What could Patrick have been thinking?
Surely he didn’t hire Heather for her looks. Tell me it isn’t so, Lord! By the end of the hour, Heather was in tears, more confused than ever, and Belle was hot. Very hot.
“Heather, don’t panic.” She patted her arm, uncertain how to console the sniffling blonde. “We’re gonna work this out somehow, but you are not doing a solo show tonight. It isn’t fair to you.” Or to our brand-new station. “I’ll talk to Patrick the minute I’m off the air.” Boy, would she talk to him!
At three o’clock when Burt showed up, his arms loaded with music trivia books, Belle ordered Heather to stay put and take notes, then stamped off to the corner office to do battle with Mr. Reese.
By the time she reached his door, she was foot-stomping, rip-roaring, no-kidding mad. She didn’t bother to knock, but simply kicked open his door with such force that it swung all the way back and smacked the wall. The marlin jumped, the deer looked shocked, and Patrick sat there, mouth agape, as if he expected to be the third mounted trophy in his office.
“Don’t shoot!” He tossed aside the latest issue of Radio Report. “At least not until you tell me what I did wrong.” His expression softened. “Or is it time for the … uh, discussion that was so rudely interrupted this morning?”
“It certainly is not!” Belle slammed the door shut, rattling the transom window above it. “How could you?” She choked out the words, near tears she was so angry. “How could you hire a DJ with no radio experience and expect her to go on the air tonight all by herself?”
He looked perplexed. “Is Heather having a little trouble catching on?”
“A little trouble? The poor girl is sobbing in the studio, trying to figure out why cans don’t have green beans in them.” Belle advanced toward him, assuming the most intimidating stance she carried in her bag of theatrical tricks. “Patrick, you haven’t answered my question. Why did you hire her? Let me guess. You knew she could do radio the minute you laid eyes on her. Is that it? Did you hire her for her pretty face?”
“Her what?” He stood up, looking genuinely confused. “Belle, you gotta be joking. I hired her because she was a good student who was willing to work hard to understand our business. Period. If she needs more time to learn things, I’ll come in tonight and work with her myself until she’s more confident.”
“Humph.” Was it her imagination or was steam coming out her ears? “That’s probably the way you planned it all along, huh? Working with her every evening, showing her the ropes. One on one.”
An amused look crossed his face. “You should hear yourself.” His grin grew wider and slightly wicked. “You sound like a jealous wife.”
“A … a w-what?”
But she was jealous, and she knew it.
So did he.
Patrick’s voice lowered to a gentle murmur. “Belle, don’t you know there isn’t a woman alive whose face is more beautiful to me than yours?”
“Patrick!” It came out on a croak. “What are you saying?”
“I think you know exactly what I’m saying.”
He narrowed the gap between them with three long strides, then slid one hand into hers and tugged her closer still. The temperature in the room shot up several degrees. “I’m saying, my dear Belinda Oberholtzer, that I’ve been attracted to you from the first time we met at your tacky little college radio station.”
“WASU was not tacky,” she protested faintly, “and don’t you dare tell a soul my real name.” Did he say beautiful? The word flashed across her mental landscape like a brightly lit movie marquee. He was kidding, of course, using salesman hyperbole to win her over.
Didn’t he realize he’d already won, long ago?
“Patrick, I …”
With a light touch of his finger on her lips, he stilled her words. “Shhh. Let me finish, Belle.”
He was toe to toe with her now. She gazed up into his eyes, wondering if he understood, as she finally did, that he was the main reason—maybe the only reason—she’d come to Abingdon.
“Belle, you’re in Abingdon because you’re the best person for the job. That’s the honest truth of it.”
Had he read her mind?
“But the rest of the honest truth is I’m grateful to have you in my life again.” He squeezed her hand, obviously struggling for the right words.
“Me, too.” Atta girl, Belle. Very bold.
“I’d … like to know if there could be something more between us.”
“More?” She was still croaking.
“A relationship. You know, a …” He shrugged, his pearly white grin surrounded by a neatly trimmed beard. “Look, are you busy Friday night?”
“Ah … no.” She giggled suddenly, feeling like a teenager and sounding pubescent. “No, I’m not busy.”
He looked immensely relieved. “Good. I’ll pick you up at six for dinner and a show at the Barter.”
“It’s a date.” A date? She hadn’t been on a date since the Bush administration. Would she remember what to do? What to say? What to wear? Would Norah expect her home by eleven? The whole thing was too weird.
Weird and wonderful.
Patrick sat back on the edge of his desk, still gently holding her hands, and let loose a hearty laugh. “Finally. After sitting on simmer for ten years, we get to turn the burner up a tad.”
“Only a tad.” She was doing her best to keep her boots firmly planted when they desperately wanted to do a joyful little jig. “You’re still my boss. It could get awkward around here.”
“Ahh.” He gazed at her, silent for several moments. “Technically, Burt is your immediate supervisor. But since he works for me, of course, you do as well. This calls for the utmost in propriety.”
“Utmost.” She nodded emphatically.
“We’ll take it slowly and talk over things every step of the way.”
“Slow is good.”
“Suppose we don’t mention this to anyone initially. At least until … well, until we know if …”
Belle nodded, her eyes locked with his. “Until we know if there’s something worth pursuing here, or if we’re only good friends after all.”
“Right.”
Except he wasn’t looking at her like a friend. She felt more like an icy lemonade on a steamy hot day.
“Well … um … good. Right.” She scrambled for a toehold on her emotions. “We should know where we stand by Monday morning, don’t you think?”
“Monday morning?” He was back on his feet, no longer looking thirsty. “I’ve waited eight years, and you’re giving me five days?”
“Five days is enough.” I’ll be lucky to keep it quiet five hours. “By the end of the weekend, we’ll know. Until then, mum’s the word, okay?”
“No problem, woman.” His eyes darkened slightly and his voice dropped another two notes. “I can win your heart in three days, if I have to.”
The man had an ego the size of Montana. It was one of the things she liked best about him.
“Now—” He drew her closer. “You can stop fretting over Heather the Young, okay?” He tipped his head down until their lips were a scant breath apart. “Why would I ever want a woman with golden hair when I can kiss one with golden eyes and a golden voice to match?”
As Patrick brushed his lips against hers, Belle waited for an electrical spark, something to send her tingling from her thick braid to her skinny toes.
Nothing yet.
She pressed her lips more firmly against his, convinced the two of them had simply made a bad connection, like a faulty phone line.
Still nothing.
Odd. His lips were moist, his kiss was insistent, his arms around her were snug and warm, but …
Nothing. No jolt, no spark, and not even a trace of a tingle.
Not to worry. They could practice Friday night, couldn’t they? At the moment, only one thought refused to be silenced: Norah is not going to like this.
Norah shook her head emphatically. “I don’t like it, B
elle, not one bit.”
“Why not?” Belle made the question sound innocent enough, though she’d seen it coming. They’d been unpacking boxes and rearranging furniture for three days. Norah had oohed and aahed over her few nice pieces of Carolina-crafted mission oak, collected with care over the last decade. They’d found a spot for almost every one of her meager furnishings, steering away from the one thing that was certain to tie Norah’s pantyhose in a knot.
That topic could no longer be avoided.
“This is all wrong for you.” Norah pointed in near disgust. “These spartan oak pieces are handsome in their simplicity, but then there’s this … this overcarved, underwhelming … er, what is it, anyway?”
No getting around it. “A hope chest.”
“Oh.” Norah pinched her lips together, but couldn’t keep the laugh from slipping out.
Belle sighed. “I know. It’s awful. My parents gave it to me when I graduated from high school.” She shrugged. “They were all the rage that year. Cedar-lined hope chests.”
Norah chuckled. “What were you … ah, hoping to put in it?”
Belle stuck out her tongue. “Orange-flowered pillow cases, of course. Green vinyl tablecloths, plastic fish napkin rings, that kind of thing.”
Humor came in handy when she had something to hide, and Belle had plenty worth hiding. She was proud of herself for keeping her budding relationship with Patrick an absolute secret, not once letting something slip with Norah or anyone else. Her landlady hadn’t asked and she hadn’t offered, but it was getting trickier. He was coming to pick her up for their big date in two hours, so she’d have to tell Norah something.
Just not everything.
Not the fact that she’d laughed more in the last three days than she had in the last three years. Nor that holding his hand, feeling his warmth, strength, and affection, had fed her soul more this week than food and water had fed her body in a month.
She’d stick to the safe side of truth: they were good friends.
Norah knelt by the battered chest that bore the scars of too many moves. “And here I’d pegged you as the pottery and baskets type.” She undid the latch, then looked up expectantly. “May I?”
At Belle’s nod, Norah lifted first the lid, then her eyebrows. “Oh my.” She touched a stack of antique linens with great care, smoothing her hands across them, barely brushing the intricate needlework. “These are exquisite.” Norah sighed. “You fibbed. Not a scrap of vinyl or plastic in sight.”
“My grandmother Oberholtzer’s wedding linens from Germany.” Belle leaned down to brush gentle fingers across the fabric. “Grandma insists I’ll marry a fine man someday and give her lots of great-grandchildren.” She shook her head. “Not doing too well on that score, am I?”
“It’s never too late.” Norah winked. “Don’t rule out marriage and children yet.”
Belle lifted her shoulders slightly to end the discussion, but it continued to skip through her heart. Could she imagine walking down the aisle on her father’s arm, gazing at Patrick waiting at the altar?
No, she could not. Too much, too soon, and too scary.
Norah gingerly tucked the linens back in place. “Want to catch a movie in Bristol tonight?”
“Ahh … I’d love to, but I have plans.” Belle felt a wave of apprehension move through her. She couldn’t explain it, but she definitely was hesitant to tell Norah about what was happening with Patrick.
Did she expect disapproval? A lecture about the obvious conflicts involved?
She stood, smoothing the wrinkles in her jeans as she planned her best approach. “Norah, I need you to keep a secret. Could you do that?”
Norah held up her hand, sending a wristful of slim silver bracelets jingling down her arm. “Discretion is my middle name.”
“I never doubted that for a minute.” And she didn’t. She’d known Norah less than a week and would trust the woman with anything near and dear to her heart. Including Patrick. Even so, the words wouldn’t come.
Belle bit her lip. “If you don’t mind, I could use some hot tea. Keep me company while I brew a pot, will you?”
Norah followed her into the long, narrow kitchen as Belle opened her new cabinets, enjoying the look of the tidy shelves displaying her familiar dishes and mugs. It wouldn’t stay neat for long, but it filled her with a welcome sense of order and purpose. There was the blue-and-white teapot, exactly where she’d put it last night. She gathered the strainer, a tea ball, and the fresh bag of loose sassafras tea she’d uncovered in Norah’s shop, and set water on to boil.
“So?” Norah regarded her, a hint of curiosity and something less definable playing on her features. “Do I get to hear your secret?”
“It involves a man, of course.”
“Of course. Someone new you’ve met or a voice from the past?”
Belle looked directly at her, not wanting to miss a nuance of her reaction. “The past. And the present.” She cleared her throat, fighting off a sense of dread. Why is this so difficult? “Norah, it’s Patrick.”
The woman’s black eyes widened and her customary smile vanished, but only for an instant before her features resumed their usual open expression. “I see.”
Did she imagine it or was Norah’s voice cooler than it had been a moment ago?
“A lot has happened since last Sunday night when you and I talked about this.”
“You mean when you decided … how was it you put it, ‘to let Patrick find the right woman for him’?” Norah folded her arms over her chest. “Clearly a great deal has taken place since then.”
Definitely cooler. Not quite angry, but not happy either.
“You’re upset, Norah.”
“Not in the least.”
The older woman’s words were calm, but Belle watched her fidgeting with the silver spoon ring on her left hand. Clearly there was something going on under the surface.
“I’m merely confused by your sudden change of heart.”
Belle couldn’t keep the smile off her face. “Patrick was the one who changed my heart.”
“Ah. I see.”
She sees something, all right. I just don’t know what.
I should have seen this coming.
Norah watched Belle pour the steaming hot tea, the fragrant aroma filling the little kitchen even as despair seemed to be filling her own heart. Tea and sympathy were what she needed, but Belle was in no position to offer the latter. Rather like a cat serving tea to a mouse before swallowing it whole.
Clearly her subterfuge had worked, perhaps too well. Belle was totally in the dark about her feelings for Patrick. No wonder. Those feelings were so ridiculously one-sided. Patrick had never once hinted at there being anything more than a solid friendship between them. He’d flirted with her, of course—didn’t most gregarious, good-looking men?—but never with intent and never inappropriately.
Where had she gotten the absurd idea that he might care for her, anyway? Had he so much as brushed her hand in passing, looked at her with anything beyond mild interest, called her any time other than when he needed something?
Norah turned abruptly, focusing her gaze on the view outside Belle’s third-floor window, rather than facing the truth that was tearing her heart in two. She could feel it separating, like fabric rending, not along a seam or a well-patched split, but a whole new tear, ripping top to bottom.
She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, willing away the awful aching in her chest—an aching so real that she imagined a surgeon’s scalpel had penetrated her most vital organ.
She’d spent fifteen years avoiding this kind of pain. How could she have opened herself up to it all over again? After all the seasons of hard-earned contentment, of learning to live alone and like it … after growing her business and her faith, her twin pillars of support. How could this bearded teddy bear have completely captured her heart without any effort on his part?
Frailty, thy name is woman!
Even Shakespeare offered no comfort this day.
Belle was carrying their tea into the living room, a room Norah had helped decorate. She wasn’t sorry, would never regret helping Belle. She was so needy, this girl-woman. Belle needed a friend, she needed to get her spiritual life on track—and she needed to settle down, internally at least, and gain a sense of worth based on something other than her ability to perform for others.
Frankly, Patrick—her Patrick—was the last thing Belle needed.
Which is not your job to point out.
Playing the part of the older, wiser woman had suddenly lost its appeal. She got the funniest lines, the most outrageous costumes, but she never got the man.
As she perched on one of Belle’s mission oak chairs, teacup in hand, Norah found herself wishing, just this once, she could read the part of the young ingenue, speaking the exact words Belle was saying now with breathless enthusiasm and looking for all the world as though she’d just bitten into a warm fudge brownie.
“Oh, Norah! Patrick is so … so mature. The kind of man you can really trust. Isn’t it something that we’ve known each other all this time, but nothing ever came of it until now?”
“Yes, that’s something.” Norah sipped her tea then nodded, her face unreadable.
Belle found herself bubbling on and on about Patrick. And so it went … Norah nodded; she bubbled. The teapot, hiding under its plaid cozy, grew lukewarm, then cold, and still she bubbled, unable to keep her joy to herself, needing an outlet, someone to listen.
Wasn’t it gracious of Norah to show so much interest when none of this could possibly matter to her one whit?
Belle glanced down at her watch and abruptly jumped to her feet, knocking the table with her knee, setting the teacups dancing in their china saucers. “Patrick will be here in an hour. You’re the clothes horse, Norah. Come take a look in my closet and help me pick something.”
Norah dutifully followed her into the bedroom, where a long wall closet stood open, jammed with clothes in every style and color. “What about this?” Norah pulled out a long-sleeved, brown wool dress with a high neck and a long hemline.
Mixed Signals Page 10
