Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Belle flashed her most dazzling smile at the two journalists as they made their way down her apartment steps, arms loaded with cameras and notepads. She prayed they’d be merciful. Show restraint. Run only the flattering photos.

  Come next Wednesday morning, she and the rest of Abingdon would find out if her prayers had been answered.

  eighteen

  Learn the lines and don’t bump into the furniture.

  NOEL COWARD

  THE TURTLES WERE SINGING full throttle when Patrick Reese pushed open the door to the on-air studio. WPER’s Happy Together contest was kicking into high gear this morning with their first official drawing. He’d collected Frank’s fishbowl from the Court Street Grill a few minutes earlier, and handed it to the morning man with a grin he knew was ornery.

  No big mystery who was going to win this drawing. Millie, Frank’s groupie, had stuffed the bowl with dozens of paper fishes with her name neatly printed on each one. Yeah, looked like Frank and Millie would be headed to the Hardware Company for dinner next week. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wallpaper for that meal!

  Still smiling, he closed the door to his office, tossed his coat onto the antlers, and settled into his leather chair, stretching out the last of the kinks in his neck. The place was eight o’clock quiet, his favorite time of day. Spreading open his new desk calendar, a gift from the WPER staff, Patrick turned to the first of January and drew in a deep breath of satisfaction. Pristine squares waiting to be filled with busy, money-making appointments. Nothing like a new year to invigorate the senses.

  Unless Norah Silver-Smyth was involved, in which case there was no comparison. The woman invigorated every sense he’d ever thought about and some he didn’t know he had.

  When did all this happen? He knew the Advent service was the start of it. Sitting next to her, inhaling her perfume—Shalimar, she called it—watching her dark eyes drink in the sights and sounds of Christmas. Yeah, that was the beginning for him. Earlier for her, it seemed. It really didn’t matter when, it only mattered that it had indeed happened, for both of them.

  Whatever “it” was.

  So what if she was five years older? She had more grace and beauty in her silver-ringed fingers than five women half her age. Bright, witty, well-traveled, well-read. Scary, actually. He didn’t deserve such a rare jewel and he knew it. What she saw in him, a rough-around-the-edges radio guy, was beyond him. He was just glad she saw it.

  Then there was her cooking. He wouldn’t let himself go down that street. Not this morning, not when he’d skipped breakfast, hoping she’d bring him a few muffins later in the morning, like she had all week long, ever since Christmas.

  What a day that had been. He laughed, shuffling papers around his desk, remembering the whole scene with Belle and David. Those two, with their emotional highs and lows, deserved one another. He didn’t need all that youthful angst. Give him a woman who was settled, relaxed, comfortable with herself. Solid. Mature.

  A woman of deep faith.

  Never thought I’d find that so appealing. But he did. Norah’s faith was a real, living thing. It gave her wisdom, strength, compassion for others, and a bunch of other qualities he couldn’t put his finger on but very much admired. The final result was the most incredible package of feminine beauty and spiritual depth he’d ever come across in a lifetime.

  It scared him to death. No, it scared him to life. A new life, with Norah and with the God that she shared so freely with him. Yeah, so it makes me nervous, so what? My life can use a little shaking up.

  A new year, a new life, a new future. Such a deal, Reese. No man deserved it less. Or needed it more.

  Patrick snapped back to the present at the sound of a gentle tapping at his door. He was surprised to find himself choked up and needing to clear his throat before he could call out, “Come in.”

  The oak door swung open and his two favorite scents wafted in the room—cinnamon muffins and Shalimar—followed by a beautiful woman dressed in a silver gray something that floated around her like a billowing mist.

  “Good morning, Patrick.” Norah’s voice wasn’t too many notes above his own, deep and tinged with the sultry drawl of a Southern woman who favored Shakespeare. Country and culture, all wrapped up in one amazing woman. She held out her basket, draped with a checked cloth, and smiled her angel’s smile. “Breakfast, beloved.”

  It was all over.

  He had no intention of fighting it for one second.

  “The muffins look delicious, Norah. You look better.” He took the basket from her hands, setting it aside for later, and moved around his desk to take both her hands.

  She seemed only a little surprised at his boldness, not returning his grasp but not pulling away either. Her eyes shimmered, smiling along with the rest of her angelic face.

  He drew in a steadying breath. Say it, man. Now. Go!

  “Norah, I … I …”

  “I know, Patrick. Me, too.”

  He exhaled in relief. “Really?” Boy, that was easy.

  “Yes. I hope this isn’t moving too fast for you.”

  “No.” He shook his head, stunned, relieved. “How can things move too fast when you’re our age?”

  She laughed. It sounded like music. “Exactly. Now what?”

  He hadn’t thought that far. Just tell her the truth, fool. “I … I only know that you’ve made me happier than I’ve ever been. Ever, Norah.”

  Turning her head to the side, she blushed like a schoolgirl. It was enchanting to watch. Her tone was sweet but firm. “I’m not the only one who’s made you happy, Patrick. You know better.”

  “Yeah, I do.” He lifted his head toward the ceiling, feeling a new kind of strength infuse him, a vitality that had nothing to do with youth and everything to do with newness of life. “Norah, will you pray with me?”

  He saw tears spring to her eyes. Two more silvery stars in his growing universe, shining up at him. “Yes.”

  He knew she meant yes to all of it. To his prayer, to their future together, to him.

  She said it again, with more conviction. “Yes, I will.”

  He closed his eyes, pretty sure that’s how such things were handled. “Dear God—” he felt awkward yet as certain as he’d ever felt in his life—“Uh … happy New Year.” Happy what? He could tell his palms were sweating.

  Norah squeezed his hands and a sense of peace overtook him.

  Yeah. Okay. Happy New Year, that’s good. “Thanks, God. For loving me before I loved you. And for Norah. For loving me before I loved her. I don’t deserve all this, Lord, but I’ll take it. I need it.”

  His chest tightened around his heart even as he felt it expanding, making room for Norah. No, not just for her. For the one who made him, loved him, died for him. Yes, you, Lord. It’s you I need.

  In the blink of an eye, the tightness was gone and a sweet, cleansing breath slipped out of him. Whew. Not so hard. Almost as easy as telling Norah he loved her. He had told her he loved her, right?

  He cracked open one eye. Yeah, I must have. Look at her face.

  She was smiling, wasn’t she? Crying, too, bless her beautiful self. What a woman. My woman.

  Happy New Year wasn’t the half of it.

  Belle gripped her script and checked out the competition. Shakespeare would have been astounded to find so many potential Ursulas waiting in the wings of the Barter Theatre on a cold Tuesday night in Abingdon. The women, a dozen or more, stood surrounded by painted backdrops from a dozen productions and the colorful litter peculiar to theater.

  Alone in the darkened house, the Barter’s artistic director was seated center orchestra, waiting to discover his Ursula for the upcoming staging of Much Ado about Nothing.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Belle sized up the women around her. One was exceptionally tall and slim, like a ballet dancer with a swan’s neck. Beside her, a petite woman with a few extra pounds and a lot of mascara. Forty-something. Not the typical attendant for the fair Hero, but as any drama st
udent knew, Shakespearean comedy was open to interpretation.

  Next to her, a regal young woman with smooth blond hair tucked into a neat French twist. Her long, simple dress fit the character of a Renaissance gentlewoman. Two or three others also seemed dressed to impress, conveying the message that they’d been waiting their entire lives to step on stage as Ursula.

  Belle surveyed her own appearance in a backstage mirror and let loose a heavy sigh. Her slim skirt and boots looked out of place, anachronistic. The sweater was the wrong century completely. Me, too. All wrong. Too short, too old, too many freckles, too many curls, not enough practice, and zero theater experience for the last decade.

  Lord, what am I doing here?

  She knew why she was there, what this audition was about. It was about proving to herself that her college degree wasn’t wasted. She’d always considered drama a calling, God’s clear design for her life. Had she heard him correctly? You’ll know soon enough, honey.

  Belle’s attention to her script was momentarily diverted by the shadow of someone moving behind the sets on the other side of the stage. He—definitely a he—was carrying a load of lumber on his broad shoulders. She couldn’t make out a face or his hair color, but the way he moved looked oddly familiar.

  “Carpenters,” a young brunette whispered in her ear, nodding at the crew dressed in jeans and sawdust. “They brought a new bunch of construction guys in tonight to start hammering together the set. Don’t let it throw you.”

  Like she needed something else to make her nervous.

  The women were each to read one scene. Those who impressed the director would be called back to read a second scene with Hero. Silence fell over the backstage gathering as Ursulas were summoned one by one to read with a handsome New York actor already cast as Antonio. His wavy hair and carefully clipped beard were perfect for the part, Belle thought, watching the swan-necked woman glide out for her audition.

  She was excellent, much as it pained Belle to admit it. Crystal-clear diction and classic Shakespearean phrasing. Harrumph. The petite woman was equally talented, seeming to grow in stature with every line. Belle’s spirits sank. The blond princess auditioned next, her acting abilities as close to perfection as Belle could imagine.

  “Let’s leave now.” It was the friendly brunette again, giggling.

  “Not a bad plan.” But Belle knew it was not an option for her. She had to go through with this, had to know where she stood.

  “Belinda Oberholtzer.”

  Belle almost didn’t hear her name being called out. Her given name. Belinda. Since all her acting credits, her degree, everything connected to the theater appeared under her real name, she didn’t have much choice except to use it. Besides, she was neither Belle nor Belinda tonight.

  She was Ursula, attendant to Hero.

  Propelled by this last burst of confidence, Belle moved swiftly to center stage. It was hard to glide in leather boots with noisy heels, but she did her best. Planting her feet just so, she lifted her chin. Opened her arms, hoping they appeared graceful, poised. Turned her body ever so slightly toward the audience of one, and flashed Antonio a disarming smile as she held up an imaginary mask and delivered her first line.

  “I know you well enough, you are Signior Antonio.”

  Something was wrong. He was staring down at her, a look of dismay crossing his chiseled features. After a lengthy silence, he blurted out his line, then it was her turn again.

  “I know you by the waggling of your head.”

  But his head didn’t waggle, his tongue did, hurrying faster through his lines, as if to end her audition as quickly as possible. She straightened her back, determined to continue, deliberately slowing her words hoping he would follow her lead.

  It wasn’t helping. The others had sounded so professional, so polished, so right for the part. Any of them would suit. But she did not suit. Her delivery was stilted, unnatural.

  Amateurish.

  Somewhere, deep inside, a tiny voice whispered the awful truth: You’re not good enough. Not as good as the others and nowhere near talented enough to win the part of Ursula or any other role.

  Her lips moved, the lines were spoken, but her heart heard only the voices of directors past. What had they been trying to tell her, year after year? Why hadn’t she listened?

  “Belinda, have you ever thought about directing? You have such a good eye.”

  “With that voice, you could certainly do radio, Belinda.”

  “Don’t be discouraged. The theater isn’t for everyone. Do it for pleasure, not for profit.”

  When she spoke her final line, the truth of Shakespeare’s words nearly sent her to her knees: “Graces will appear, and there’s an end.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” Antonio murmured in a stage whisper, obviously intending her to hear him. Suddenly he was a good deal less handsome.

  From the darkened theater seats beyond the edge of the stage, a voice floated out of the silence. “Thank you, Miss Oberholtzer. Next.”

  Belle turned, her joints stiff from tension, catching a glimpse of Antonio’s smile returning as the next actress swept into the pool of light at center stage. Belle hurried past her, not looking left or right but walking a direct path toward the stage door that would take her into the street, into the night, and far away from the Barter Theatre.

  Thank the Lord no one she knew had been there, had seen her make such a fool of herself. No photographer had snapped her picture, no producer had taped her performance—if you could call it that.

  She would begin immediately to block out the entire agonizing experience. It never happened. It simply never took place at all.

  Who are you kidding? No one except herself. Her decade-old dream of doing professional theater had died, stillborn, with a handful of lines on a bitter cold night. Dead and buried, with nothing left to show for it but a broken heart and an ego left in tatters.

  Grabbing her purse, discarded what seemed like hours ago on top of a precarious stack of props, Belle found her way through the shadows to the exit sign above the back door that led to freedom. Freedom from the single most embarrassing ten minutes she’d ever spent in her life.

  “Belle!”

  She turned with a frightened gasp. Who in the world? The red safety lights backstage and the swirling dust motes around them made it impossible to see farther than a few feet. She squinted at the form moving toward her, taking shape.

  It can’t be.

  “David?”

  He reached her side, his eyes wide with concern. “Belle, I’m—” “W-what are you doing here?” She recognized the anger in her voice, knew that fear and shame were not far behind it.

  “I’m one of the carpenters on the stage crew.” His face, what she could see of it, shone with empathy. “I needed the money for new carpet for the house, so I signed on several weeks ago to help with set construction. I had no idea …”

  “Did you see me—” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words. Maybe he didn’t see her. Maybe he was back in the set room, hammering away, and missed the whole horrible thing.

  But no.

  His head was nodding, slowly. “If you mean did I see you audition, yes.” His voice gentled to a whisper. “I was standing stage left, in the wings, so I wouldn’t distract you and ruin your performance.” She could hear him swallow in the darkness. “I prayed for you, Belle.”

  “Oh, David.” Her knees buckled underneath her. She felt his strong hands catch her elbows and pull her back up. Pull her into his arms in a crushing embrace.

  She sensed him nuzzling her hair with his chin as she sobbed against his broad chest. Arms pinned to her side, she could do little else but remain tucked against him, a small bird sheltered from the raging storm.

  In the long moments that followed, David gave her the kindest gift of all. Silence. No words. No questions. What could he say that would make it better?

  Her tears slowed, then stopped. Mortified, she pressed against his chest with her head,
trying to push herself away. He finally let her go, though he rested his hands on her shoulders. Smart man. He knew her well. Knew she would turn and bolt out the door if she could.

  She stared at the floor, not trusting herself to look into his eyes, afraid of what she would see there. Afraid she would cry again.

  Something had to be said, though. “Thank you, David.” It came out on a noisy hiccup.

  “No problem.” He hiccuped back at her and grinned.

  “Aren’t you ashamed of me?” She looked up and sniffed, petulant, hiccuping again. “Ashamed of my … whatever that was?”

  “No way.” His grin disappeared. “You weren’t ashamed of me.” David’s eyes looked right through her, offering hope, giving absolution. She basked in the light of it, too grateful to risk turning away from his compassionate gaze, no matter how much it cost her to let him see her so humiliated.

  “When it comes to handing out grace, Belle, you do it better than anyone. I’m simply trying to return the favor. Remember what you said to me? ‘Your past is just that—passed.’ Let it go, babe. You gave it your best shot. No one can ever say otherwise.”

  She stuck out her lower lip in an exaggerated pout. “Antonio would probably say otherwise.” A third hiccup, more pronounced.

  David shrugged. “A Shakespearean actor. What does he know?”

  He was baiting her and she took it. Her hands moved to her hips, preparing for battle. She was beginning to feel like her old self again. It felt good. “I’d like to see you try and read Shakespeare.”

  He assumed a pose remarkably like Antonio’s, though Belle had to confess David was the better-looking one by far. “At a word, I am not,” he chirped an octave higher than necessary.

  Clever David had paid close attention indeed. Belle rolled her eyes in feigned disgust. “Your British accent is deplorable, sir. Next!” She hiccuped again. Loudly.

  From stage right came a chorus of giggles. Belle couldn’t keep herself from joining in the laughter. “We’ve been found out, Antonio. Our ruse is up.”

  “Or our goose is cooked.”

  “Something like that.” She stifled yet another hiccup. “Look, I’ve gotta locate a glass of water before I embarrass myself further.”