. Carts reminded Belle of the eight-track tape cartridges from the ’60s, except these were clear plastic on top and held thirty-or sixty-second commercial spots, cued up and ready to go. Ancient technology and typically Patrick.
“I’ve also got a CD loaded for your first song, Belle.” Frank turned down the monitors so they wouldn’t need to shout over the music. “Patrick picked this one. ‘Good Lovin’ by the Young Rascals.” Frank’s bushy eyebrows shot up significantly. “Said you’d understand why.”
Belle stifled a laugh. Patrick, you sly fox!
Meanwhile, Frank’s curiosity hung in the air like Snap Davis’s lingering cigar smoke.
“It’s not what you think, Frank. Trust me.”
He shrugged. “Did I ask? I did not. You’re up in two minutes. Break a leg, girly.” With that, Frank gathered his headphones, two coffee mugs, and a morning paper with the stuffing knocked out of it, and disappeared into the hallway.
She doubted she’d see him again until Wednesday. He probably sleeps underground during the day, she decided, giggling. “G’night, Frank,” she called after him, plugging in her own headphones, adjusting the mike—very carefully—and wheeling the chair up to the console. Ninety seconds and she’d be on the air in Abingdon.
At ten o’clock straight up, she started the cart that broadcast Patrick’s top-of-the-hour identification, and flicked on the microphone to add her own carefully planned welcome. When the first note of “Good Lovin” came blasting out, so did her full-throttle laugh, almost drowning out the music.
She turned off the mike and shook her head. Belle, really. At least her new listeners would know she liked to have fun.
> “So your theory is ‘enter laughing,’ is that it?”
She whirled around in her chair to find David standing behind her, hands on his hips.
“Why not?” She shrugged. Might as well pretend it was intentional at this point.
He waved a pair of pliers at her. “Look, I need to tune a few things up in here and align the tape heads, but I’ll be unobtrusive, I promise. Ignore me, okay?”
“No problem.” She said it like she meant it. Now she intended to prove it.
Leaving her headphones on, she sang along with the music. Loudly. Brazenly off-key, the only way she knew how to sing. After the Young Rascals, it was Diana Ross, the Dave Clark Five, then Johnny Mathis. She knew every lyric to every hit song from 1954 on. Hadn’t she been playing oldies for ten years?
David was practically kneeling at her feet, twisting together two wires underneath the console, when she looked down and caught his eye. “Bet you wish I knew the notes, huh?”
He grimaced and kept twisting.
Some people were just plain fun to spar with.
Belle turned on the mike and introduced the next tune, one of her favorites from Dion and the Belmonts, then busied herself with the program log, keeping one eye on the man at her feet. David had almost disappeared in his effort to reach the processor controls hidden in the farthest corner beneath the counter where nimble-fingered disc jockeys couldn’t change the perfectly adjusted knobs.
She smiled in spite of herself. He was right. She did like a good verbal contest now and again. It wasn’t flirting. Certainly not. It was merely spirited conversation. Yeah, that’s it. Patrick was much more her type when it came to romance. David was simply someone she could torment.
Belle scanned her playlist for the perfect song, then cued it up on the CD player. Seconds before she flipped open the microphone, she growled, “Oh, David, this one’s for you,” then in her best broadcast voice did a rocking intro over horns and bass, hitting the post as Aretha Franklin warmed up for a spelling lesson.
“R-E-S-P-E-C-T …”
eight
There are two tragedies in life.
One is to lose your heart’s desire.
The other is to gain it.
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW
SHERRY ROBISON HURRIED ALONG the carpeted mall, checking her watch every ten steps, feeling her anxiety creep up another notch. She’d already been late for work twice this week. Not her fault, not really. Josh had been more obstinate than usual the last few mornings, getting in her way while she dressed and made breakfast, grumbling about one thing or another, requiring her undivided attention.
Life with Joshua had its highs and lows. Lately the lows were winning. She’d never leave him, couldn’t imagine life without him. But it still hurt to see him struggle, to know what he needed to feel whole and realize it was the one thing she couldn’t give him.
The morning sun streaming through the skylights above served as a warning light, blinking at her as she passed under each one: Late. Late. Late. A few stores to go and she’d finally be there. Her steps slowed when she realized the wide metal gate was already up. Uh-oh. Her boss had arrived before she. Not good, not good.
Sherry walked across the threshold, scanning the aisles jammed with circular racks of neon-colored sports clothes. “Jana?” She felt the tension in her voice, the lump growing in her throat. “Jana, are you here?”
The owner of California Casualwear appeared at the back office doorway, her eyes trained on Sherry, her expression hard. “Yes, I’m here.” Jana’s strident voice carried across the empty store. “The question is, why weren’t you here twenty minutes ago?”
Sherry locked her knees to stop them from shaking. “I’m so … sorry It was … well, Josh needed—”
“Josh again.” Jana moved toward her, a wiry woman with inch-long black hair and angular features. Like a porcupine. Sherry steeled herself against the impending onslaught. Jana stopped only inches away, planting her hands on her hips and pursing her lips in obvious distaste. “This is the third time this week you’ve been late, Sherry.”
She hung her head. “I know.”
“Even when you are here, you don’t give this job your full attention.” Jana eyed her critically. “How often has Josh called you at work this week?”
“A few times.” She spoke in a cowering whisper, hating herself for it.
“More than a few.” Jana’s words were aimed like poisoned darts. “Seven times, at least.”
“I didn’t know you were counting.” Sherry felt a hard knot of anger forming inside her. So what if Josh called her occasionally? He needed her, needed to hear her voice. The calls were short. She still got her work done. What was the problem?
“What do you have to say for yourself, Miss Robison? Do you want this job or not?”
Fear stabbed Sherry’s heart, chasing away the anger, replacing it with a cold sort of dread. “You know I do. I like selling clothes and helping customers and … and I really need the work.”
“And I need an employee who cares enough to show up on time and give me their full share of hours.” The woman’s dark eyes sharpened to pinpoints. “I’m sorry, Sherry, but this is your last day. I’ll have your check ready at two when you normally clock out. You’re dismissed.”
“You don’t mean this! Can’t you give me another chance?” Her pleas landed on Jana’s retreating back. Sherry swallowed the rest of them along with her tears. Not again. Not another job to find, not another bill collector to hold at bay, not another long talk with Josh.
It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t her fault. If she was honest with herself, she’d have to admit it wasn’t David Cahill’s fault either, much as she’d tried to pin all her misery on him. No, it was simply life, and life had ceased being simple—or fair—a long time ago.
A leggy teenager strolled into the store on a straight course toward the sale rack as Sherry slung her purse over her shoulder and wandered back out into the mall, disoriented. She was supposed to be at work. Instead she had four long hours to kill. Hardly enough time to figure out what she could afford from the grocery store, let alone what to do with the rest of her life.
Belle O’Brien’s first four hours on the air flew by. Listeners called in, welcoming her to town, offering tips about the best places to eat, and chatting with her about all the latest Abingdon news—what groups would be riding in the Kiwanis Christmas Parade and when Washington Countians could expect to see their newly designed flag flying at the courthouse. David stuck his head in now and then, never making a nuisance of himself, but managing to tweak her nose a time or two.
No matter. She always got him back.
Her on-a-roll day came to a screeching halt at two o’clock when Patrick showed up long enough to shove Heather in the studio door. “Sounding great, Belle. Show Heather the ropes your last hour, will ya?”
“Do what?” But he was gone and Heather was there in all her youthful glory, waiting expectantly for Belle to suggest somewhere for her to land, it seemed. Her blond tresses fell to her shoulders in perfect waves, her lipstick was a delicate shade of pink, her blue eyes were wide open, shimmering with innocence.
Good grief, I’m working with a Breck Girl.
“Patrick said I’d need my own headphones.” Heather’s voice was all air and no substance.
Boop-oop-a-doop.
Heather pointed at the console. “Could I borrow your headphones? It’d only be for tonight.”
Sure. Why don’t you borrow my cashmere and pearls while you’re at it? Belle sighed in resignation. “No problem. My cans are your cans.”
Blank stare. “Cans?”
“Headphones.” Belle mustered as much patience as she could. “Most jocks call them cans.”
“Oh.” Heather watched her for a few minutes, nodding her head as if trying to take it all in. “What are all those square buttons you keep sliding up and down?”
“They’re called pots. Nothing to do with flowers. That’s short for potentiometer. Th
ey’re like the volume knob on a radio. Up is louder, down is off. Back when I started in the business, we had rotary pots. Round ones.”
“Rotary pots?” Heather’s eyebrows disappeared under her blond sweep of hair. “Those sound really old. Gosh, did you use rotary telephones, too?”
It promised to be a long hour ahead.
“Sit tight, Heather. I’ve gotta do a spot break.”
“A what?” she heard as she slipped on her headphones. Belle chatted with a listener on the air about the current show at the Barter, The Taming of the Shrew, shared the weather forecast for greater Abingdon, then hit the start button on a commercial for one of the few accounts Cliff had already sold, Mike’s Quality Dry Cleaners.
“So, by spot break you mean these commercials?” Heather asked when the microphone was safely turned off.
“Right. If they don’t get played on the air when they’re supposed to, or the tape machine eats the cartridge, you’ll need a make-good.”
“Make a good what?”
“No, a make-good is when you reschedule a commercial.”
“Oh.” Heather was starting to wilt.
Ease up on her, Belle. It’s not a sin to be young. “Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of all this jargon soon enough.” Belle did her best to sound encouraging. Hadn’t Patrick been tolerant about her own lack of experience in the early days? For his sake, she’d be extra patient with Heather Young.
But the more patience she had with Heather, the less she had with Patrick. That bearded fool! Did he look at the woman’s résumé or just her big blue eyes? Heather’s total radio experience had been voicing one commercial at a 6,000-watt station, reading the copy while someone else pushed all the buttons. Heather was in over her head and they both knew it. The thought of leaving her alone to handle a five-hour request show that night made Belle’s blood boil.
Mixed Signals Page 9
