Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Six hours from now, he’d find out. Whatever happened there, it wouldn’t matter nearly as much as his rendezvous later with Belle. He glanced down at his jeans and white shirt—he was dressed for the Grill, not the bank. Too bad for George, he figured. Grabbing a stack of engineering logs to review, he stared up at the speakers that piped WPER into his tiny work cubicle. The knot of tension in his chest began unwinding at the sound of her voice spilling out, warm and vibrant.

  My beautiful Belle.

  He intended to be all ears, all day, while he worked and waited until she played her last song. No visits to the studio, no risking giving himself away.

  He worked diligently for three full minutes, then tossed aside his papers and headed toward the studio, anticipating her intoxicating perfume and luminous gold eyes, less than twenty feet away from him.

  Belle was seated at the console, back to the door, her long braid stretched down her back. How he longed to pull out those tidy twists and run his hands through the curly mass of it, spreading it over her shoulders, inhaling the fragrance of her.

  “Belle?”

  Her head jerked up and around with a guilty start as she stuffed a piece of paper in her purse, never taking her eyes off him. “Hi.”

  He knew what the answer was, but he had to ask. “Whatcha reading?”

  Her eyebrows arched. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  What if I said, “I do know.” What if I tell her now?

  No. He needed to give her time to figure it out for herself. Let her feel in control of things. For all he knew, she’d already put two and two together and was playing along with his game, strictly to amuse herself. Or embarrass him.

  Belle didn’t look amused, though. She looked pensive. “It’s another letter from Mr. Ears. I’m meeting him for dinner tonight, in case you’d forgotten.”

  She’s testing me. “Oh, right. Totally slipped my mind. What time was that again?”

  “Five.” Her glance sharpened. “Not planning on joining us, are you?”

  “Not this guy. In fact, I have an appointment at the bank around then.” Which had better be finished in time or George is toast.

  “I thought the bank … well, I thought that was over.”

  You think a lot of things, Belle. Bless you, you think about me. He stood there, grinning what he knew to be an idiotic grin. She’d put it there, that grin of his. Because he loved her. Keep saying it, Cahill. Practice. I love you, Belle. I love you.

  She stared at him, waiting for an answer.

  “I’d love … uh, to know what … the … uh, bank is thinking, too.” Get it together, man! He realized the goofy grin had returned. “Guess I’ll find out later this afternoon.”

  On that note, he backed his way out of the studio, pointing at the speakers. “Your song’s over.” And we’re just beginning. You’ll see, woman. Soon enough.

  twenty-four

  Pandemonium did not reign, it poured.

  JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

  DAVID KNEW TROUBLE WAS afoot the minute he stepped inside Abingdon Bank and Trust. Chuck, George’s young gopher, stood outside the hallowed corner office, frantically motioning him over.

  “In here, Mr. Cahill.”

  The room was empty, the imposing desk unmanned. David stood and waited, eyeballing the yawning wooden chair. Not Wednesday. Not today, either.

  George showed up minutes later, striding into his office, shutting the door behind him with a decided bang. “Have a seat, David.”

  “I’ll stand, thanks.”

  “You’ll sit!” The man’s foul mood was written all over his face like a scrawl of red graffiti.

  David sat. At least his body did. “Is there a reason I’m here?”

  “Don’t be smart with me, young man.” The black eyes shone with a deadly glint, worse than last time. “I’ll make this short and sweet. Norah Silver-Smyth showed up here yesterday. Gave me a piece of her mind.”

  I’ll bet she did. “No kidding.”

  “Gave me a piece of information, too. About a boy named Josh.”

  Norah knew about Josh? Impossible. Unless … Unless Belle had told her. David could barely get out the words. “What did she tell you? About Josh, I mean?”

  George leaned over his desk, a pair of meaty hands pressed on the gleaming surface. His voice was a low growl. “Norah told me the only thing I needed to know. That I have a grandson. You might have mentioned that yourself, Cahill.”

  David kept his tone even. “Sherry had eight years to tell you, sir.”

  “And you were busy those eight years, I hear. Sending checks for a kid you never met.”

  Belle, again. It had to be. She’d told Norah. Who’d told Sherry’s father. David swallowed hard. “Supporting Josh seemed the honorable thing to do.”

  “Honorable? Norah used that word, too. Told me what she thought an honorable father ought to do in this situation.”

  “And?” It was all David trusted himself to say, so ragged were his thoughts. How could Belle do that? How could she have betrayed him? The woman he confided in … the woman he loved?

  George reached in his pocket for a piece of paper. Small, like a check. He slapped it in front of David, face up. “This was her idea of honor.”

  David stared. It was a check, but not a small one. Twenty thousand dollars. Made payable to David Cahill. Not drawn on Abingdon Bank and Trust, but on the personal account of George Allen Robison.

  “Sir?” It sounded like a croak. It was a croak.

  “Ten thousand to finish your house. And another ten for … good measure. That’s the way Norah put it.” The man’s voice had become surprisingly steady.

  David picked up the check, making sure it was real. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “ ‘Thank you’ would be a beginning.”

  The check was real, all right. The largest check he’d ever laid eyes on. And it had his name on it. His house could be finished in a month. Less. He could buy a decent truck. Or put a down payment on a new one. Come March, he could load that truck with his worldly possessions and head for Charlotte, North Carolina. A man with a solid future, a distant past, and no regrets.

  Make that one regret. With a long braid.

  In thirty days, Abingdon, Virginia, would appear in his rearview mirror for the last time. It couldn’t happen fast enough to suit him.

  George’s voice snapped him back to the present. “Do you have a picture of my grandson?”

  “A photo? Why? Do you want proof?” David hadn’t meant to grind out his words like that. The pain of Belle’s betrayal overwhelmed him, seeking an outlet, a target.

  George grunted. “Norah’s word is good enough for me. I just … just wanted to see what the boy looked like, that’s all.”

  David pulled out his billfold, flipping it open to the school photo Sherry had sent him before Thanksgiving, and held it out for George’s inspection. “Joshua Robison, age eight.”

  The man’s face became stone gray, utterly still. He did nothing, said nothing, for a full minute as he studied the blond little boy with the winsome smile. He sighed at last. “The kid’s yours, no question about that.”

  No question. “And yours, sir. Your grandson. No question about that, either.”

  “Which is the only reason you’re holding a check for twenty thousand dollars, Cahill. It’s not guilt money. I had nothing to do with … what happened eight years ago. With that baby being born. Consider this a refund. For money hard earned and well spent.”

  David folded his wallet and slipped it back in his pocket, his eyes trained on the man across the mahogany desk. Lord, he’s so hard to read. It wasn’t clear if George was happy with this solution or felt forced into it.

  A scenario that never would have happened if Belle hadn’t told Norah. The check, paper-thin, weighed heavy in his hands. The things he could do with it spun through his mind, over and over. For a guy who grew up poor on the wrong side of town, it was a fortune.

  But was it a godsend?
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  He knew one thing he could do with it. The same thing he did the last time George Robison handed him a check. He could walk out the door and rip it in half. Keep his pride, if nothing else.

  Which would leave him no option but to stay in Abingdon for another three months to finish his house and thereby lose the job at WBT. Which would force him to walk through the doors of WPER every day for the foreseeable future and look at a woman who’d given away his secrets and broken his heart.

  “Thank you for your generosity, Mr. Robison.”

  The banker stood, buttoning his suit coat closed over his considerable girth. “I don’t expect to see you again, Cahill. Do we understand each other?”

  “We do.” David rose to his feet, the folded check tucked in his shirt pocket. “I hope …” It had to be said. “I hope you’ll get to meet that grandson someday.”

  The gray granite was back. An impenetrable stone wall that David couldn’t do more than acknowledge with a slight nod. Minutes later, he stood in the twilight of a January afternoon, the last rays of feeble sunlight fading into the horizon that swallowed the end of west Main Street.

  He turned east, toward WPER … toward the Grill, where Belle undoubtedly waited for her Romeo. She’d played “Cherish” at the end of her show, exactly as he’d asked her to, while he’d sat smiling in his cubicle at work. His heart had done a slow dance to the music, imagining Belle wrapped in his arms, tucked tightly against him, humming along in a key all her own.

  The tightness in his chest shifted up a notch. A fool for love is still a fool.

  A quick glance at his watch assured him Belle was probably already at the Grill, waiting. He had barely enough time to stop by the station. Make a quick phone call to WBT. Get a short letter ready and drop it in the mailbox outside the station for the five-thirty pickup.

  He had to hurry, before he ran out of time. Or conviction.

  Belle stared at the yellow-striped walls of the Grill, disappointment seeping through her bones. She was tired of looking at the clock above the WPER fishbowls, tired of seeing the minute hand crawl five minutes past the hour, then ten. Fifteen.

  Stood up! She’d never been stood up in her entire life.

  Of course, she’d never agreed to meet a man like this before either. A stranger. A complete stranger! It was obvious she’d lost her mind. Too many times around the old turntable for you, girlie.

  She’d caught a glimpse of David dashing past the Grill door on his way up to WPER, looking like a man on a mission. She’d hoped the mission would be saving her from a disastrous evening with Mr. Ears, but no such luck. He’d kept right on going, didn’t so much as glance in the direction of the Grill on his way by.

  Humph. Some Friday evening this was turning out to be.

  She had mailed her letter to Mr. Ears, right? Been clear about her intentions to meet him? Played “Cherish,” like he’d requested? Leaving nothing to chance, she’d arrived at the Grill fifteen minutes early. Sat by the window. Wore her favorite red knit dress, an eye-catching number that made her burst into a chorus of “W-O-M-A-N” every time she slipped it on.

  She was counting on Mr. Ears to have some eyes, so they’d bug out when he saw her in it.

  She could see them now, those blue-gray orbs widening with surprise, then admiration. The color would deepen to the hue of a tempest-tossed ocean. His lids would drop to a dangerously low—

  Whoa, girl! This isn’t David coming to meet you. No matter how much she wished that were true. It was “All Ears” who would get an eyeful of her bright red, dressed-to-kill ensemble, not David.

  Unfortunately.

  At the moment, though, only one man was eyeing her and that was Leonard, whose apron was battle-scarred from a busy Friday at the Grill. He poured her a second cup of coffee, asked if she wanted a menu. “Or are you waiting for someone?” he said with a knowing wink.

  But he couldn’t know. Nerves, that’s all.

  Those same nerves shot her out of her seat when she spied David bolting out onto the sidewalk but not turning in her direction. She flung open the heavy glass door of the Grill as if it were cardboard. “David, wait!”

  He turned, looking confused.

  No, not confused. Angry. He looked angry. Breathing hard from the rush of adrenaline, she waited for him to speak, to put her at ease. To offer some encouragement.

  “Belle, I’m in a hurry.”

  That was not encouraging.

  “So I see.” She gulped, trying to tamp down her emotions. “I thought you might be … uh, hungry and thinking about dinner at the Grill and—”

  He held up his hand to stem the flow of words. “Look, I’ve gotta drop something in the corner box before they collect the mail.”

  She stood there with her mouth hanging open, watching his blue parka turning away from her. David, rude? The man was many things, but brash and inconsiderate had never been in his repertoire. At least, not since she’d gotten to really know him. Something was wrong, something bigger than her plans to meet Mr. Ears for dinner. David had had plenty of time to put his foot down about that. If he’d wanted to. If he cared.

  She intended to put her foot down about this, though. “David, wait.” Scurrying after him, she wished she’d skipped the silly heels. So what if they matched her red dress? So what if they made her legs look half an inch longer? David hadn’t looked at her eyes, let alone her legs.

  As if he’d read her thoughts, David stopped and spun around again, fixing his cold gray gaze on her. In the twilight, his cheeks were two ruddy spots; his generous lips were parted but not smiling. “Don’t make this any harder than it already is, Belle.”

  “Make what harder?” She skidded to a stop, a sense of foreboding washing over her. She wanted to touch his sleeve, connect to him somehow, but his mood made such a thing impossible, far too risky. “Talk to me, David, please. Now. Tell me what’s wrong.” In an attempt to lighten the mood around them, she leaned toward him and wiggled her eyebrows. “Is there some dark secret you haven’t told me yet?”

  “Secret?” It exploded out of him. His eyes smoldered, heated by an intensity she didn’t understand. He lifted his hands then threw them back down, frustration coming off him in waves. “I’ve told you too many secrets already, Belle.”

  She stepped back and closed her eyes for a moment, fighting the threat of tears. “You’re not making sense.” Her voice was thick, her emotions conflicting, nameless. “There’s only one secret you shared with me. About Sherry and Josh. I’m glad you told me, but it doesn’t change anything … between us. It doesn’t change … how I feel about you.”

  “Well, it changes how I feel about you.”

  It hurt like a physical blow, numbing her insides, leaving her gasping for air. “What have I done? Are you going to tell me? Or make me guess? David, your behavior—”

  He cut her off with a hiss. “You want to know what you’ve done? Made a mess of things, is what. You told Norah about Josh. And Norah told George Robison.”

  Belle was too stunned to argue, let alone think straight. Instead she blurted out, “Who’s George Robison?”

  His eyes were storm clouds, his words a low thunder. “Sherry’s father. The man who refused my bank loan on Wednesday. Not that you would concern yourself with such mundane issues. You were too busy sharing a juicy bit of gossip—”

  “That’s not true!” If he could interrupt her so rudely, she could do the same. “I don’t know who told Norah, or why she told George, but I do know this. I’ve not shared the story of your past with a living soul. No one. Don’t you know I would never do such a thing?”

  The clouds in David’s eyes parted and a look of pure agony shone through. “You mean … you didn’t … ?”

  “Of course not.” She shook her head, relief running through her veins. At least now she understood why David was so undone. “You must have thought … well, you …” Her voice trailed off as he reached out, swept her into his arms, and pulled her toward him. “You must have—”<
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  “I must have been an idiot,” he finished for her, bending down, forcing her head to tip back slightly, bringing his face closer to hers. “I’m as sorry as I can be, Belle. Forgive me for jumping to the wrong conclusion? For not trusting you?”

  It was hard to miss the tenderness in his eyes when they were so near. His lips were close, too. Right there, inches away. “Of course I forgive you, David.” She felt the air around them warming. “You were simply caught off guard. And if Norah told George, you can be sure it was somehow for your benefit. She’s crazy about you. It’s easy to see why you’d think … anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does matter.” He slid his hands along her shoulders and cradled them behind her neck. “You matter.”

  She caught her breath, wondering … hoping … praying the tone in his voice meant what she thought it did.

  Say the words, Cahill.

  He looked down at her, at her shining gold eyes and grace-filled face. You love her. Say it. Now. Go. He inhaled the evening air, sweet with the scent of her, and formed the words with his mouth. “Belle, I …”

  She kissed him. Kissed him! Crazy woman, didn’t she know he was about to tell her something important? Oh, but this was fine. This was more than fine. Her full lips were pressed against his, gentle but insistent. What was it Belle compared them to? Asparagus? Mmm. They tasted more like berries, the color of her delicious red dress—

  Wait. She wore this dress for Mr. Ears, not for me.

  Confound it, he wished he hadn’t thought of that, not while he could feel her long eyelashes tickling his cheeks. But he had to know, had to be certain.

  “Belle.” He broke the kiss, still hovering over her mouth, savoring the closeness of her. “Weren’t you supposed to meet Mr. Ears at the Grill?”

  She looked up, her eyelids at half-mast, her smile delightfully askew. “Oh, that … he never showed. I’m … glad.”

  “Are you, now?” He felt his own grin stretch across his face and realized it had been hours since he’d smiled while listening to “Cherish” on the air.