Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  He gallantly offered her his arm. “ ’Twould be my privilege, fair maiden, to escort you to yonder Hardware Company for a spot of tea.”

  “ ’Twould it now?” She draped her arm on his with great ceremony. “Carry on, good sir. Will there be a carriage?”

  “ ’Twill not be, m’lady. The night, though cold, was made for walking. This way, then, shall we?”

  They paraded out the exit door, dissolving into laughter before they reached Main Street. Thirty minutes later they were still seated in a cozy restaurant booth, round candles glowing on the table, the freezing darkness held safely at bay while they sipped hot cider and enjoyed breathing the same toasty warm air.

  “David, David.” She rested her fingers lightly on his, noting how strong his hands were—masculine, with sawdust hidden in the creases, yet the nails were clean and trimmed. An enigma, this man. Did he know, could he comprehend, what having his support meant to her this night? Did he understand what he was doing to her heart, building a home there as surely as he was building a set at the Barter, board by board?

  She’d never known a man like David Cahill. Never felt about anyone the way she felt about him. It didn’t have a name yet, this feeling, but the fog was starting to lift and the view was getting clearer by the minute.

  If you don’t stop staring at his hands, he’ll think he’s grown an extra knuckle. Smiling as she tipped up her head, Belle spoke her heart, straight out. “David, I could never have survived this evening without you.”

  “I’m glad I was there.” His eyes, made darker and more liquid by the candlelight, said infinitely more than his words. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

  He wasn’t going to make this easy on her. Maybe that was good. She considered his invitation for a moment, bearing the weight of it, then sensing it lift as she spoke the words like a confession. “I learned that I don’t always have to be on stage or the star, that it’s possible to enjoy something as a spectator without having to be a performer.”

  “So …”

  “So maybe I’ll buy a season pass to the Barter and let the pros do the acting.”

  “You are a pro, Belle. Just in a different arena.” He squeezed her hands, then leaned back in the booth. “Do you know you’re the best radio personality I’ve ever heard?”

  Gee, that’s original. “C’mon, how many have you really heard?”

  He counted on his fingers, one hand then the next. When he got to fifteen, she swatted at him and he backed farther away from her.

  “Are you getting ready to slap me again, woman? ’Cause if you are, give me some warning. It took half a day for that last handprint to disappear.”

  A wave of heat swept out of her sweater and up her neck. “I didn’t mean to do that. Honest.”

  “Huh. I’ll bet.” He winked at her. “Was there anything else you learned tonight?”

  She groaned and slumped farther into the booth. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?” Pensive, she played with her braid, sorting through not only the evening’s emotions, but a decade of dreaming about theater. “I discovered that I’m pretty good at denying the obvious. My professors, not to mention my friends in college, tried to tell me that acting might not be the best use of my … uh, talents. If I have any, that is.”

  “Of course you have talents.” He nodded emphatically. “A bunch of them. Knocking off microphones, storing furniture on porches, falling on the ice, slapping men silly—”

  She swatted at him again, closer this time. His smile was so disarming she almost missed his next question.

  “These professors of yours at ASU. What did they suggest you do with your degree instead of acting?”

  The point hit home. “Radio.”

  “Ah.” He nodded in silence. “When God calls, he also equips, Belle. Radio is clearly your calling. Why fight it?”

  She sat up, suddenly invigorated. “You’re absolutely right. I have been fighting it. Thinking it wasn’t enough, that unless I was in a major market with a number-one-rated show, it didn’t count. That unless I was on stage, my education was wasted.” She slapped the table in lieu of leaping on top of it. “You wait until I hit the air tomorrow morning, mister. We’ll find out if this late bloomer can’t blossom right where she’s planted.”

  His smile stretched from coast to coast below the blue-gray ocean of his eyes. “That’s my girl.”

  His girl?

  It wasn’t until much later, after David had walked her home, after she’d avoided Norah and her inevitable questions about the audition, after she’d scrubbed off her makeup and climbed into bed, that Belle remembered the significance of the next day.

  Wednesday.

  The Washington County News would hit the newsstands, as it did every Wednesday morning. Except this time, she’d be the featured story.

  She scrunched up her pillow, smiling into the darkness of her bedroom. That should make up for tonight. Something to boost her confidence, get her back on her feet again.

  Wait.

  Hadn’t she said something during that interview about auditioning for the Barter? Not much, surely. Just a mention, wasn’t it? They’d probably skip it completely. Not to worry.

  She’d almost drifted off when another thought poked her awake.

  Wait.

  What had they asked her about her single life, about dating? Had she said she was or was not happy about being unattached? She couldn’t remember. Mustn’t have said anything too important. Nothing to lose sleep over, that’s for sure.

  She didn’t lose a second of shut-eye. Slept like a log. Right up until Norah knocked on her door well before the crack of dawn and shoved a newspaper under her face, one with a full page of ghastly photos of her and an enormous boldface headline:

  “The Belle of Abingdon: Local Radio Personality Seeks Love and Applause in Small Town America.”

  “ ‘Love and applause’?” Belle groaned, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. “Please tell me it’s a misprint.”

  Norah held out a cup of steaming black coffee. “You’ve already had your first suitor, Belle. The guy who sold me the newspaper wants to know if you’re interested in dinner Friday night.”

  “He what?”

  “And speaking of applause, how’d you do at the Barter last night?” Norah pointed to the article while Belle stared at it, dumbfounded. “See, there’s a whole column about your plans to audition. Everybody will be dying to know what happened. Do tell. Were you the Belle of the Barter, too?”

  nineteen

  News is anything that makes a woman say, “For heaven’s sake!”

  EDGAR WATSON HOWE

  THE COFFEE DIDN’T HELP.

  The steamy hot shower didn’t help.

  Even Norah’s best applesauce muffins didn’t improve matters.

  Belle’s eyes were so puffy from crying she couldn’t get close to them with mascara, liner, or eye shadow. Why bother with blush when her cheeks were already stained a permanent pink? No point to lipstick, either, since she was blowing her nose every ten minutes.

  Her closet let her down as well. All her favorite clothes were wrinkled, dirty, or both, so she was stuck wearing baggy jeans and a sweater that made her skin look green.

  So far this morning, her hair was the only thing not giving her fits.

  Brushing it dry with long, slow strokes, Belle kept one eye on the clock. Should she get to work early, hide in the studio, avoid the inevitable commentary from her coworkers? Maybe getting there late was better, minutes before her show, so no one would have time to razz her.

  “Oh, fiddle!” Late or early, it didn’t make one iota of difference. The most humiliating day of her thirty-two years awaited her. The sooner she faced it, the better. Four blocks and forty-four steps later, facing it later seemed like a much better plan.

  Three of WPER’S finest were already gathered around the table in the jock lounge, the incriminating newspaper spread out before them. Cliff in his houndstooth jacket, Jeanette in her rhinestone glasses, An
ne wearing a pencil behind her ear and a smug expression on her face. “Well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour.”

  Cliff, ever the salesman, gave Belle a hearty slap on the back. “Great press for the Barter Theatre. An important client of ours. They’ll be thrilled.”

  “Great.”

  “While we’re on the subject—” Jeanette eyed Belle over her glasses—“I have tickets for you to give away on your show, one pair every hour, starting later this month. For Much Ado about Nothing, of course.”

  “Great.”

  Anne chimed in. “That reminds me, I’d like you to record a spot for the Barter before you go on the air this morning. Cliff’s written it. Kind of a Shakespearean spoof.”

  “Great.”

  Patrick’s office door opened with a bang. “There you are, Belle!” He waved her toward him, a look of concern on his bearded face. “I need your help on something.”

  He knows.

  He pulled her inside his office, closing the door behind them. He smelled of minty soap and a freshly dry-cleaned suit, making her feel frumpier than ever. “Belle, I’ve got the Barter on hold on the phone.”

  I knew it. She managed to croak out a response. “Oh?”

  “Since we’re a sponsor for Much Ado—”

  “A sponsor!” Great.

  “Hadn’t I mentioned that? Anyway, from a promotional standpoint, I wanted to make sure you got the part of Elsa.”

  “Ursula.”

  “Whatever. Here’s the problem. The woman in the office said your name wasn’t listed on last night’s audition roster. According to the paper, you were supposed to be there.”

  “Believe me, I was there.”

  His face brightened. “And?”

  She took a deep breath. “Ask them if the name Belinda Oberholtzer is on their list.”

  Patrick beamed. “Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” He grabbed the phone and punched the button. “Miss, I have another possibility for you to check. Got an actress named Oberholtzer on there?”

  Belle watched his expression change from expectation, to confusion, to something like desperation. “I see. Uh-huh.” His eyes met Belle’s when they both heard a peal of laughter coming from the other end of the line.

  “No need to make light of it, miss.” Patrick’s face had turned to the color of wet Georgia clay. “And I’m sorrier than you are. Thanks for the … uh, information.” He hung up the phone in silence, bravely keeping his eyes locked on hers.

  Don’t let him hug me, Lord. If he hugs me, I’m a goner.

  She almost fainted from relief when he kept his distance.

  “Belle, I’m—”

  She held up her hands. “Don’t say it. It was awful and it’s over. I’ll survive.”

  “But all those years—”

  “I’ll get over it, okay?” Her voice softened when she saw the pity in his eyes turn to compassion. “Not a problem, Patrick. I’m a big girl.”

  “Actually, you’re kinda small.” He grinned, obviously relieved. “But you’ve matured into quite a woman.” The creases around his eyes deepened. “David’s a lucky guy.”

  Her stomach turned into a neatly tied square knot. So much for secrets. “Th-thanks. I think Norah’s pretty lucky, too.”

  Patrick let out a loud guffaw, chasing away any tension in the room. “Are you kidding? I’m the blessed one in that relationship and you know it.”

  She watched a softness come over his bearded face, transforming it so completely her mouth dropped open. “You’re hiding something from me, old friend. Something exciting, unless I miss my guess. Out with it.”

  In a few, halting sentences, Patrick described his visit from Norah on New Year’s Day. Belle found her own disappointment fading away as her boss shared his life-changing discovery with her.

  When Patrick finished, she was the one hugging him. “That’s wonderful!” She squeezed his teddy bear chest then stepped back, brushing away a tear. “Two kinds of love, eh? One for now and—”

  “And one forever.” He nodded sheepishly and Belle decided she’d never seen him so genuinely happy.

  “When’s the wedding?”

  The ruddy color was back. “Oh no, you don’t. We’re a long way from that, Belle.”

  A voice floated in from outside the office. “A long way from what?”

  They both turned to find Norah standing in the doorway wrapped in a teal-colored wool coat, a muffin basket resting in her gloved hands. “Did I miss something?”

  Belle chuckled. “Nothing Patrick can’t fill you in on. Gotta go, you two. Spots to record and a show to prep.”

  “Wait a minute.” Patrick thrust a handful of pink phone message slips into her hands. “You’ll want these.”

  “Huh?” Belle thumbed through the stack of unfamiliar names. “What’s all this?”

  “Admirers.” His grin covered half his face. “A dozen or so guys read your article this morning and decided if you weren’t happy being single, they might be able to do something about it. Those came in on the business line. Frank took twice that many on the studio phone since six this morning.”

  Her groan covered half an octave. “Great.”

  “Better not let David see those.” Norah offered Belle a knowing smile as she brushed past her. “You know how jealous these radio men can be.”

  David, jealous? The notion of it warmed her to her toes, buoying her along in a wave of pleasant euphoria all the way to the production studio. All through the recording of a commercial for the Barter. Right up until she entered the on-air studio where reality struck again in the form of Frank Gallagher. A highly peeved Frank Gallagher.

  “Mornin’, Frank!” Belle sang out.

  “So says you.” He tossed her the music log with little ceremony. “Better pull the tunes for your show now, since you’ll no doubt spend all five hours on the phone with your fans. These are for you as well.” He slapped a second stack of pink phone slips on the countertop. “Though why you’d want to talk to these love-starved fools only you would know.”

  Poor Frank. Belle understood exactly what prompted his sour mood. She studied his broad back, his carefully positioned toupee, his ancient coffee cup, his newspaper opened to her article.

  “Frank, I’m sorry they did a story on me first. Everybody loves your morning show and—”

  “You think I’m bothered by this?” He wheeled the chair around so quickly it made her jump. “Not on your life, girlie. Old Frank’s been around long enough to see how this works. A pretty girl sells more papers than a middle-aged guy in polyester pants.” He sniffed for effect and turned back to the board. “Besides, Jake Solomon at the Mountain View Times is talking about doing an article on me. Sometime soon, he says.”

  “That’s terrific, Frank.” Bless his heart. Belle knew the perfect thing to boost his ego. “By the way, I didn’t get the part at the Barter last night. Made a blooming idiot of myself, as a matter of fact.”

  He spun around again. “No kidding!”

  She almost laughed out loud at the look of relief on his face, especially when he tried hard to appear sympathetic and failed miserably. “Yup.” She shrugged her shoulders, playing it to full effect for his benefit. “No weeks of rehearsing for this woman. My evenings are my own.” She winked at him. “I seem to remember that last night had some disaster-making potential for you as well. How’d your dinner with Millie, the winning contestant, go?”

  His eyebrows gathered like storm clouds brewing over the Appalachians. “I’ve been talking about it on the air for the last three hours. Don’t you ever listen to my show?”

  “Every single morning, Frank.” Maybe the man’s ego didn’t need boosting after all. “But today I was too busy licking my wounds over the article.”

  “What’s the matter, wasn’t it accurate?”

  “Oh, it was accurate, every painful word. Not a misquote on the page.” She sighed, putting down her things. “I simply forgot the cardinal rule for interviews—never say anything you don�
��t want seven thousand people to read about.” She began yanking out music CDs for her show, talking over her shoulder as she went down the wooden wall rack. “So, tell me about last night with Millie.”

  “It was … nice.”

  Whaddaya know. “Details, Frank, I want details.”

  “Tall, slim, my age, curly dark hair, good sense of humor.” He cleared his throat with exaggerated fanfare. “We’re going out again tomorrow night. On my dime this time.”

  “Frank, you sly thing!”

  He’d already slipped on his cans and turned on the mike for a long stop set, chatting about weather and upcoming events. His bass voice boomed, “Be sure to join our own media darling, Belle O’Brien, broadcasting live from Dollar General Store this afternoon from four until five. Take advantage of their January White Sale savings and meet the Belle of Abingdon.”

  Do what? Her spirits and her jaw dropped in tandem. The minute Frank’s mike was off, she grabbed the liner card promoting her appearance and read the awful news for herself. “Not today, please don’t tell me this. I’m wearing zero makeup, dowdy clothes …” Her diatribe dissolved into a groan. “Whose idea was this?”

  “Patrick’s.” Frank flashed a lethal grin. “Figured he’d capitalize on the newspaper publicity. Let you get out there and meet your adoring public, face to face.”

  “Great.”

  She’d have barely enough time to run home between her show and the remote broadcast to change and slap on some makeup. The fistful of phone slips in her hands convinced her she couldn’t go “as is,” since some of her admirers might show up whether they needed a new set of towels or not.

  Minutes later, it was her turn on the microphone. She tossed up a silent prayer for energy and enthusiasm, both of which were sadly lacking at the moment, and dove in. “Belle O’Brien here to keep your day spinning along, starting with a number-one record from January 1970. B.J. Thomas and ‘Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head.” ’

  And that’s about the only thing that hasn’t happened today. Not yet, anyway.

  Frank’s advice about needing to get her music ready turned out to be prophetic. The studio request line rang nonstop all morning with calls that fell into two categories, same as the messages on the pink slips. Some wanted her to know how disappointed they were, the usual “you don’t look like you sound” comments. In ten years of doing radio, the only response she’d come up with to that one was, “Sorry, I’ll try harder tomorrow.”