“Good grief, that’s a look-but-don’t touch outfit if I ever saw one.”
Norah simply smiled, then chose another: a pantsuit with a masculine cut.
Ugh. “Worse. Strictly interview apparel. We’re talking dinner and a play here, remember?” She pulled out a slim turquoise dress in a form-fitting knit. “This might work. What do you think?”
Norah sleeked one manicured hand over the fabric. “It’ll work, all right.” She sighed. “In fact, I have a handmade turquoise and sterling silver necklace from Santa Fe that will knock his socks off.”
Belle hugged her and laughed. “His socks can stay right where they are, thank you, but I’d love to borrow your jewelry if you’re sure that’s okay. I’ll jump in the shower, then stop by your place on my way out.” She caught the woman’s eye and held it for a beat longer than necessary. “I can’t thank you enough, Norah. For putting your touch on this apartment, for listening while I went on and on about Patrick, for offering to accessorize me in something so priceless. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Yes, there is.” Norah’s face was tight and drawn, which sent a ripple of discomfort skipping down Belle’s spine. Yet another odd sensation in an afternoon that had been full of them.
Norah’s voice was so soft Belle had to strain to hear her. “Be good to him, Belle. Underneath all that bravado is the heart of a little boy who needs to know he’s loved.”
“I will.” If only Norah knew how much the girl inside me needs to know the same thing.
nine
When you see a couple coming down the street,
the one who is two or three steps ahead is the one that’s mad.
HELEN ROWLAND
PATRICK WAS LATE, OF COURSE.
When the Blue Boat came roaring up to the curb at 6:15, Belle was standing in Norah’s living room, too tense to sit. She peered out the window, safely hidden by a generous swag of European lace draped in measured folds around the long, narrow opening.
Patrick was wearing his dark gray suit again, the one he’d worn on Tuesday. The one she’d complimented him on, she thought with a shiver of pleasure.
He glanced at his watch, then took the steep wooden steps two at a time. She backed away from the window, nervously smoothing her dress—as if a knit knew how to wrinkle—and did a final once-over in Norah’s hall mirror, a gilded monstrosity that stretched from the floor to the twelve-foot ceiling.
She’d chosen the right dress. Norah’s exquisite necklace looked custom-made for it, falling below her collar bones in a graceful circle that helped her pointy chin appear a bit less lethal. Turquoise earrings, also mined from Norah’s extensive collection, dangled from each lobe. She’d wrapped her braid up in a French knot—also Norah’s idea—and confessed that yes, it did give her a more sophisticated look.
When the doorbell for her apartment rang directly above her, Belle practically jumped out of her jewelry. “I’ll answer that,” Norah murmured from behind her, swinging open the door and apparently catching Patrick off guard.
“Norah!” Belle heard him say. “I was … I mean … expecting Belle.”
“And she’s right here, where she’s been waiting for the last fifteen minutes.” Norah did not sound pleased. “See that you’re more prompt next time, sir. The women of this household deserve better.”
With that, Norah swung the door open more fully and Patrick stepped inside, looking for all the world like a chastised Little Leaguer.
Do not laugh, Belle. Resist the urge.
When his eyes met hers, she watched his demeanor shift from awkward suitor to savvy executive in mere seconds. As his gaze swept over her from head to toe, yet another expression moved across his face, one that had nothing to do with WPER and everything to do with the evening ahead.
He whistled, loudly.
She blushed, thoroughly.
Since when was Patrick the whistling type?
“Have fun, you two.” Norah practically purred as she stood there, stroking a contented Harry draped over her shoulder. The woman seemed to enjoy her self-appointed role of housemother. Belle didn’t mind one bit. Having Norah there calmed her jangling nerves and buoyed her confidence for the hours ahead.
Not much had happened in the first three of their five-day experimental relationship. They’d shared one innocent kiss—a fairly forgettable one, actually—several furtive hand-holdings in the hall when no one was looking, and mutual anticipation about their Friday night date.
So much for waiting. The date had officially begun. If he kissed her again, she hoped it would be more like fireworks and less like a damp pack of matches.
Patrick made a big show of offering her his arm, jutting his elbow out for her to slip her hand through. It felt good there, pressed against his muscular chest. With her free hand, she waved good-bye to Norah and they stepped out into the chilly November air. She could see her breath coming out in steamy huffs as they walked in tandem down the steps.
Patrick didn’t say a word, merely patted her hand. She felt more like a daughter on her father’s arm, en route to her debutante ball, than a grown woman being escorted to dinner and the theater by a new beau. Nonetheless, she had a sense of security and being cared for, two emotions that hadn’t visited her anytime recently.
When they reached the curb, she did a double take. “Patrick, you’ve given the Blue Boat a bath!”
“True confession: I did spend some time at the Buggy Bath Car Wash today. Didn’t want you to brush against the Caddy and ruin your dress with dirt from two decades ago.”
“Very considerate.” She slid onto the upholstered seats, which had suffered years of abuse at Patrick’s careless hand. These, too, had been cleaned, she noticed. In fact, the whole interior was neat as a pin—no roadkill radios in the backseat, no fast food bags balled up on the floor. Hmm. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to impress her.
It had worked.
Once Patrick was behind the wheel and navigating the Cadillac east on Main, Belle asked the obvious. “Where are we having dinner?”
He took his eyes off the road long enough to wink at her. “You trust me, don’t you? Abingdon’s oldest building happens to have one of its best restaurants.”
She prepared herself for a spate of tour guide patter.
“Since 1779, the Tavern has been everything from a stagecoach inn to a field hospital during the Civil War to Abingdon’s first post office. The original mail slot is still there.”
Belle elbowed his ribs. “Yes, but … how’s the food?”
“Tell me what you think when dessert is served.”
Half a block past the radio station, he pulled up to the curb, filling almost two parking spaces, and directed her to an unassuming gray stucco building with an American flag flying out front. One foot inside the door, Belle was immersed in its historic past. Low, dark-beamed ceilings, brick floors, whitewashed walls, and painted blue wood trim, all spoke of centuries gone by. So did candles, resting in the deep windowsills and mounted in tin sconces along the walls. Cherry Windsor chairs gathered around harvest tables, and crackling fires burned in the grates.
“I like it already.” Whispering seemed appropriate as she followed him up a narrow, enclosed staircase to the second floor where they were directed to a cozy corner table set for two.
“My pleasure to serve you, Mr. Reese.” Their waitress’s accent marked her as a Virginia Highlands native. Her uniform was in keeping with the decor, from the white, lace-edged mob cap to her long, full gingham skirt. She took their orders quickly and soon reappeared with their appetizers, portobello mushrooms with feta cheese.
They grinned at one another, took a bite, and grinned some more. Their conversation, stilted at first, hit stride when they landed on safe topics: work-related ones. Community feedback about WPER carried them through the spinach salad. French bread was served with an update on Cliff’s success on the sales front. An in-depth review of Heather’s progress accompanied the broiled seafood entrées. Dessert, a
scrumptious apple tart with cinnamon ice cream, was dished up with a discussion about their upcoming “Happy Together” promotion.
Patrick regarded her over the rim of his coffee cup, his expression suddenly rueful. “Forgive me, Belle.” He signaled for the check, then reached across the small table and captured both her hands. “I’ve been going on and on about the station, when tonight was finally our chance to talk about …”
“You and me.” Finally, he noticed.
“Right.” Patrick massaged her palms with the pads of his thumbs. His face reflected a tenderness she’d never seen before, and it both thrilled her to her fingertips and scared her silly.
“You look wonderful tonight.” His voice was a soothing rumble.
“Thank you.” She didn’t know how else to respond, so amazed was she to be sharing dinner with a man she’d admired—no, more than that—a man she’d been enamored with for a third of her life. “To think, after all these years, Patrick …” She looked into a pair of hazel eyes surrounded by laugh lines and filled with intelligence.
“Incredible.” His smile broadened. “Of course, we could have been having dinner like this eight years ago if you hadn’t run away from me to work at WRVQ.”
Heat flew up her neck and face. “Run away? Don’t tell me you knew.”
“Knew what?” He looked confused.
“Knew that I had a bona fide, post-teenage, downright serious crush on you.”
“Belle, I had no idea!” His startled expression confirmed it. “Are you sure? I mean … why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you? You must be joking.” It felt good to laugh and chase away her chagrin at having to admit such a goofy thing. “I would’ve been mortified if you’d found out. Too embarrassing. One of the inevitabilities of the business, I guess, is falling for your first boss, the one who gave you your big break.” She laughed again. “I’m surprised you didn’t figure that one out for yourself.”
The waitress appeared with the check, which Patrick signed with a flourish and handed back to her. If his mottled blush was any sort of barometer, he was grateful for the momentary distraction.
Belle watched the girl hurry away and shook her head in amusement. “Let me guess. This is another WPER trade account.”
“You got it.” Every tooth he owned appeared to be on display. He slipped five dollars under his dessert plate. “That’s the only money I’ll need to spend tonight. We can leave the car at Norah’s and save money on parking, too, since the Barter Theatre’s right up the street.”
She groaned. “I suppose you traded the tickets to the Barter as well.” Belle didn’t know whether to applaud his frugal efforts or stick his five-dollar bill in the candle flame and watch a grown man cry.
“Better than a trade, Belle.” He was obviously pleased with himself. “They gave me complimentary tickets when I told them we might like to sponsor a show this winter. How ’bout that?”
“That’s my man. Patrick Scrooge.”
He looked crestfallen. “Am I really a miser?”
“Yes.” She softened the confirmation with a grin. “It’s one of the many things that make you what you are.”
“Cheap?”
“Lovable.”
With one word, everything around them changed. The clatter of dishes and animated conversations became a distant din as their eyes and ears strained toward one another.
“Belle, if I’d only known you felt that way in Kingsport …” His eyes searched hers. What he was looking for she could only imagine. “If I’d known, I’d have never let you go.”
She pulled back, perplexed. “Because I had a crush on you?”
“No. Because I was in love with you.”
Her heart went in two directions at once, plunging toward her stomach and catching in her throat. “In love with me? Patrick, you never gave me the slightest clue—”
“Of course I didn’t.” He released her hands, tossing his own up in a gesture of distress. “You were my employee, Belle—”
She cut him off with a small cry of distress. “Isn’t that what I am now?”
“But this is different. We’re more mature and we know what we’re getting into this time.”
“Maybe you know.” She stared at the ceiling, her hand over her mouth as she tried to nail down her scattered thoughts and emotions. She was so amazed she couldn’t breathe, so shocked she couldn’t think, so sorry they’d wasted eight years that she didn’t know what to say next.
He solved that dilemma for her. “Belle, I spent two years in Kingsport convincing myself that I was all wrong for you. Too old, too happy being single, too wrapped up in radio.”
Tears tickled her eyes and throat. Her voice was pinched. “Couldn’t you have given me a chance to vote on whether or not you were right for me?”
“No.” He shook his head for emphasis. “You were young, incredibly talented, and had a bright future ahead of you. I needed … well, I had to get out of the way so you could keep your career on track.”
“How convenient for you that WRVQ came along and made me such a good offer then, eh?” She managed a faint smile, holding the tears at bay a little longer.
His eyes bore into hers for a full minute. What is he looking for? Is there something I’m supposed to say? feel? do?
“Belle, it wasn’t a coincidence that WRVQ contacted you.”
Her stomach dipped again, this time for a very different reason. Her lips seemed to take forever to move. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that I sent them a demo tape of your show and a copy of your résumé.”
“You did what?” He couldn’t have. Not Patrick. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
His pained expression told her the awful truth. “I sent it anonymously, knowing they’d hear your talent and hire you and—”
“Patrick!” She stood up, oblivious to her surroundings until the chatter around them ceased and she realized every eye in the small dining room was on her. She sank back in her seat and dropped her head in her hands, unable to keep the tears from flowing full force.
It was all she could do to form the words. “Patrick, how could you?”
“I had to.” He reached for her hands, but she snatched them back, plastering them to her head, her face parallel with the table. He pressed on, his tone insistent. “For your sake, I had to let you go. If you’d stayed another month, I’d have begged you to marry me, bringing your career to a grinding halt.”
A spark of anger fired in her chest and she lifted her head, glowering at him through tear-drenched eyes. “Wasn’t that my decision to make? It was, as you pointed out, my career that was at stake.” And my heart. “By not telling me how you felt, by not letting me decide where I’d work next, or if I wanted to leave Kingsport …”
She was sputtering now. “I hope you enjoyed playing God, Patrick. Deciding my future for me. Purposely cutting yourself out of it when that would have been … would have been the best news …”
She slumped in a heap on the table. Her breathing came in anguished gulps as tears streamed down her face. How dare he! It was all she could think of, not trusting herself to say it out loud, knowing if she did it would be at the top of her lungs.
“Belle, you have to believe me. I did this for you.” The sincerity in his voice merely fueled her outrage.
Grabbing her coat and purse she stood, not risking so much as a glance in his direction, and bolted for the stairwell. She heard his chair scrape behind her, heard him call her name. She hung onto the railing for dear life, fearing in her rush to get away she’d tumble headfirst down the steep, well-worn steps.
“Belle, wait!”
His heavier footsteps behind her spurred her forward, through the reception area and out the door into the dark, misty night. She paused only long enough to shove her arms into her green coat, but by then Patrick was behind her, reaching for her.
His grip on her arm was less than gentle as he swung her around. His words were tinged with anger. “Bell
e, give me a chance!”
She was gasping for air as she struggled to speak. “A chance to do what? Lie to me again?” The traffic on Main Street gave her all the permission she needed to shout. “How dare you, Patrick! How dare you? I trusted you. In my own naive way, I loved you.”
“And I loved you, Belle. I still do. Don’t you see, I wanted you to have … to have …”
A possibility dawned on her all at once, like the first streak of sunlight penetrating a gray morning sky. “Of course. You wanted me to have something that you knew you’d never have. A shot at my own show in a major market. Is that it? A vicarious thrill for you, another feather in your manager’s cap?”
“No, Belle, that’s not true!”
Don’t lie to me.
It was worse than she’d imagined. He’d loved her but never told her. He’d sent her away but never told her why. He’d hired her again, knowing all that but revealing nothing. He’d manipulated her career, her heart, her life, all for his own satisfaction.
She shook off his grip on her arm and buttoned her coat with exaggerated motions, her rage and frustration making her hands shake. She could feel her once-tidy hair spilling down her back, scattering pins everywhere. How different things had been when she’d tucked them into place only two hours earlier. Now her eyes were trained on his, ignoring the pleading she saw there. “You are singularly the most selfish person I have ever known, Patrick Reese. You brought me to this station under false pretenses—”
“No!” He didn’t seem angry so much as desperate. “I brought you here because you were the best person for the job and—”
“If you say that one more time I’m going to throw up!”
“Belle, it’s the truth. I swear to you.”
“The truth?” She snorted. “What would you know about the truth?” She managed the last button on her coat and stepped back to take in a deep breath. “I think we can safely say our relationship is over. It was a charming three days while it lasted. Too bad I didn’t know it was built on a foundation of lies.”
Patrick loomed over her, a thundercloud of a man, his eyes piercing hers, his face wearing so many conflicting emotions she couldn’t begin to sort them through.
Mixed Signals Page 11
