Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  His response was more shrug than nod, but she plunged forward. “The best gift you could give me is your trust. Trust me, David. Tell me why you’ve often felt left out.”

  Left out. Pretty good assessment on her part. Shut out. Pushed out. Those fit, too. Can I trust this woman, Lord? You know I need to talk to someone, to share this burden before it utterly crushes me. How much do I tell her?

  The answer was loud and decidedly clear. All of it.

  He shifted his body to look at her more directly. “Belle, how much do you know about me?”

  She seemed surprised at the question, but after a moment she splayed the fingers of her left hand to tick off the facts. “Born and raised in Abingdon. Air force for four years. Virginia Tech for another four. WPER for a first radio gig. Remodeling a house. Single, never married.” Her bright eyes lifted in anticipation. “Is there something I missed?”

  “Not intentionally.” He felt his empty stomach tightening, tying itself in a knot. No one in Abingdon knew except Sherry’s parents. No one. They’d kept the secret of Sherry’s pregnancy to themselves for nine years. Even Josh might not know the whole story. Why do I feel compelled to share it now? Was it sympathy he wanted? Compassion? Understanding?

  No.

  Forgiveness.

  That’s what he needed most.

  He knew the Lord had forgiven him. Said so right in the Bible. If a man honestly confessed his sins, God faithfully forgave him. Cleansed him, too.

  It was other people he worried about. Could they forgive him? Not only about his son’s conception at the start, but how he’d handled things since then. Should he have followed Sherry to California? Insisted they marry? Dragged her back to Virginia? Sent more money? He’d volunteered to do all of the above and more over the years. Sherry had rejected every offer. Said Josh didn’t need a man like him for a daddy. That she didn’t need him for a husband.

  Didn’t need his money, either.

  She’d kept the money, though. Cashed every check the day it arrived.

  He wrote long letters to Josh, month in and month out. Sherry wrote him back maybe three times a year. He’d never heard Josh’s voice, never looked in his eyes, never hugged his own son. It was hard not to be bitter. Not to hate Sherry for calling all the shots.

  Then again, he knew it had to be hard for her. A single mother, thousands of miles from her support system. Not that her family had ever been supportive. Her friends had left town, off to colleges and careers and husbands of their own while Sherry Robison kept her secret to herself. She’d always been a free thinker. Independent. She’d have fled Abingdon for one reason or another eventually. He’d simply provided her with the best reason of all.

  He brought his thoughts back to the present, to the woman curled up in the front seat of his truck, her thick braid draped over her shoulder, eyeing him, expectant. She doesn’t expect this, I’ll bet. But she deserved the truth.

  Breathing out a silent prayer, he plunged in. “Belle, there’s one thing you don’t know about me, about my past, that will probably surprise you.”

  She flashed a set of sparkling white teeth. “I love surprises!”

  He winced. “Wrong word. It’ll probably shock you.”

  “Oh.”

  “You were right, Belle, I never married.” His eyes searched hers, anticipating her response. “But I should have.”

  No reaction. Yet. Merely a question. “Were you in love with her?”

  “Love? Who knows. We were eighteen. A couple of rebels. Sherry liked rubbing her daddy’s face in it. Me, I liked … well, I liked … her.” No backing out now.

  “Oh.” Belle’s voice was softer. He was relieved that she looked neither curious nor disgusted. Yet.

  Hands clammy, his mouth drier than Tucson in August, he licked his lips, stalling. C’mon, Belle. Let me have it. Tell me I’m a jerk, a skirt-chaser, something. When her face remained calm, he snapped under the pressure and blurted out, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I think so.” She tipped her chin up, as if preparing for a blow. “Were you … intimate with her, David?”

  Yeah, she understood. He exhaled, relieved to have admitted that much. She didn’t look shocked, not really. He’d expected disapproval or disappointment, but didn’t see that either. Nor judgment. Yet.

  Maybe she’d given in to temptation herself once. Had a wild youth. Doesn’t seem likely, but who knows? Maybe because it happened long before he turned his life over to God, maybe that gave Belle the ability to accept and forgive him for his … indiscretion.

  Sin, man. It was sin, nothing else but.

  He realized Belle’s accepting spirit might vanish when she heard the rest of it, and braced himself for the worst. “There’s more to it. We have … a son. Joshua. He’s eight.”

  “A son?” Clearly she wasn’t ready for that one. “Where … ?” Her mouth opened and closed. So did her wide amber eyes. If she was trying to look blasé about his announcement, it wasn’t working.

  Surely the last few details would be easier on both of them.

  “He lives in Sacramento with his mother. I haven’t seen her since … well, since.” She doesn’t need to know about the money. Or the letters. Enough is enough.

  “You mean you’ve never laid eyes on your own son?” Now she did look shocked. Her eyes snapped in anger. “What kind of woman would do such a thing?”

  David shrugged. He wasn’t about to defend Sherry’s disappearing act, though he knew the crux of it. “She was ashamed, Belle.”

  “Of what she’d done? Of being pregnant?”

  The memory rose up inside him anew and the bitter taste of bile crept along the back of his throat. “She was ashamed to admit I was the father. Because I’m a Cahill.”

  Belle leaned back, pressing against the passenger door, as if trying to get a better look at the big picture. “Why? What’s wrong with being a Cahill?”

  “In Abingdon, Virginia, everything.” Maybe the rest wouldn’t be so easy after all. David ran his hands through his hair, shoving back his wayward bangs in frustration, sensing a prodding he couldn’t ignore, much as he desperately wanted to.

  Tell her all of it.

  He squared his shoulders and forced his voice to sound matter-of-fact, as if the truth didn’t still rip his heart in two. “We were poor. The poorest in town. My father was a drunkard, my mother wasn’t far behind him. He was the best carpenter for miles around but couldn’t keep a job. So, we lived in shacks on the wrong side of the tracks. Moved around. Scraped by on handouts and hand-me-downs.”

  Belle’s face was the picture of dismay. And mercy. “David, I’m truly sorry.” She meant it. Empathy rolled off her in waves, filling the air as distinctly as her perfume. It seemed to take her a long time to speak again. When the words came, he heard the tears that lingered just behind them. “What a sad way to grow up. You’ve done so much when life gave you so little to start with.”

  She hadn’t moved, yet her entire body strained toward him in sympathy. From out of nowhere, he thought of kissing her, just once, just to thank her. A foolish idea he sent back to nowhere and fast.

  When his conscience jabbed him again, he released a noisy sigh. “Might as well tell you the rest of it.” Which he did. The money he sent, the letters he wrote, the frustration of knowing his son existed yet not knowing him at all.

  “How terrible for you.” She nodded slowly. “What I really want to know is, what sort of relationship do you and Sherry have now? Not that it’s any of my business, of course.”

  “Our relationship ended nine years ago. Completely.”

  The look of relief on Belle’s face almost took his breath away. Maybe his feelings for her weren’t so one-sided after all.

  “Sherry and I have nothing in common but Josh. Someday, when he’s ready, I hope he’ll come find me so we can make up for lost time.” He shrugged, fighting the sense of helplessness that always settled in when he thought about his son. “It’s hardly an ideal sit
uation, but I manage.”

  There was one more truth he wanted her to understand. “Christmas is the hardest day of the year for me.” The pain of it hit him anew, aching like a partially healed wound split open again by a careless blow. He fought to keep his voice steady. “I think about Josh more than usual, wonder if he’s having a better holiday than I did growing up. We never had presents or decorations or turkey on the table.” He tipped his head, sizing up her reaction, warmed by the compassion he saw in her eyes. “I guess that’s why today was so important to me.”

  “No wonder.” Her words were gentle as a mother’s caress. “Will you forgive me for almost ruining Christmas for you?”

  Before he could respond, Belle let out a sudden cry of dismay. “We gotta go!” She started fumbling with the door handle, a look of distress flashing across her features. “Norah has been waiting twenty long minutes to find out if she’s feeding five or six of us! Not to mention trying to keep the food hot.” Belle shoved the door open with her shoulder and gave him an impish wink. “Let’s get our story straight. I’m telling Norah you put up a struggle, okay? Fought me every inch of the way.”

  He stretched out his hand to grasp hers. “It was a struggle, all right. But not about dinner.”

  Belle squeezed his hand and an electrical impulse shot straight to his heart. “Thank you for trusting me, David. I can’t imagine what it took for you to tell me about Sherry. And Josh.”

  He had to know. “So I’m forgiven?”

  “Forgiven? By me?” She squeezed his hand again. “Of course. Your past is just that—passed. God is the only one whose forgiveness is a must-have, and you’ve already found that, right?”

  “Right.” He smiled at her, really smiled, for the first time since that gut-wrenching moment Norah opened her front door. Relief flooded his soul, a dam breaking loose, spilling over, flowing like a river of living water.

  Forgiveness. He felt it, he knew it.

  When Belle slid out of the truck, he followed suit, pushing open his own door and dropping to the icy ground. The snow was falling faster, the flakes thicker, mingling with the gold stars on Belle’s holiday sweater as she inched her way across the slippery bricks. Without warning, she lost her footing, waving her arms in vain, grasping at air.

  “Daaa-vid!”

  He lunged forward, catching her shoulders seconds before she hit the icy walk. How light she felt in his hands. “Easy does it.” He was acutely aware of her embarrassment, eager to relieve it. She let out a nervous laugh while he righted her and brushed the snow off her shoulders, secretly grateful for the chance to touch her, if only for an instant.

  “Sorry.” She was clearly chagrined. “I never was good at ice-skating.”

  “No problem.” He released her quickly, reluctantly. The tinkling of bells in his pocket jogged his memory. “Belle, I have something for you.” He fished the small, square box out of his pocket.

  Next to the gift she’d just presented to him, this was nothing. Less than nothing, but it was the best he had to offer.

  “Here. Open it.”

  She looked at the gaily wrapped package then at him in obvious astonishment. “David, you shouldn’t have! I didn’t … I …”

  He shook his head. “No apologies. You’ve given me more than you’ll ever know. Open it. Please.”

  Like a child, she shook it first, giggling in delight. “Bells! Is that it?”

  Watching her tear open the paper, her small hands trembling with excitement, he decided on the spot that Belle’s anticipation was worth every penny he’d spent.

  She lifted the lid and gasped. “Is it a bracelet? Ah, a necklace! David, it’s beautiful.”

  So are you.

  He couldn’t bring himself to say it. Not now. Not yet. She held up the jewelry, admiring it, the discarded box forgotten in the snow at her feet. Nice as it was, David knew the necklace was a tarnished bit of metal next to its new owner. Her smile far eclipsed the golden gleam of the tiny bells.

  “Will you put it on for me?” She blushed slightly, avoiding his eyes. “I never can get these clasps.”

  David gulped. “Sure.” His hands were steadier than he expected, until he realized the scene before him was unfolding exactly as he’d imagined it earlier that day. An overwhelming feeling of déjà vu drowned him in sensations, as every nerve ending awakened to attention.

  There was Belle, turning her back toward him, lifting her heavy braid with both hands, elbows out, creating a graceful dancer’s silhouette. Yes, there was the heady whiff of perfume, the wispy tendrils of auburn hair curling along the nape of her neck, the warmth of her body fanning out in steady, invisible waves.

  His heart pressed against his chest, pounding out a rhythmic drumbeat, making him feel lightheaded, euphoric. Time slowed to a languid pace. The freezing winds swirling around them were forgotten. He toyed for a moment with counting the dozens of freckles on display before him, each one a delicious chocolate dot against the creamy skin below the taut hairs at the base of her braid.

  The necklace, man.

  He pulled himself together while he drew the ends of the gold strand one to the other and grappled with the tiny clasp, brushing his knuckles against her exposed skin in the process. As if by silent request, Belle dipped her head lower to give him more room, revealing more of herself, vulnerable, trusting.

  An idea came to him, unbidden yet welcome.

  He couldn’t kiss her lips, not yet. But he could kiss the back of her neck.

  Surely he could do that.

  He gently pushed her braid aside and slid his hands across her narrow shoulders to steady her. To steady himself. A tremor ran through her, so slight he wondered if he’d imagined it. The shoulders beneath her thick sweater felt fragile under his hands. Slowly, reverently, he bent forward. It was an act of worship, an expression of pure gratitude for the undeserved grace she’d shared so freely.

  Close, closer. When his lips touched her skin, Belle let out a soft gasp of surprise. He pressed his mouth firmly against her neck, wanting there to be no mistake of his intention. He marveled at the fragrant texture of her skin. He knew he should end it, but lingered a moment longer than absolutely necessary before adding a final, feathery kiss.

  One truth remained. She hadn’t pulled away. She was, in fact, turning around beneath his hands, perhaps to offer him a sweeter spot for his kisses to land.

  sixteen

  Heap on more wood!—the wind is chill;

  But let it whistle as it will,

  We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.

  SIR WALTER SCOTT

  BELLE HADN’T MEANT TO SLAP HIM.

  His kiss had simply surprised her, caught her off guard.

  David looked startled himself, standing there, eyes wide, skin flushed, his generous lips parted in shock as if he were about to say something and forgot what it was.

  Belle fought for breath and the courage to apologize. “David, I’m sorry.”

  And she was. Sort of. But how dare he take such liberties? Kissing the nape of her neck where she couldn’t see him, couldn’t have a choice in the matter.

  Couldn’t kiss him back.

  The storm clouds gathering in his eyes prompted her to repeat herself. “Honestly, David, I don’t know what came over me. I truly am sorry.”

  “Not one-tenth as sorry as I am.” He ground out the words through jaws that had tightened considerably. Turning sharply toward the truck, he stomped through the snow, his actions exaggerated and stiff, undoubtedly meant to make her feel like a heel for rejecting his innocent overture.

  And it was innocent. She knew that the minute she felt his lips press against her skin. A charming show of affection, nothing more. Wasn’t it? Anxious to make amends, she called out, “Look, I forgive you for … for …”

  “Forgive me?” He whirled around, huffing like a steam engine. “Forgive wh … whooaa!” Thrown off balance, David frantically scrambled for solid footing on the ice.

  Belle watched in fr
ozen fascination as his long legs flew out from under him and his muscular arms shot up into the air. In less time than it took her to speak his name, she was leaning over David, flat on his back. In his brand-new suit. In the cold, wet snow.

  “David, are you okay?” She hovered over him, genuinely concerned.

  One eye opened. “I don’t know yet.” The other eye opened. “How come you didn’t catch me? I caught you.”

  She laughed, relieved to hear a hint of teasing in his voice. “Because you’re lots bigger, of course.” Lots. She watched him rise to his feet, brushing off the worst of the snow.

  “Serves me right. Shouldn’t have gotten mad.”

  “Shouldn’t have kissed me without warning, either.”

  He met her gaze. “Nope. Not sorry about that one.”

  He was standing inches from her now, looking down, all seriousness again. A heady boldness sang through her veins as her eyes trailed up the length of his red tie, lingering for the briefest second on his mouth then meeting his eyes again. “I’m not sorry, either.”

  She watched his Adam’s apple dip below his tie, then pop back into view. “Then why’d you slap me, Belle?”

  “Instinct, I guess. Maybe I didn’t want you to think I was … uh … that kind of girl.”

  “What kind of girl?”

  “The … um … kind of girl who lets men …”

  “Lets men what? Kiss them?”

  If David could tell the truth, by ginger, so could she. She sniffed for dramatic effect. “Despite what you may think, I never dated much in high school, hardly at all in college, and less in radio.”

  “Ohh.” The surprised look had returned.

  “I’m what my mother called a ‘late bloomer.’ By the time I … uh, bloomed, men my age had wandered off to … um … a fresher corner of the garden.”

  David’s sudden smile was devastating. “I do believe I see roses blooming in your cheeks right now.”