What had Sherry called her father? Mr. George Almighty Robison? No way, not for this radio engineer. There was only one Almighty in David’s life, the only ultimate authority he answered to.
“A shack is still a shack,” Robison insisted. “Hardly worth my risking a ten-thousand-dollar loan on a pile of wood that could come crashing down around your ears while the unpaid debt crashes around mine.”
David clenched his fists by his side, struggling for control. In the recesses of his memory, the list he’d been studying at Curt’s house unfurled like a banner: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. I need the whole fruit basket today, Lord.
“Mr. Robison, have you looked over the recent photos of the house? I think you’ll see a marked improvement, all according to code, all done with the proper permits and inspections. I had a realtor do a walk-through, and she estimated with the completed work done in time for the big spring real estate season, the house will be worth six or seven times the amount of the loan I’m asking for. She suggested a ninety-day balloon loan. Pay it all off at once, upon sale or three months, whichever came first.”
The man looked as if he’d swallowed a live weasel, so pronounced was his disgust. “Which realtor is that, pray tell?” When David shared her name, Robison merely shook his head. “These weekend open-house types are hardly licensed appraisers, let alone mortgage loan specialists.”
David cleared his throat, fighting for time and begging for patience. “I’d be happy to pay for an official appraisal.”
“Which would be a requirement if we were proceeding with this loan application. Which we are not.”
Here we go. “I’m afraid your reasoning is not, by law, sufficient to turn down this application without serious consideration, Mr. Robison.” He prayed his nights in the library studying the current laws for borrowing money in the state of Virginia would pay off for him now.
The veins in the older man’s neck were throbbing as he rose to his feet. “What did you say to me?”
“I said I need a detailed response, in writing. Proof that credit reports were done, references checked—”
“References? Cahill, the last time we saw one another, I handed you a check and an ultimatum. Do you recall what that was?”
Finally, Robison had gotten to the core issue. It had nothing to do with now. It had everything to do with then. The black slits that served for the man’s eyes had acquired a glint that stiffened David’s spine. He made certain his words were equally straight, like arrows, aimed at the heart.
“Yes, Mr. Robison, I recall it well. The date was August 28. The check was for one hundred dollars, which I ripped in two, if you recall. And the message you gave me was to leave town and never tell a soul about Sherry’s pregnancy.”
“And?”
“And that’s exactly what I did, sir.” Except for Belle.
“You did much more than that, young man!” The banker’s jowly face was purplish and shaking. “You drove Sherry away. Drove a wedge between her and the parents who loved her, who gave her life and every luxury she could ever want. And she threw it away for what? For you. For a lousy, worthless Cahill!” He leaned over and pounded his desk, punctuating his words. “She never called. She never wrote. We don’t know if she’s dead or alive. Because of you. You and your no-good drunk of a father—”
“I will not have you speak of my father that way!” The words rushed out before David could stop them. “My father was many things he wasn’t proud of, but he was never ashamed to have me as his son.” The truth of that hit David so hard he bent over slightly, as if he’d been kicked and all the air knocked out of him.
Say the rest of it, David.
“Sherry might have stayed in Abingdon, sir, if she’d thought her father felt the same way about her. But she didn’t. Your shame drove her away, not me. And your pride kept her away. I haven’t seen her in nine years myself, Mr. Robison. But I do know this. She’s definitely alive.”
George Robison dropped to his chair, clearly stunned. David was feeling a bit overwhelmed himself. He never thought he’d find himself defending his dad, but he’d done so. Was glad of it, too. Never imagined that Sherry had severed all contact with her parents. Hard to say who was the more stubborn one, Sherry or her father. Both were cut out of the same cloth, that was obvious.
Watching the banker wrestle with the news of his daughter’s well-being, David was suddenly struck with another blinding bit of truth. Joshua. If Sherry’s family didn’t know about her whereabouts, it was almost certain they didn’t know about Josh.
His son. George’s grandson.
It wasn’t his place to tell them, either. Sherry had kept the news to herself for a reason. David was undoubtedly looking at that reason right now.
Mr. Robison composed himself. The steel gleam in his eye returned, sharper than ever. “I appreciate knowing that my daughter is alive. Rest assured I’ll find her, whether she wants to be found or not. Meanwhile, I suggest you look for your money elsewhere, Cahill. There’s some fool out there who will loan it to you, though a few choice words from me ought to dry up your financial prospects in this town in a hurry.”
He stood and swaggered toward David, striking a pose meant to menace. “As for this office, I never want to see your face darken my door again.” He squinted at David, turning his features to stone. “I believe you’ve heard me say those words before, boy. Should have listened then. Listen now.”
David had no need to see this man again, ever. That’s what made it easy to extend his hand as he turned to leave. Easy to drop it when his offer of a handshake was ignored.
He’d listened, he’d learned, he’d obeyed God.
That was all that mattered.
Weary from doing battle, he stumbled out into the lengthening shadows of a late afternoon, bone tired yet oddly elated. Granted, his loan hadn’t been approved. There’s an understatement! Not a dime, not a dollar. He laughed to himself and headed on foot in the direction of the post office, needing the exercise, the air in his lungs, the chance for his head to clear.
No wonder he was elated.
He’d faced the darkest part of his past and survived. With his faith still intact, his honor still his own. Never mind the money. There were other ways to get the house finished in time. He’d work around the clock. See if WBT would stretch their offer to March 15. Ask Patrick for a short-term loan, a couple thousand to buy him a much-needed transfusion of skilled labor. Where there’s a will … Yeah, God’s will.
Somehow he’d make it happen. George Robison wasn’t going to ride him out of town on a rail, not this time.
He crossed the street, dodging cars and wintry winds, practically jogging to keep warm. A quick look at his watch told him the post office would be closing any minute. No matter. He only needed to check his mailbox and drop a stamped letter in the slot, and the lobby was always open for that.
Trotting across Wall Street, he dug in his pocket for his ring of keys, then pushed open the glass door into the post office. The warm air welcomed him like a friend. He swung left into the first row of boxes and collided with a small woman wearing a familiar green coat.
“Belle!”
“David?”
“What are you doing here?”
Their question, in unison, bounced off the metal walls full of mailboxes that surrounded the narrow space.
“You first.” Belle tugged her purse closer to her side, her cheeks pink.
“I stopped by to check my mailbox, like I do every afternoon on the way home from work.” He fiddled with the keys, searching for the long gold one that would open his mailbox. “And you?”
“I needed to buy a stamp. To mail a letter.” Belle looked like the cat that had been caught seconds after swallowing the canary, stray feathers tickling the corners of her mouth in a most charming way. “It’s addressed to a man whose mailbox is right along this row.”
“No kidding.” He looked around as if such a man m
ight leap out of a corner, key at the ready. “Who is he?”
“He signed his letter ‘All Ears.’ ”
David felt his eyebrows slip under his bangs. Well, well. “ ‘All Ears,’ huh?”
Belle dug in her purse and pulled out a white folded paper. “Since this was your idea, maybe you’d like to read it.”
“My idea?”
“Remember? You agreed to review the letters I’m responding to in a more … uh, personal fashion. I’ve decided this is the only guy I’ll write back to in any encouraging way. The only one I’ll agree to meet.”
He unfolded the letter with a snap. “So we’re meeting him now?”
Belle sniffed, looking over his hands as if she hadn’t already read this letter, probably many times. “Well, I’m meeting him. If he’s willing.”
David thought he’d been through every emotion possible during his loan interview with George Robison. It seemed there were a few more sentiments he’d be exploring this afternoon, starting with the ice running through his veins right now. Belle seemed excited about meeting this man. A stranger to her, and an audacious one, judging by the tone of the letter David was reading.
“Why are you doing this, Belle?” He hadn’t meant for his voice to sound so abrupt, his words so demanding.
She blinked. “You know why. Because … because you …”
He grabbed her shoulders, feeling them tense up through the heavy wool coat. “Because I have a chance to better myself? Because you don’t care whether I stay or go?”
“How dare you put words in my mouth!” Belle’s eyes snapped as sharply as her words, gold sparks of fire that illuminated the dim corners of the empty post office.
He let go of her shoulders, aware he was squeezing them hard, probably hurting her. “Then you put the words there.” His tone was more insistent than belligerent. Could she hear the difference? Was there any? “Belle, tell me why you want to meet a man you don’t even know.”
When I know you. When I care for you.
He was an imbecile to let this foolishness go forward when he could stop it right now. By telling her the truth.
“All right. I will tell you why.” She looked around, clearly desperate for a chair to fall into. Or a big, dark hole. Why had he pushed her so hard? Whatever she was going to say, he deserved.
“I’m meeting this man because …” She was fading again. “Because I’m trying my best to let you move to Charlotte with no strings attached.” Her voice caught. “To give you the freedom to follow your heart wherever it leads, without confusing the issue with … with …”
He kissed her.
For a long time.
It was the only way to make sure she didn’t say something they’d both regret. No strings? Was the woman crazy? She had more strings tied around his fingers and toes than the Lilliputians used on Gulliver.
Belle started to pull away. The heat in her cheeks told him she was embarrassed. Too bad. He pulled her toward him again, mashing his mouth on hers, more worried about staking his claim than impressing her with finesse. She didn’t pull back, wasn’t fighting him.
When he finally let her go, they were both breathing hard, warming the air around them so thoroughly that his glasses steamed up. He took them off to wipe them dry while Belle stared at him with a faraway look in her eyes. Maybe it just seemed far away because he couldn’t see farther than two feet.
He slipped them back on and she offered a crooked little smile. “David, have I ever told you what amazing eyes you have?”
“Yes, ma’am, you have.” He pressed his lips against her forehead, wanting closure, a seal of approval. “Still think you wanna meet this Mr. Ears?”
“Too late.” She sighed, buttoning her coat and moving toward the door. “I’ve already mailed the letter. Friday evening at the Grill. Five o’clock. Maybe he won’t get the letter in time. Might not show up, either.” She backed toward the door, the darkening sky providing a backdrop through the double panes of glass. “See you at work tomorrow.”
“Wait for me.” He dropped a letter in the outgoing slot, then quickly emptied out his box, keeping one eye on Belle as he flipped through the few pieces of mail. Nothing from California. All he needed to know for the moment.
He jammed the letters in his pocket and hurried after her, steering her into the parking lot then tucking her arm snugly inside his own. “How ’bout I walk you home? Never know what kind of crazies might be out this evening.”
Belle laughed. Loudly. “None of them could be crazier than the man who just assaulted me in an empty post office.”
“Assaulted? The very idea.” He jerked his chin up. She wasn’t the only one who could be dramatic. “Did you scream? Call for help? Try to get away?”
She dropped her head, shoulders shaking, still laughing. “No. No. And never mind.” She shot him a sideways grin. “I’ll bet Norah has some soup on tonight. Are you game?”
Norah’s soup? Belle’s company? He tipped his glasses down to give her a full-court wink. “Such silly questions you ask, woman.”
Norah heard them on her porch before she heard the doorbell, their voices ringing in the frosty air. David and Belle. Just as it should be. She reached up for another two soup bowls, ladled the aromatic potato cheese chowder into the deep-dish stoneware and carried them into the dining room as they pushed open the front door, right on cue.
“Welcome home!” She loved seeing the looks of astonishment on their faces as they rounded the corner and found their soup waiting. “Thought you might be hungry.”
“Norah, you are …” David scratched his head, seemingly at a loss for words. “ ‘Incredible’ doesn’t capture it, but it’s a start. I guess some bread would be too much to hope—oh my. Look at this.”
She floated back into the room, a long cloth-covered basket in hand. “Hoska bread, fresh out of the oven. Somebody’s favorite, I recall.”
“Mine!” her guests chimed, laughing as they tore off their coats and scarves, eagerly preparing to break bread together.
Norah slid into the seat at the head of the table and reached for their hands. “Pray with me.” They bowed their heads and she offered a simple, heartfelt entreaty for the Lord’s blessing on their lives. More prayers went heavenward than those that were spoken aloud. Knit them together, Lord. Let them see you in each other’s hearts, so they’ll know your will and design for their future.
The prayer finished, they dove into the soup, spoons first.
“Speaking of the future,” Norah said, then realized they wouldn’t have a clue what she was talking about. “Ah … the future of … uh, your house, David. How is that coming? I know you were looking into some options for finishing it more quickly.”
“You mean the loan I applied for?” His voice was subdued, pensive. “Thanks for letting me list you as a reference, Norah. Unfortunately, they turned me down.”
They couldn’t have. “They what?”
“David, why didn’t you tell me?” Belle looked suitably crushed for a brief moment, until another expression dawned on her face, like the sun coming up over the Blue Ridge on an absolutely clear morning. “Wait! That means—” Belle clamped down on her lips and refused to say another word, content to beam her rays in David’s direction while Norah merely observed the sunrise in the young woman’s face.
My, if it isn’t Epiphany all over again.
Norah pressed the banking subject a bit further. “It’s odd they’d refuse you the loan, David, when they clearly hadn’t done their homework. They never called me about that reference, for instance. Nor Patrick, to my knowledge.”
His face grew still. “I’m not surprised.”
Norah felt a slight twitch in her chest, the one she always trusted to warn her when something wasn’t right. “Who was the loan officer in charge? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“George.” He swallowed his soup with a noisy gulp. “George Robison.”
Norah watched Belle’s expression. No reaction. The name meant
nothing to her. Good, good. It meant everything to Norah. The whole ugly picture was prominently on display.
“I see. Wasn’t he at Citizens First for all those years?”
“Uh … I believe so.” David’s eyes reflected a pain Norah comprehended only too well.
I know, I understand, Norah wanted to say. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t supposed to know about a certain banker’s daughter and a son born out of wedlock and an honorable young man raised in a house full of sorrow, determined to do the right thing, financially and every other way. She should have been privy to none of that confidential information, whispered to her by the town busybody.
Yet here she sat, knowing what she knew. Knowing what had to be done to right a very old wrong.
twenty-three
You don’t know a woman until you’ve had a letter from her.
ADA LEVERSON
NORAH’S HEELS CLICKED ACROSS the marble floor, a muted staccato amid the secretarial buzz that greeted another workday at Abingdon Bank and Trust. Yes, the receptionist assured her, Mr. Robison was in his office this morning. Would Mrs. Silver-Smyth kindly take a seat?
She would. For the moment.
Norah slipped off her kid gloves and slid them into the deep pockets of the ankle-length fox coat. Her look was calculated, intentional, an art form Randolph Smyth had taught her fifteen years earlier. Appearance was everything, he’d insisted. Power. Money. Influence.
What a lot of rubbish.
Today, though, Norah wanted—needed—to appear influential. For one reason. She was determined to make a difference. Though dressed to kill, she prayed a funeral wouldn’t be necessary. Smothering George Robison in guilt was not her idea of a good time, but helping him do the right thing? That activity suited her to a perfect T.
The heavy paneled door to the corner office swung open and George marched out, wearing an expensive suit and a smile that went no further than the corners of his mouth. When his black eyes landed on her, they practically danced, taking in her luxurious coat and fashionable attire in one long head-to-toe leer.
Mixed Signals Page 27
