Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  “Mrs. Silver-Smyth!” He offered his hand to her, which Norah pretended not to see as she swept past him and into his office, gently shaking her silver head for sheer effect.

  “Nice office, George.” She gave the room a cursory glance and tossed her slim leather purse onto a wooden chair. Was David forced to sit there for interrogation yesterday? “Seems you’ve moved up in the world. This space is decidedly more impressive than the one you had at Citizens.”

  He looked suddenly unsure of himself, as if he couldn’t decide whether to stand or sit, smile or not smile. He finally sat. And smiled, though she noticed it didn’t improve his features in the least. A frown surely waited in the wings. She’d watch it move center stage soon enough.

  “What brings you to my office this morning, Norah?”

  He’d used her first name deliberately, no doubt wanting to put them on equal footing.

  “Well, George—” She flashed a smile meant to tip things in her favor again—“It seems a grievous error has been made.”

  His faced paled slightly. “By the bank?”

  “No. By you.” She let that sink in, watched his brow furrow, imagined him mentally sorting through papers and calendars, looking for some detail that might have slipped past him.

  Finally he shrugged. “I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me, Norah. What have I done?”

  This time? She could point out so many. The years George and Randolph—husband number two—spent quietly shifting assets so that when Mr. Smyth left her for a younger woman he took most of their resources with him. Then there were the dozens of occasions when George had pledged to sponsor one community event or another, only to leave Norah high and dry when it came time to produce the funds.

  Still, nothing came close to his most recent misstep. The others had been bad business decisions on his part. It was only money. She’d managed. This one involved a young man who’d paid dearly for one mistake.

  And paid. And paid.

  She made sure George was staring straight at her, then began. “Yesterday, David Cahill came here looking for a loan. A small, reasonable loan any hardworking homeowner might request. Very little risk involved. But you turned him down. Because nine years ago he loved your daughter Sherry.”

  “What … you … !” George was sputtering.

  “He wasn’t good enough, was he? A Cahill, poorest of Abingdon’s poor. So you’ve decided he isn’t good enough now. Is that about the size of it?”

  “This is categorically none of your business!”

  For an instant, she imagined herself in David’s shoes, literally standing in the same spot yesterday, facing the wrath of this man. Brave soul. She was in no danger whatsoever. George Robison couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t hurt her the way he’d undoubtedly hurt David.

  “You’re exactly right.” She tuned her voice to its coolest tone. “It isn’t one bit of my business. It is your business, however. Loaning money to those who deserve it. Investing in the future.” She leaned on his desk, manicured hands fanned out across its mahogany surface. “Your daughter’s future, for starters.”

  “What about my daughter?” His bellow had a trace of panic behind it; then a dark expression crossed the man’s face. “Norah, have you been consorting with her all these years, helping her hide from the family who loves her?”

  “Certainly not.” Hide? “Am I to understand that you haven’t seen Sherry since she left town?”

  He slumped in his chair, staring out the window. Things were worse than Norah imagined. Does he even know about his grandson?

  When George spoke, his voice was so low she almost missed the words. “We haven’t seen or heard from Sherry in nine years. At first we were furious with her. Didn’t try to find her. Figured she’d come crawling back for money eventually.” His features stiffened. “She didn’t. We didn’t know where to start looking. What town, what state.”

  “At what point did you stop trying to find her?”

  He sighed heavily, his expensive suit wrinkling around him, as if it had suddenly grown too big for his drooping shoulders.

  “We gave up when it became clear she didn’t want to be found. Didn’t want to come back.”

  “And you blame David for this?”

  He straightened up, bristling. “Who else? He’s the one who … who …”

  “George, really.” Norah shook her head, letting a faint smile stretch across her lips. “It takes two and you know it. They were impulsive kids.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You knew? You knew why she left? About the pregnancy?” His voice rose to an anguished pitch. “Who else knows? The whole town?”

  “I doubt anyone knew at the time.” She gave a dismissive wave and tossed a quick prayer that the woman who’d told her in the strictest confidence had let the tale-telling end with her. “Sherry left town so quickly and then, at your prodding, so did David. I’ve certainly not heard it bandied about. The key is, the two of them knew what happened and knew it was wrong. Still, in their own ways, David and Sherry have both tried to do the right thing since then.”

  “What ‘right thing’ is that?”

  “Caring for Joshua.”

  George clambered to his feet, sending his heavy leather chair careening against the bookcase behind his desk. “Joshua? Joshua who?”

  “Joshua Robison.” Lord, give me strength. “Your eight-year-old grandson. Sherry’s son. David’s son.” She paused, not wanting to rush his reaction, wanting it to sink in. “I’m sorry Sherry didn’t tell you herself, George.” Very sorry.

  She continued to wait, letting the truth do its work on the man’s heart. Surely he had one somewhere in there, buried beneath years of denial and pain. And guilt.

  “Here’s something else that will surprise you. David has been sending her money for eight long years. Even when Sherry didn’t want it. Or him.” Norah was improvising now, less certain of her facts, but more clear than ever about the desired outcome.

  George’s voice became a mere shadow of its former snarling self. “Cahill sent her money?”

  “I have it from a reliable source that David sent Sherry two hundred dollars a month. For eight years.”

  Ever the banker, George stretched across his desk for a calculator and punched in the numbers. Sinking back down into his chair, he whistled under his breath. “Nearly twenty thousand dollars.”

  She nodded at the sum. “A lot of money for an airman to come up with. Or a college student. Or a radio engineer, trying to remodel his first house.” Norah patted the man’s clammy hand and straightened up, feeling the atmosphere in the room growing lighter. Glad you’re here, Lord. He’s coming around, isn’t he?

  “A grandson.” George kept nodding his head, swallowing hard. His eyes, black as they were, had a watery sheen Norah hadn’t noticed before. “No wonder Sherry didn’t come back. I told her … I told her the only way she could come back is if she … if she came … alone.”

  Regret was stamped across his face like a brand.

  Norah blinked before her own eyes betrayed her and added a slight smile to her voice, hoping to soften the hard edges of truth. “Good thing she’s as stubborn as you are, then. Carrying the child to term, creating a home for him. It takes a good dose of starch to raise a child by yourself.” She stole a quick look at her watch and the appointment book open on his desk. “You have a busy day ahead, I see. And a great deal to think about.” Here we go, Lord. “May I offer an idea worth considering?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “This isn’t something you have to do, understand. Merely a suggestion of what an honorable man might do. What a good father might do.”

  “Oh?” He cleared his throat. “What’s that?”

  She slipped a silver-edged note card from her purse. On it was a recommendation for him to mull over, one she’d come up with after fretting over it all through the dark hours of the morning. She placed it in front of him without another word and watched him read it. Within seconds, the veins in his neck were bulgin
g, either from his anger or her audacity, Norah wasn’t sure which. She pressed on before she lost her nerve.

  “David did what you weren’t willing to do. He claimed the child as his own. Put his reputation and his money on the line to do it.” Almost there, Norah. “Now’s your chance to step up to the plate. Show your daughter she’s forgiven. Show David he’s respected for doing the right thing when he didn’t have to. Show Joshua he’s loved by a family he probably doesn’t know exists.”

  Norah pulled his appointment book toward her and flipped it over to Friday. “You’ve got an opening tomorrow at four o’clock. I’ll see that David is here, waiting in the lobby. Handle it as you see fit, George. Just remember this—” She moved toward the door, then turned for her parting shot of grace—“You didn’t know the whole situation. Now you do. For whatever wrongs you’ve done here, God’s forgiveness is big enough to handle them. The choice is yours. I’ll be praying.”

  Norah pulled the door closed behind her and floated across the marbled floors and out onto the sidewalk on a cloud of relief. She was amazed to find the world still spinning on its axis. The midmorning sky still shone with pale gray sunlight. Her pricey high heels still hurt like the dickens.

  Whatever came of this visit with George Robison, she’d accomplished the two things she’d set out to do. Told him the truth about David and cleared the path for reconciliation. “It’s up to you now, George,” she said to no one in particular, sliding her car key in the lock, smiling broadly.

  It truly was a beautiful day. Perfect for a drive. She turned the ignition and the Lincoln purred to life. A quick jaunt to Damascus, perhaps? Fourteen miles southeast of Abingdon. A sleepy town where another father went about his business—sober and solvent, if the rumors were true—unaware of what a fine young man David Cahill had turned out to be.

  Time he found out, Norah decided. She giggled like a woman half her age, about to do a deed only a woman her age would dare attempt. My, but we’re feeling feisty today! She, who never meddled in anyone else’s business—ever—was about to meddle again. But my intentions are pure, Lord. Of course they were. Children needed their parents, didn’t they? And sometimes, parents needed their children even more.

  She’d stop by the house and change first. No silks and furs needed for this gentle, humble man, one who knew only too well what he’d done wrong. She couldn’t wait to tell him all that he’d done right.

  David took a long breath, steeling himself, then unlocked the post office box.

  Yes! It was there, just as he’d hoped. He made short work of the envelope, disposing of it in a nearby trash can, and leaned back on the wall of metal mailboxes for support, physical and otherwise. The wall felt cold against his back, though he barely noticed the temperature or the late Thursday afternoon gloom, so focused was his attention on the letter he was unfolding with care.

  Cream-colored paper, thick. A B embossed on it. How like Belle. The tone of her response was friendly, yet tentative. No wonder. She didn’t know who was reading her letter. Yet.

  His eyes drank in the words, smiling at her line about chimes and Belles. He loved when the halls of WPER rang with her laughter. Definitely more musical than her singing.

  The next paragraph sent his heart skipping wildly around his chest as he read each word, letting the truth he found there sink in. “My heart, my mind, my soul are filled with thoughts of him around the clock …”

  His knees buckled, sending him inching down the wall. Belle was talking about him, confessing her feelings about him to a virtual stranger. Lord, I had no idea! His parka suddenly felt too hot, too tight, keeping him from breathing.

  She thought about him, she said. All the time, she said.

  He filled her soul. Filled her soul.

  If that wasn’t love, it was striking-distance close. He wanted to confront her on the spot. Track her down at the radio station. You’re wooing her, remember? Not confronting.

  He’d written her for one purpose, to drag her attention away from those other pain-in-the-neck letter writers and get it back on him. Where he wanted it to be, longed for it to be.

  “All Ears” had worked. Too well. If you can put your feelings on paper, Cahill, you can say them face to face.

  He kept reading. She wanted to meet him tomorrow night. No problem. He’d be there early, be waiting, be certain she saw him and understood his feelings.

  Because those feelings had a name now.

  He loved her. It was love and nothing less.

  No more holding back, no more playing games, no more waiting for her to make the first move. Too risky. He’d almost lost her to some mystery man when she was everything he could hope for, everything he’d prayed for in a woman.

  In a wife.

  That’s what it would take. Commitment. A promise for the future. Belle was old enough to know what she wanted. And if she wanted him, if she’d take him as is, he was hers. All hers.

  He tucked the letter in his pocket and made his way toward the truck, already composing the note he’d write back and drop in the mail within the hour.

  One more day, Belle. This time tomorrow he’d be driving toward downtown Abingdon, freshly shaved, wearing a new white shirt and a clean pair of jeans. With a threadbare wallet in his pockets. With a ramshackle roof over his head and a beat-up, run-down truck in his driveway. And with a heart so full of love it might not fit through the doors of the Court Street Grill.

  Belle slipped on her cans, listening to the Marvelettes winding down, singing along in her customized key, making up her own words to “Please Mr. Postman.”

  Please let there be a plain white envelope for me …

  It wasn’t merely a song, she decided. It was a prayer.

  She turned on the mike and trilled, “That was the first number-one single for Motown Records back in 1961. I’m Belle O’Brien, spinning your favorites on W-P-E-R Oldies 95. Weather, coming up.” She flicked off the mike and shook her head. Dull, girl. Her whole first hour had been that way, a distracted, disjointed mess, with one eye trained on the studio door, wondering when Burt would come strolling in with the day’s mail.

  Her first “All Ears” letter had arrived on Wednesday. He should have received her letter Thursday. Now it was Friday. Your turn, fella.

  When Burt showed up with a smattering of correspondence, Belle tried to act nonchalant as she waved him back out the door while sliding a letter opener along the seal of a telltale white envelope. The minute the door swooshed shut, she tore out the sheet of paper as her heart leaped into her throat.

  Disappointment sent it thudding back into place. So short! Not the long, soul-bearing epistle she’d hoped for, just a few brief lines from her mysterious admirer.

  January 28

  Dear Belle,

  Hope you don’t mind my using your first name. After reading your letter a dozen times, I feel as though I’m getting to know you better. The real, true you. The woman, not the radio personality.

  Your renewed commitment to the Lord thrills me. To be honest, though, I’m not as thrilled to hear about this man in your life who fills your thoughts day and night. Does he know how blessed he is to have a woman like you care about him?

  You also deserve to know much more about me. Will you trust me to do that in person, tonight? I’ll be counting the hours until I see you at five o’clock.

  Listening with all my heart …

  P.S. Just so I’ll know you’re definitely coming, would you play “Cherish” by the Association when you sign off? Pay attention to the lyrics, Belle. Cherish is the word.

  Whoever her anonymous correspondent was, he’d chosen a most romantic record for her to play.

  Stop it, Belle! Don’t get off track. She grabbed the appropriate CD for later in her show. This was about getting David’s attention, not winning the heart of Mr. Ears.

  Did David know how blessed he was to have her care about him? Not yet, maybe, but soon. One dinner spent with her mystery man ought to push David over the edge
the minute he got wind of it. She’d make sure the news blew in his direction.

  The letter from Belle was one thing. David had expected that. Had watched her mail the thing yesterday afternoon, in fact. Before he kissed her. Before soup. But this note from Norah Silver-Smyth, waiting in his mailbox at work, this was something else again.

  David shrugged off his parka and unfolded the letter. No stamp or address. She’d obviously dropped it by the station in person, maybe after her morning muffin round with Patrick. Would Belle bring him breakfast like that every morning? Nah. Never happen.

  Norah’s elegant handwriting covered the pale silver stationery with loops and swirls that took some time to decipher.

  David,

  So nice of you to join us for chowder Wednesday. Consider this a standing invitation to join us for a bowl on Soup Night whenever you’re free.

  Consider it done, he thought with a grin. He’d even bring his own spoon.

  I know you’re under the gun to finish your house. Will you be working on it this Sunday? Suppose Belle and I bring dinner over, something simple you can wolf down between hammer blows. Of course, I haven’t asked Belle yet, but I know she’d love to join us. Say, two o’clock?

  He loved the idea of food. Visitors were another thing. Getting underfoot, slowing him down, asking questions, seeing his house in such a sorry state of midrepair.

  Then again. Belle. Dinner. Not a tough decision.

  One last thing. I talked to Abingdon Bank and Trust, and you need to stop by Friday at four o’clock, if that’s convenient. Something about a check. A new credit check, perhaps? Hope something good transpires. See you Sunday!

  Fondly,

  Norah

  “Stop by” for another dressing-down from George Robison? No way. He flung the note at his desk, understanding more clearly than ever why Sherry had left and never come back. The man never knew when to quit.

  One problem. Norah was the one who asked him to be there. That was reason enough for him to stop by the bank, even if it meant facing another round in the carpeted ring with George. Maybe the man had taken his challenge seriously, gathered credit reports and so forth. They’d probably called Norah for a reference and one thing led to another. Who knows?