Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Not as appealing as David.

  Okay, okay. True. She’d never laid eyes on these mystery men, but she’d run her hands through David’s silky, wheat-colored hair, snipping away the ends, shaping it up, taming his bangs, doing her best to comb her way into his heart.

  She closed her eyes, letting the letters scatter across her lap. The memory, days later, was still strong, tactile. She could feel his fine, straight hair falling though her fingers, like corn silk, completely the opposite of her own thick, curly locks. Could see once more the goose bumps that had skittered up his neck when she’d massaged his scalp. “This improves circulation and stimulates hair growth,” she’d explained, grateful he couldn’t see her blush.

  Rubbing his scalp did do those things, but it also made his eyes drift shut, made him release the softest sort of moan, a sound so faint she was certain he wasn’t aware of it.

  She’d heard it, though. Watched his mouth twitch, his face relax, succumbing to the spell of the mesmerizing comb against his scalp. Didn’t she feel the same way at the hairdressers?

  Well, not quite the same way.

  The real eye-opener that day was seeing what David Cahill looked like without his glasses on. It utterly destroyed her equilibrium, so much so she had to sit down and stare at him.

  “David, I had no idea!”

  “Idea of what?” His look convinced her he didn’t have a clue.

  “What amazing eyes you have.” She gulped, twisting the scissors in her hand until she realized her carelessness might cost her two fingers. There he sat in Norah’s kitchen, wearing a towel around his shoulders and a tentative smile on his face, a look of expectancy, clearly waiting to hear what was so amazing about his eyes.

  For starters, it was the brows, she decided. Thick but not bushy like Patrick’s. Darker than his hair. The color of nutmeg. Carefully arched in a graceful, masculine curve. Expressive. Commanding. To think those brows had been hiding behind his wire-rimmed glasses all these months. Years, probably. If the man ever wore contact lenses, he’d have to fight women off with a two-by-four.

  She’d be the first in line. With a chain saw.

  His eyes studied her studying him. Blue-gray, she’d known that. But not that blue, not that gray. The intensity of color was startling. An entire Pacific Ocean captured in two orbs, rimmed with a narrow black circle as if to hold the waters at bay. Surrounded in purest white, then trimmed with thick lashes, the same delicious shade as his brows.

  David Cahill might have grown up poor, but when it came to good looks, the man was richer than his fondest dreams. Or hers.

  Belle had realized the only way the man would get a straight haircut that day was if she stood by his side, or better still, faced his back. There she had merely to fight the sensations of his hair and skin under her fingertips, and the visual appeal of his broad shoulders. Not his eyes, those captivating, knee-weakening eyes.

  Rrrringggg!

  The portable phone in her lap sent her scurrying to answer it, strewing letters all around her feet. Her dreamlike trance gone, she did her best to sound normal as her heart marched in time to a kettle drum beat. “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  The kettle drums wouldn’t hush anytime soon. It was David.

  “Hi yourself. Where’ve you been all day? Had dinner yet?” She glanced at the clock on her oak mantel. Nine-thirty. Dinner? Good one, Belle.

  Long pause. “No, but I’m not hungry. Had a big lunch. Listen, could I come over for a few minutes? I know it’s kinda late.”

  Her alarm would ring at six, but she could tell something was on his mind and she definitely wanted to hear about it. “Sure. I’ll meet you at the front door in fifteen.”

  Enough time to spiff up, whip the apartment into shape, make a pot of decaf coffee. Snap, crackle, pop.

  She yanked open the door to find him making his way up the steps, wearing his best suit and an enigmatic smile. Now that she’d seen what those eyes had to offer, his glasses dangerously disappeared. She focused on his mouth instead and realized that move didn’t improve the situation one smidge.

  “Come on in.” She stepped aside as he eased past her, offering her cheek in case he wanted to plant a quick kiss there. He did. Too quick. The kettle drums inside her were replaced by snares beating all out of rhythm, making her lightheaded as he followed her up the stairs. “My, aren’t we dressed up for a Monday evening cup of decaf?”

  “I didn’t want to take time to change clothes.”

  She didn’t ask for more details. Didn’t want them, in fact. “I’ll pour us both some coffee. Have a seat in the living room.” When she walked back in balancing two mugs and a sugar bowl on a tray, she noticed he was eyeing her mail, gathered once again into a tall, tidy stack.

  “Fan letters, Belle?”

  She shrugged, putting down the tray. “Yeah, I suppose.” Should she mention they were all from men, most wanting dates? Would that push David forward or push him away, for good? A risky business, this.

  He looked up, smiling, innocent. “Mind if I read a few?”

  “Ah … no, I guess not.” Now the risk was his. Serve him right if he gets his nose out of joint when he reads them. On the other hand, he might pick out a few prospects and tell her to go for it, with his blessing. What a mess. Enough to give her a whopper of a headache.

  He found the prisoner letters first. The high-schoolers, the senior citizens, the poignantly desperate ones. He seemed to relax, tossing each one aside as if in relief. When he reached the one from the med student, he slowed down. Seemed to study it more carefully.

  Belle watched him out of the corner of her eye while she sipped her coffee in silence. Say something! He skimmed the next few, slowed down again when he got to the one from the attorney. And the professor from Emory & Henry. And the owner of Abingdon’s nicest men’s store.

  He put them down finally and grabbed his coffee, sloshing some over the side. “Sorry.” He stabbed at the spill with a paper napkin. His eyes—stormier than usual, she noted—were aimed directly at hers. “So, how are you going to answer them?”

  She didn’t like the accusation in his voice any more than she liked the defensiveness she heard in her own. “Most of them are getting a polite, personal, ‘thanks but no thanks’ letter back from me.” She pointed at her stationery, heavy cream-colored paper with a bold B embossed at the top.

  “And the others?”

  You tell me, David. “I … don’t know, yet.”

  They stayed like that, coffee mugs in hand, neither one moving, no one speaking, only staring at one another, for a full minute. Longer. She sensed the hairs on the back of her neck rising to attention over the spot where he’d kissed her on Christmas.

  Tension swirled around them, chilling the air, forcing her to break the silence before she started visibly shaking.

  “David, you came here for a reason tonight, something besides these letters. Talk to me. Above all, we’re friends, remember?”

  “Friends, is that it?” He let out a frustrated sigh. “You’re the best friend I have, Belle. I don’t mean to make light of that. I came tonight because I wanted to tell you face to face what’s been going on with me.”

  Finally.

  “I went to Charlotte today. For a job interview. With WBT.”

  “A job?” She knew she’d barked it out like a four-letter word and abruptly tried to amend herself. “An engineering job, then?” How can he look so relieved when I’m so undone?

  “Right. Assistant to the chief. Great salary, great benefits. And of course, the equipment is state-of-the-art.”

  “Of course.” What broadcaster didn’t know WBT, The Voice of Charlotte? Her heart was collapsing from the pressure. Leaking along the fault lines. She was surprised she was still conscious, still able to form words that made sense. “When … when would you start?”

  “Belle, I haven’t accepted the job yet.”

  The leaks stopped. “You haven’t?”

  His oceanic eyes inch
ed closer to hers. “No. I told them I’d need some time to think about it. To … finish the house, wind up some … details here. I told them I couldn’t give them an answer until the first of March.”

  Five weeks. New leaks threatened to spring out along several stress points, including her eyes. “Am I a ‘detail,’ David?”

  He slowly put his mug down on the tray, then took hers and dispatched of it as well, never losing eye contact with her for an instant. His strong hands slid around hers, wrapping them in a blanket of warmth. “You’re a detail, all right, Belle. The most important one. I’m here tonight to see what you think of this offer. Of me moving to Charlotte.”

  He’s gotta be kidding. Doesn’t he know what I think, how I feel?

  David rushed to continue. She could see the excitement building in his face, hear it in his voice. “It’s the job I’ve always hoped for. Prayed for, the last few months. A chance to use my God-given talents and the skills I’ve worked so hard to … well, it’s … perfect.”

  She nodded, swallowing hard. “I remember the feeling, wanting to work at a major station, to try your wings.” She also remembered how, years ago, Patrick had gotten out of her way so she could do exactly that. He’d set her free, though she hadn’t known it. Then.

  Is that what David needs, Lord? Is that what you’re asking me to do? Let him go, give him wings?

  “Don’t you have anything to say, Belle?” David looked distraught at her lack of response, and no wonder.

  It didn’t help that she couldn’t explain herself, couldn’t catch her breath for the weight that pressed on her chest. She gathered up every ounce of courage she’d tucked away for a rainy day and said what needed to be said. “I’m happy for you.” And heartbroken for me. “It’s a great job. You can’t turn it down.” But I wish you would. Oh, David, I wish you would!

  He said nothing, only brushed the palms of his hands across her cheeks in a gentle caress. His eyes said it before his lips did. “Please tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Her voice sounded like a stranger’s, hoarse and monotone. “This is for you to decide. I’d never want to stand between you and such a terrific offer. And it is terrific, right?”

  He mumbled the salary.

  “Make that very terrific.” She sighed, struggling to regain her voice and the tattered edges of her heart. “Go as God leads, David. We’ll both make it a matter of prayer. No matter what you decide, we’ll always be friends. Yes?”

  Although he nodded, his eyes were saying something else, a cryptic message she couldn’t decipher.

  “Meanwhile, you’ve got to finish your house and get it on the market. Can you manage that in five weeks?”

  His chin was working, his neck had tensed. “Not alone.”

  “I’ll be glad to help.” Grab a shovel, Belle. Dig your own grave while you’re at it.

  “No, thanks. I mean … thank you, but I’ll need to hire someone. A carpenter or two, someone who knows what they’re doing.” He sighed. “That means a bank loan. Pray for that if you’re going to pray for anything. Otherwise, I’m looking at three months to complete the house, and WBT won’t wait that long. They’ve assured me of that.”

  “I can pray for a loan, no problem.” She could also loan him the considerable funds she’d stashed away since arriving in Abingdon. But that would be interfering with God’s direction for David’s life. Wouldn’t it?

  If the Lord provided a bank loan, then Charlotte was meant to be David’s new home. And if not, then David was meant to be hers. Thy will be done, Lord. But you know precisely which way I’m voting.

  David stood up and stretched. “Belle, it’s late. Gotta let you get your beauty sleep. Not that you need it.” He tugged on her braid, his eyes warm with affection, she was sure of it. “So, what are you gonna do about those Romeos who want to meet you?” He nodded in the direction of the letters.

  She sighed with overstated indifference. “Guess I’ll pick the most promising one and write him.” It’s not nice to be sneaky. Except sneaky always worked. “After all, with you moving to Charlotte, I’ll have to find something to keep me busy.”

  “The most promising one, eh?” His eyes darkened considerably. “Don’t do anything foolish, Belle. You never know what kind of kook might write a letter.”

  “Fear not. After I’ve chosen one, I’ll let everyone read the man’s letter and get their opinion. Plus, I’ll meet him in a public place. Not a thing for you to worry about, David.” She patted his hand, steering him toward the door. “Get a good night’s sleep. Dream happy dreams of WBT and Charlotte and all that lovely money.”

  He stumbled out the door and down the steps, evidently thrown off by her ploy. She would pick one of these letters. Yes, indeed. Write the stranger back, arrange to meet him soon, throw her arms around him if necessary. Whatever it took to make David Cahill jealous, make him understand that the future he’d always hoped for was right here in his hometown.

  In her arms.

  The salary was awful, but she’d make certain the benefits were positively breathtaking.

  twenty-one

  The ideal love affair is one conducted by post.

  GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  BY WEDNESDAY MORNING, BELLE had narrowed her choices down to two of her on-paper admirers—the store owner and the college professor. Stable types. Not as likely to move away to, say, North Carolina, like the med student who’d take off the minute he finished his residency.

  Not as likely to sue her as the attorney might, once he figured out what she was up to.

  She’d already started writing her responses, doing her best to sound interested but not too interested, when Burt stuck his head in the studio and tossed her the day’s mail.

  “Found a boyfriend yet, Belle?” His gap-toothed smile made him look like a pirate.

  She couldn’t help but smile back. “I’m keeping my options open.”

  “Couple of ’em here worth looking at.” He nodded at the latest stack, then disappeared when she whirled around to introduce the next song.

  Belle flipped on the mike. “It’s quarter after eleven on a barely-above-freezing Wednesday, but we’re keeping things cooking in the studio with this number-one-with-a-bullet hit from October 1967, the Box Tops singing ‘My Baby, She Wrote Me a Letter.’ ”

  She talked right up to the post, hitting the last word before the vocalist punched in. It always made her feel sharp, on top of her game. Who knows who might be listening? A future beau, for all she knew. A hot L.A. programmer, driving through town. Nah. She’d found her home. The perfect town. A wonderful church. Only one heartfelt desire left. Well, two. But the husband had to come first, then the kids.

  Which brought her to the newest pile of mail. She sifted through the letters quickly, reading a few lines then moving on, intending to give them the interest they deserved later. One envelope caught her eye, though. Made her pause longer than usual. Plain white bond paper, nothing fancy. Neatly typed, probably on a computer. An Abingdon post office box for a return address, but no name. The usual postmark, a dual cancellation stamp for Bristol—Tennessee and Virginia—mailed yesterday.

  Hmm. She sliced it along the flap, taking care not to cut the letter in half with her razor-sharp opener. The page was covered with type. A chatty sort, eh? Single-spaced, business-looking. Until she read the words.

  January 26

  Miss Belle O’Brien

  WPER-FM 95

  Abingdon, Virginia 24210

  Dear Miss O’Brien,

  Since that first day you hit the airwaves, I’ve heard nearly every minute of your shows and loved them all. You have a genuine enthusiasm for life, a contagious, caring attitude, and a great laugh. I also appreciate the wise and witty style you use to handle callers, and the gentle way you let your faith shine on the air.

  He had her attention. Yes, he most certainly did. The letter was signed “All Ears,” so no clue there. She kept reading.

  I’m a single
guy, close to thirty, been around Abingdon for a while, and still haven’t found the woman of my dreams. Appearance doesn’t matter to me, although judging by the photos in the paper, you’re an exceptionally beautiful woman. Other things matter much more, though.

  Definitely a guy with his head on straight. No question his letter beat the college prof’s, hands down. Maybe she’d make this one her second choice. There was more:

  I’ve prayed for a woman who would share my joy in Christ. Share my desire to have a family and create a life together. A woman who’d fill our house with laughter and receive my love with open arms. Who’d offer a full measure of grace for all the things I’m sure to do wrong in a lifetime of loving her. I’m hoping that woman is you, Miss O’Brien.

  Belle was surprised to find her hands had grown clammy, her throat dry. This guy didn’t mince words. That “receive my love with open arms” part touched her at the core. And what a clear, unapologetic faith! The Lord knew how much she needed that, to keep her strong, keep her on track, to lead by example.

  Clearly, this letter was her first choice. Maybe her only one.

  In return for her love and affection, that woman would have my whole heart as her dwelling place. My complete attention would be given to her needs and hurts. My utter devotion would be hers, guaranteed for a lifetime. My boundless passion would ever be at her command.

  How could she be getting teary over a stranger’s letter?

  And how dare the Box Tops decide to stop singing so suddenly like that? She jammed another button on the control board and segued directly into the next song, throwing the music format right out the window. Junior Walker and the All-Stars crooned, “What Does It Take to Win Your Love?” while she finished the letter, sniffing all the way.

  I’m not a perfect man, Miss O’Brien. Not even close. But my spirit tells me that you are all these things and more, a woman to be reckoned with, a woman to be cherished. I’ve listened carefully, and I believe I’m a pretty good judge of character. Yours is priceless.