Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Yet here he was now, in the softly lit sanctuary, for no good reason he could think of except maybe the sheer entertainment of watching Patrick squirm. The guy was so uncomfortable it was funny. David stole a glance down the pew, past Belle, then Norah, until he got a good look at Patrick seated next to her, dressed in his blue CEO suit. The man’s tie was knotted tight enough to choke a mule. One knee bounced up and down while his hands clutched a hymnal, eyes fixed straight ahead toward the poinsettia-covered altar.

  David smiled to himself. Relax, buddy. God doesn’t bite. Convict? Sure, when needed. Condemn? Only as a last resort, and then not with pleasure.

  I oughtta know.

  The burden of his many sins—and one in particular—had pressed down on his shoulders for so long the weight had come to feel natural. A penance for his stupidity. Sitting there, surrounded by memories, he felt his past mistakes hovering nearby in the pine-scented air, threatening to crush him again.

  I need you, Lord. Right here, right now.

  The lights in the sanctuary dimmed as the bell choir filed in, their white-gloved hands reaching for the brass instruments stretched across the draped table in front. Fidgety children hushed without a word as a swiftly rising silence swelled to the rafters, followed by the clear tones of the bells.

  O come, all ye faithful …

  The candles shimmered, their light diffused by the sudden tears that stung David’s eyes. He’d been down this road before and knew what to do to keep from making a fool of himself.

  Swallow. Blink. Cough.

  The solemn bells rang on as his heart sang the familiar carol. He longed to be counted among the faithful. Pastor Curt insisted he was. Every Bible verse he’d stumbled on assured him as well.

  But here in this place, where recollections were stirred like cold ashes, his spirit yearned for assurance from the one he’d wronged the most.

  The choir finished and glided toward their seats while Reverend Howard moved into the pulpit, his earnest face etched with holiday joy, his words filled with greetings. David liked Matthew, a man who managed to be enthusiastic about his faith without being phony. Maybe if Matthew had been at this church back then, things would have been different for Sherry, spiritually.

  Not that it was Sherry’s fault. Not hardly.

  What David had felt for Sherry Robison all those years ago was more about fleshly desires than spiritual ones, and he knew it. They’d both been eighteen, fresh out of high school. A summertime love for him, a walk on the wild side for her.

  She’d sworn him to secrecy; heaven forbid if her friends on the right side of the tracks had discovered them some moonlit night, sneaking through the woods and gravel roads that surrounded Abingdon. He was a Cahill, one who lurked along the fringes of nice society. His teachers had always insisted he was bright, exceptionally so. Though his standardized tests demonstrated it, his grades did not.

  The classic underachiever. No cash, no connections, no classy clothes, no car, no college plans.

  Sherry, the apple of her banker father’s eye, had all that and more. A petite pep squad veteran with curly brown hair and a hundred-watt smile, she had the respect of her hometown and David’s own adolescent admiration.

  Come August, when she’d informed him she was pregnant, he’d been secretly elated. Given a choice, she never would have married him; now she’d have to. But that wasn’t how Sherry saw it. She’d laughed, loud and long, uncontrollably, near hysteria. “Marry a Cahill?” There had been a look of genuine disgust on her freckled features. “You must be joking. The last thing I’d ever want to do is marry you!”

  They hadn’t spoken again after that night. When he’d heard she’d left town for points west, he’d screwed up his courage and rang her father’s doorbell, asking for her address, determined to send her money to support their child whether she asked for it or not.

  Mr. Robison hadn’t seen his effort as courageous or generous. He’d thrown David out on his ear with a small check jammed in his jeans pocket and veiled threats about what might happen if he didn’t get out of Abingdon fast and keep the sorry news of Sherry’s unwanted pregnancy and disappearance to himself.

  David didn’t tell a soul.

  Her friends were informed she’d left for college early.

  He’d ripped up her father’s check and left town, tracking down Sherry’s California address through a mutual acquaintance. When Joshua was born the following April, David started sending her money and a letter for his son every month. The money wasn’t enough to live on, he knew that, but it was enough to put food in his son’s mouth.

  And it was all he had to give. David lived on peanut butter until he couldn’t bear the smell of it, drank water instead of expensive canned sodas, kept his truck on the road with baling wire and duct tape. No matter how bad things got financially, through his tour of duty in the air force, then in college, his monthly check to Sherry was always the first one he wrote.

  His feelings for her were long gone, but his love for the son he’d never met had grown over the years—exponentially since he’d found forgiveness in Christ. The photo of Josh that Sherry had finally sent last month was sitting on his home computer, a daily reminder to pray for the pale boy with straight blond hair and ocean-colored eyes—a double for his father, David Cahill, two thousand miles away. And his grandfather, John Cahill, the Lord only knew where.

  David’s longing to see Josh was constant, but it was especially strong at Christmas. How had his son looked that first December as a baby nestled in his mother’s arms? As a toddler gazing at the lights on the tree? As a preschooler drawing candy canes? As a first-grader writing wish lists for Santa? Every year he carefully chose one present for Josh, hoping it was something he didn’t already own, something he’d enjoy. Something that would let him know he had a father who loved him.

  His melancholy thoughts were cut short by the sight of a dozen children—real, not imagined—shuffling up the center aisle dressed in their holiday best. In their small hands they carried chrismons for the enormous tree draped in twinkling lights, waiting for each oversized white-and-gold ornament to find a nesting place among its feathery branches.

  Belle nudged David with her elbow and leaned over to whisper, “Look at that little guy with the red suspenders. Who does he remind you of?” She rolled her eyes toward Patrick, her shoulders shaking in a quiet giggle.

  David gazed down at her and felt an odd tightening in his chest. She looked prettier than ever tonight, her eyes aglow in the candlelight, a soft white sweater framing her heart-shaped face, her full lips the color of holly berries. No jeans, either. Belle wore a black velvet skirt that fluttered around her knees in a graceful swirl, showing off the legs that were usually wrapped in denim.

  Face it, she’s all woman, from head to toe. But not your woman, Cahill. Keep your eyes on the tree and your hands to yourself.

  It didn’t make sense, this thing with Patrick and her. The two were still friends—good friends—but absolutely nothing else. He was sure there’d been more at some point, but apparently Reese had blown it.

  Bad for Patrick, but worse for him. He had enough challenges on his hands right now, trying to build an engineering career and rebuild a house, not to mention his Tuesday night studies with Curt. Belle was a distraction, pure and simple. Okay, a nice distraction. Very nice. She clearly wasn’t aware of how appealing she was, of the effect she had on him when his guard was down.

  Like it was every time he got near her.

  Like now.

  Help me stay on track here, Lord.

  She elbowed him again. Her perfectly tuned cello of a voice thrummed near his ear. “Matthew’s doing a nice job with those young children, don’t you think?”

  Matthew. There’s an idea. Maybe he’d drop a hint, get Matthew to ask Belle for a date, take her out of circulation.

  Oblivious to his discomfort, Belle pointed to a wide-eyed girl with curly blond locks. “And there’s Heather’s look-alike.” She leaned closer st
ill. “Aren’t these children adorable?”

  He hadn’t realized she was so fond of children. That’s good. The thought was automatic; then he shook his head. No, not good at all. He exhaled in noisy frustration. Just forget her, man.

  As the congregation rose to sing “O Come, O Come, Immanuel,” David made a subtle shift to the right, enough to buy a little breathing space between him and the long-haired beauty who was pressing her elbow in his ribs for the fourth time that evening. Lord, what am I gonna do about Belle?

  “Norah, what are we gonna do about Patrick?”

  Belle stretched her sleep-cramped legs, pointing her bare toes, relishing the freedom of enjoying breakfast in her favorite attire—scruffy clothes and no shoes. She stood and padded toward the window of the Silver Spoon, coffee mug in hand, pleased to be Norah’s first customer of the day, arriving downstairs well before the doors opened at seven.

  Morning after morning, in the cozy confines of the shop, their friendship had begun quilting itself together with tiny, intricate stitches. While Norah pulled muffins out of the oven, Belle spread fresh linens on the tables. And talked. And listened. Their relationship fell somewhere between sisters and friends, with a dash of mother-daughter dynamics thrown in for good measure. Belle hadn’t been this comfortable around another woman since her dorm days. When she thought of Norah, a prayer of thanksgiving wasn’t far behind.

  Brushing the lace curtain aside, Belle stared out at the dark, shivery-cold morning. If Norah didn’t want to talk about Patrick, she wouldn’t push it. “Looks like snow.” She peered at the thick clouds, bunched up and heavy, filling every inch of the predawn sky. “Do you usually have a white Christmas in Abingdon?”

  “Some years.” Norah’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Are you going home for the holidays?”

  “No.” She let the curtain drop back with a sigh. “I’d love to, but somebody’s gotta work Christmas Day. That’s the thing about radio. It’s a twenty-four-seven situation. Patrick has hired three part-timers for the weekends, but everybody’s pulling their regular shift on Christmas.”

  “What a shame.” Norah joined her, brandishing a fresh pot of coffee. “Could your parents come up here for dinner Christmas night? I have a spare bedroom, and you know I love any excuse to cook a big meal.”

  “Norah, would you really do that?” Belle threw her arms around her, nearly sloshing coffee on the woman’s silk jacket. “Bless you for offering. Yes, yes! I’ll call them later today and put it in motion. They’ll be tickled silly. I’ve missed every Christmas at home since college.”

  Norah smiled, smoothing Belle’s braid with a gentle pat. Almost as an afterthought, she murmured, “Is … ah, Patrick going home for Christmas?”

  So she does want to talk about Patrick. Belle pressed her lips together, not wanting to let a grin grow there and embarrass Norah. She’d been waiting for this ever since Advent Sunday. Norah and Patrick had laughed together at dinner, sat together at church, lingered together at the door later that evening while she and David had a playfully heated discussion about the best new movie for the holidays.

  Patrick never mentioned Norah at work.

  Norah never mentioned Patrick at home.

  It couldn’t be anything but love.

  And it couldn’t be any more perfect. Why hadn’t Belle seen that from the start? She wouldn’t push, she wouldn’t pull, but Belle intended to cheer from the sidelines at every skirmish, every victory.

  Norah and Patrick were, after all, complete opposites. It was a match made in heaven, and the Lord was hot on Patrick’s heels. The sooner he discovered that, the better. Norah was clearly more aware of the way the wind was blowing than Patrick was, but she seemed reluctant to bring their budding romance out in the open.

  Belle had tried, in as many ways as possible, to throw them together. Maybe another not-so-subtle hint needed to be dropped right now. “You know, Norah, I don’t ever remember Patrick going home to St. Louis for the holidays. His parents are gone, his older brother lives in Oregon, so I’m almost certain he’ll be staying here in Abingdon. What say we include him in our Christmas dinner?”

  “There’s a thought.” Norah flipped the sign in the window to Open. “Let’s set a place for David, too, shall we?”

  “David?” Belle scrunched up her face, genuinely perplexed. On Christmas, with her parents here? Wouldn’t they make assumptions? “Ah … maybe not. Hate to give somebody the wrong impression.”

  “Oh? Like who?” Norah folded her arms over her chest, the sleeves of her red and green silk jacket gathered in generous folds around her narrow wrists. Her earrings, a cluster of tiny jingle bells, tinkled ever so slightly though she wasn’t moving an inch.

  The cheeky woman is chuckling!

  “David would get the wrong impression, of course.” Belle heard the insistence in her voice and wondered if it sounded more like denial. “Or my parents would.” Irritated, she tossed her hands in the air. “Well, somebody would! Anyway, you know my new rule: I will never date a man I work with again. Never. Period, end of discussion.”

  “Really?”

  She hated when Norah said really. It meant she didn’t believe her for a minute.

  “Never is a long time, Belle.”

  Belle plunked her coffee cup in the kitchen sink, brushing her hands as if to dismiss not only a few muffin crumbs, but the entire conversation as well. “When never ends, give me a call and I’ll invite David over for Christmas dinner. Until then, let’s stick with convincing Patrick to make an appearance. A promise of food should do it.”

  A jingle of bells heralded Norah’s first legitimate customer of the morning. In good shopkeeper fashion, she headed toward the front, wiping her hands on a linen towel. Belle yawned and scratched her head, shaking her long, loose hair around her like a curtain, as she moved toward the back staircase. “Time for me to head up to my place and shower. See ya later.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  The male voice behind her stopped her in midstretch.

  Not him. Not here. Not now.

  thirteen

  It’s never too late—in fiction or in life—to revise.

  NANCY THAYER

  THERE STOOD DAVID, FILLING the kitchen doorway, bulky navy parka buttoned to the chin, ever-present toolbox in hand. His eyes regarded her with undisguised amusement.

  “Norah asked me to stop by on the way to work and see if I could fix her dishwasher.” A smile worked its way across his features. “Said it’s been giving her fits.”

  There stood Belle, one foot on the bottom step, her skin warm with embarrassment from her disheveled head to her brazen bare toes. She was dressed—barely—in an ancient T-shirt and gray sweatpants. Every trace of makeup had been tissued off the night before. “If—if I’d known you were coming—” she felt her traitorous face color further—“I’d have made an effort to be dressed by now.”

  His eyes twinkled merrily as his smile broadened. “What, and have me miss seeing you in … what’s the French word? Dishabille?”

  “I … I wouldn’t know.” She moved up another step, surprised to find her legs shaking. “I took Latin.”

  “Ah. Tempus fugit, especially in the morning.” He stepped toward her, stretching out his hand to lightly touch the ends of her hair.

  She couldn’t blame him. It was sticking out in all directions, including his. But she wasn’t prepared for the reaction. The second his fingers connected, something resembling an electrical impulse traveled up to her roots and singed her scalp.

  His voice softened, thickened. “You should wear your hair down more often, Belle.”

  She gulped. “And risk getting it all wrapped around your precious, scratch-and-dent equipment?” She aimed for a breezy, bantering tone, hoping he’d ignore her obvious embarrassment. He was close enough for her to catch a whiff of soap and some muted, aromatic aftershave. Close enough to sense his warmth, pouring right through his parka.

  David’s gaze moved to her bare toes c
urled around the edge of the step.

  Oh, please. Bad enough he’d found her wild-haired and makeup-free, but no shoes? She’d always been a boots-or-nothing kind of woman. Which had never mattered …

  Until now.

  She folded one foot over the other, as if five bright red toes were less offensive than ten. “Sorry to be so casual, David.”

  He shrugged, his eyes meeting hers. “You’re home. Why shouldn’t you be relaxed? Besides, I like a woman barefoot.”

  She tossed her hair with a sassy shake. “And pregnant, too, I suppose?”

  The color drained from his face.

  “Ah … sorry, David. I didn’t mean … well, that was … tacky.” She exhaled noisily, as much to dislodge her foot from her mouth as to bring her emotions under control. Not to mention her tongue. Where do I come up with this stuff, anyway? She’d merely been bedeviling him as usual, hadn’t meant a thing by it, yet his expression suggested she’d hit a nerve. Or offended his sensibilities. Something.

  She inched up two more steps. “Well, I’m headed off to get ready for work. See you there, I guess.” Turning, she ran up the narrow back staircase to Norah’s apartment, then darted through her own open door and up to the third floor. Her heart was pounding, and not from exertion or her foolish comment.

  David Cahill unnerved her, plain and simple.

  She’d almost convinced herself that he was merely a coworker, a friend, someone whose company she found enjoyable. But a coworker couldn’t send her heart spinning. A friend wouldn’t make her blush and blunder her way through a conversation. And David’s company was more than enjoyable. It was … it was …

  Impossible. She grabbed her bath towel and headed for the clawfoot tub, determined to wash away any notion of something developing with David. She’d already made a fool of herself with one near-romance at WPER. It would be a rainy day in paradise before she let it happen again.

  Belle can’t possibly know.

  David kept telling himself that as he fretted over the pieces of Norah’s dishwasher spread across her kitchen floor. No way she could know about Sherry. He hadn’t so much as hinted at his past to Belle, hadn’t shared his sordid story with a soul, not even Pastor Curt. Relax. Belle was only being her normal wisecracking self. The thought comforted him in some ways, disturbed him in others.