Could we take a chance and find out more about one another? Name the time and place and we’ll meet. Somewhere you’ll feel safe. If it’s the Lord’s will, I hope someday you’ll discover that the safest place you could ever be is in my arms.
With respect and admiration,extractAll Ears in Abingdon
She used the letter to fan herself while her head was spinning. Who is this guy? Surely not a real person. Still, there was a post office box number. It may have been written on a computer, but not by a computer.
Nope, this was a real man. Close to thirty, he said. Single, local, a committed Christian. And what a way he has with words! Belle kept fanning her heated cheeks and punched up another tune, her third in a row, this one a classic from 1966, the Righteous Brothers’ “You’re My Soul and Inspiration.”
Without warning, the studio door burst open. Startled, she slapped the letter against her chest and spun around. “David!”
He stood there, hands on hips, looking like nothing short of a majormarket engineer. In other words, unhappy with the on-air talent. “When I heard three in a row and no Belle, I thought perhaps you’d fallen asleep at the switch.” One expressive eyebrow arched above his glasses. “Are you planning on talking today, or did we change to a ‘less talk, more rock’ format while I was gone Monday?”
The nerve of this man! She refolded the letter and slipped it into her purse, intentionally delaying her answer while she built up a good head of steam. “Since when do you worry about what I say or don’t say on the air, not to mention which music clock I’m working with?”
His shrug was clearly meant to infuriate her further. “Burt asked me to keep an eye on things while he’s meeting with a client.”
“Humph.” She’d turned her back to him, stacking up carts and doing her best to give him the cold shoulder. Two of them, in fact, plus a cold neck. A very cold neck.
He was standing directly behind her now. If she backed up, she could roll over his toes. Twice, if she rolled fast enough.
“Speaking of meeting people, Belle, you looked pretty interested in that letter when I came in. Is he the lucky guy you’ve chosen to meet?”
She tipped her head back and looked straight up at him. Confound it, the brute even looked handsome upside down. “What’s it to you, I’d like to know?”
He spread his hands apart. “Not a thing. Curious is all.” His tone lost its teasing edge as he slowly turned her chair around and knelt down so they were eye to eye.
Her bravado slipped away as quickly as it’d appeared.
“Do me a favor, will you, Belle?”
She gulped and nodded. Anything except throw that letter away.
“Today is the day I meet with the bank. About a loan for the house, so I can hire a couple of guys to help me finish in time for WBT. Nobody else knows about the offer but you. Nobody. Will you pray for me? In fact, will you pray with me, right now?”
She nodded. “Let me get in and out of this next commercial set before Patrick comes in here asking for my head on a platter.”
David stayed where he was while she spun around and did a quick back-sell, listing the songs and artists of her three-in-a-row “special music sweep.” She read the weather and a liner card, then punched up the first commercial, relieved to let the equipment handle everything else automatically.
“Now.” She turned back, her heart skipping a beat when she discovered he’d slipped to both knees, inches away from her. “Well, well, just what I’ve always dreamed of. A man kneeling at my feet.”
“Get used to it, Belle. Every man in town is willing.”
Not every man. “Let’s pray.”
They bowed their heads and David went first, begging the Lord for mercy when he met with the bank at three o’clock, asking that the loan officer be fair and hear him out.
Belle echoed his prayers, adding her own silent entreaties between the lines. Your will be done, Lord. If he’s supposed to go to Charlotte, let everything happen that needs to today at the bank. If it doesn’t happen, then give me the courage to ask him to stay, Lord. For me.
Belle could hear the stop set ending, her cue to be ready to introduce the next song. She cleared her throat and clicked on the mike. “From 1967, one of Dionne Warwick’s dozen top-twenty hits. ‘I Say a Little Prayer for You’ on Oldies 95 W-P-E-R.”
She winked at David making his way toward the door, obviously amused by her selection, and turned off the mike. “Hey, it’s my show, right? Let me know how it goes at the bank.”
Minutes later, she stole a glance at the letter sticking up out of her purse. Very tempting, that. Would it hurt to meet him? If David did get the loan, if he did take the job, wouldn’t it be wonderful to have such a man as a friend? Don’t fool yourself, Belle. You are not thinking brotherly thoughts about this guy, whoever he is.
The truth was, she felt guilty for thinking about him at all. And I wouldn’t be thinking about him if David weren’t so circumspect about his feelings! If he’d simply say, “I’m leaving town, it’s been nice,” she’d be fine with it. In a few years.
Or, if he’d announce, “We’re getting married and moving to Charlotte,” she’d be fine with that, too. And be dressed in thirty seconds.
One thing was certain. Despite her promise to David to let everyone read this letter and give her an opinion, she intended to keep it safely tucked away from prying eyes. Norah would think she was crazy to consider meeting a stranger like that. Patrick would insist she have a police escort. Heather would tell her to throw the letter away, then dig it out of the trash and write the man herself. Especially after Heather’s disastrous movie date with her not-so-Happy Together winner. The tub of hot buttered popcorn in her blond hair was apparently only the beginning of Heather’s dreadful night at the cinema, poor thing.
And David would undoubtedly be jealous if he saw this listener’s letter …
Which was why, come to think of it, he’d be the one person she would show the letter to, the one person she’d tell about her plans to meet the man. A little jealousy might prompt David to articulate his own feelings for her. Though she doubted he’d be half as eloquent as her mysterious “All Ears.”
Hmm. Hope they’re not big ears.
Belle reached for the letter again while the Casinos waited in the wings to sing their one big hit, “Then You Can Tell Me Good-bye.” She went through the motions of introducing the tune as her eyes scanned the opening words of a letter she suspected she’d be reading off and on all afternoon.
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.
David sat in the outer office of the bank, cooling his jets, waiting his turn. He gazed through the wooden venetian blinds. The afternoon sun was doing its best to shine, eclipsed by heavy cloud cover. More snow in the forecast, Belle had announced. Welcome to midwinter in the Virginia Highlands.
The marble floor glowed with the rich patina of age. And money. Abingdon Bank and Trust had been around a long time. David, who kept his checking account at a bank in Bristol, had chosen this location for two reasons. First, because Patrick banked here and assured him his name would help grease the skids. David hadn’t told Patrick why he needed to borrow money for the house remodeling, just that he did. Patrick hadn’t batted an eye or asked a single question.
The other reason he’d picked this place was simpler: Sherry’s father didn’t work there. The last David remembered, Robison was at Citizens First Bank. Or whatever their name was now. Banks seemed to put their names up with Velcro lately. He hadn’t seen the man since he got back to town in October. Who knows? Robison might not live in Abingdon anymore. In any case, this wasn’t his bank and that was all that mattered.
David read over his copy of the loan application again, filled out with care the day before. Although he’d only been employed four months, his college and service records were top-notch. He’d worked hard to make sure of it.
&n
bsp; His references were chosen with care: Patrick Reese, because he was his boss, and Norah Silver-Smyth, because she was a class act who knew the whole town. As long as his loan officer was some young guy who didn’t know a Cahill from a katydid, he figured he’d be as good a risk as the next guy.
His house would be collateral. The loan money would go for labor. It would take about ten thousand dollars, he’d calculated, every dime of which would be paid back the minute the house was sold. The way houses were moving in Abingdon, it would be gone in sixty days and he’d still come out ahead. Way ahead, if the Lord was merciful.
The door opened and a thirty-something man in a striped tie and yellow shirt stepped out. Perfect.
“Welcome, Mr. Cahill. Sorry to keep you waiting. My manager and I will be happy to sit down and discuss your loan application now.” The young banker waved him into a corner office, one with thick blue carpet, natural woodwork polished to an elegant sheen, and tasteful, gilt-edged paintings lining the walls.
The decor was meant to intimidate. In David’s case, the effort was superfluous. The man sitting behind the huge mahogany desk was intimidating enough. It wasn’t his height, though he was taller than average. Or his strong jawline, carved out of the same marble they’d used for the bank lobby floor.
No, it was who he was. And what he stood for.
“Mr. Cahill,” the young loan officer was saying, perhaps sensing a change in the atmosphere and wanting to do his best to smooth things over. “Meet our brand-new vice president of the loan division, Mr. George Robison. Sir, this is David Cahill.”
The man behind the desk stood, a column of gray granite in his Brooks Brothers suit. His cold eyes shrank to black slits. “No introduction necessary, Chuck. I know Mr. Cahill and his family well. Leave us alone, please. I’ll take things from here.”
Belle placed the two letters side by side. His exquisite letter to her; her own much-labored-over response to him. The man, whoever he was, had clearly poured his heart out to her. She wished she could do the same. But he had the advantage. He’d heard her on the air, every day, for months. Had read a long article about her, seen her photos. Maybe had stopped by her remote broadcast at Dollar General, not introducing himself, just hanging around to watch.
Ugh. She didn’t want to think about that. Gave her the willies.
Her show over, Belle was hiding in the production studio hoping no one would come looking for her until she’d gotten this letter safely signed, sealed, and delivered to the post office.
Quick, before she chickened out.
Quick, before someone read the two letters, his and hers, and declared her certifiably crazy. Her plan was iffy, no doubt. But not dangerous. Meeting him at the Grill would keep things from ever going over the edge.
Besides, she had to do it. Had to get David’s attention, force his hand. Wouldn’t it be easier to simply confess your feelings to him? The thought had nagged at her all afternoon. Sure, it would be easier. But WBT had complicated things. If he really wanted to move, she had to give him the space to do so. Going with him was out of the question, since their relationship hadn’t reached the happily-ever-after stage.
Yet here she sat writing a letter to a stranger who was already talking about marriage! She might not have the talent for acting, but no question she had the artistic temperament for it. Up, down, up, down …
Taking a breath to steel her nerves, she scanned her letter for the fourth time that hour.
January 27
Dear All Ears,
I must admit, your letter got my attention. Such a wordsmith you are! It’s odd to have you know so much about me when I know so little about you.
Thanks for your kind words about my show, in particular for noticing that I’m a Christian. I’m ashamed to admit my faith got put on a back burner for a few years, but God has faithfully waited for me to come to my senses and make him first in my life. I’ve found a great church family here in Abingdon and am learning what it means to trust God completely.
Then why wasn’t she trusting God to work things out with David? The thought needled her conscience. She ignored the jabbing pain and kept reading.
Your desire to find a godly wife is admirable. And appealing, I must admit. Only the Lord knows if I could be that woman. The qualities you offer in return are generous to say the least. Love, affection, attention, passion, devotion … you must know those things would ring any woman’s chimes. Especially a woman named Belle!
Was that too much? Too positive, too encouraging? She didn’t want him to think she was ready for the altar. Heaven forbid. And you will forbid it, won’t you, Lord? Stop me from doing anything rash and losing David in the process?
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. She pressed on, hoping the next section would let him know her heart was already spoken for.
I’m not perfect either, Mr. Ears. I’m also not as lonely as the article suggested. There’s someone special in my life, a man I’ve known for three months. I’m learning to care for him more deeply every day. Because he might be moving away this spring, things are up in the air with us right now. It seems only fair to warn you, though, that my heart, my mind, my soul are filled with thoughts of him around the clock. Perhaps by the time we meet, that will be resolved, one way or the other. For both our sakes, I sincerely hope so.
Looking forward to hearing back from you soon and learning more about what makes you tick. If you’re serious about meeting me, I’ll be at the Court Street Grill having dinner Friday at five o’clock. Thanks again for your lovely letter.
With gratitude,
Belle O’Brien
There. She’d been honest, fair, and encouraging, right? The door stood open for him to walk through, as long as he understood what the situation was.
What is the situation, Belle? Simple. She wanted this kind stranger to write back immediately. Agree to meet her. Turn out to be almost everything she ever wanted in a man. He couldn’t be everything. That was David. But enough to make David see the writing on the wall. To take one solid step in her direction. One step, Lord. I’ll run the rest of the way.
David had to make the first move so she’d know it was God’s will and according to his plan. She’d gone off on enough tangents without touching base with God first. Not this time. Your way or no way, Lord.
Belle laughed out loud, filling the four empty corners of the brightly lit production studio. Not “My way or the highway” ? You really have made some progress.
She signed the letter with a flourish of her dark green pen and folded the thick, creamy paper with care. Sliding it inside the matching envelope, she sealed it with a lick and a promise and flipped it over to add his address. Only a post office box, no name, as secretive and mysterious as he was.
“Your turn, Mr. Ears.” She headed out the door as she consulted her watch. Minutes away from four. The post office was a twenty-minute walk. She’d have to hustle to get there in time to buy a stamp and get her letter in the mail. Good thing the snow hasn’t started yet. She bundled up, calling out a general good-bye to all within earshot, and charged down the steps.
A cold, biting wind greeted her when she reached the street. Tugging her scarf tighter around her neck, she put her head into the wind blowing hard out of the west and pointed herself toward the post office, ten blocks away. Maybe she’d walk as far as the house and jump in her car. Nah. It might take longer to find a parking space. As David had reminded her a hundred years ago or so, tempus fugit.
Flying along Main Street as if her boots had wings, she passed Abingdon Bank and Trust, wondering how things had gone with David’s loan. An honorable, hardworking guy like him? Surely a no-brainer for the loan officer. Naturally they’d given him the money.
Which meant if she was going to get David’s attention before his eyes were permanently fixed on WBT and North Carolina, she’d have to make tracks.
twenty-two
Truth or tact? You have to choose. Most times they are not compatible.
EDDIE CANTOR
DAVID REMAINED STANDING EVEN after Chuck, the junior loan officer, backed out of the corner office, tail tucked firmly between his legs. Even after George Robison indicated by a perfunctory wave toward a hard wooden chair that David was expected to sit.
David preferred to stand.
This wasn’t the time or the place or the circumstance he would have chosen, but this meeting was destined to happen someday. He would not face it sitting down.
The banker did sit, finally, pulling a slim file folder toward him and opening it with some ceremony. David could see it was his loan application, a copy of his bank statement, a letter from Patrick stating his employment terms, and his own sketch and photos of the house and property. Everything in order.
Resting his elbows on the paperwork, George Robison steepled his fingers and trained his metallic gaze on him, not meeting David’s eyes but focusing on a point in the middle of his forehead, shutting down any avenue of communication.
The corners of the man’s mouth had not budged from the firm, hard line David had seen there when he’d walked into the office. The older man managed to maintain that line when he spoke. “You know, of course, that a loan on this property is out of the question.”
David felt his stomach drop to his knees. He gritted his teeth to keep his disappointment from showing. “Why is that?” He knew why, he just wanted to hear the man say it.
“When the property was originally sold to Patrick Edward Reese last September, that shack you live in was appraised at one thousand dollars. Not worth the wood and nails it’s made out of, in other words. I believe it was of such little value it was slated to be torn down. Am I right?”
“That was the original plan, yes. I offered Mr. Reese three thousand dollars for two acres and the house. You’ll see the property sale agreement in that file folder. The one under your elbow.” David could not, would not be intimidated by this man. He’d followed the law to the letter in this real estate deal with Patrick. Had already paid him off, owned the house and land, free and clear.
Mixed Signals Page 26
