Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Which she’d played for another man.

  “You’re sure you’re glad he didn’t show?” He needed, in some perverse way, to chase away any doubts, to know that he’d claimed her whole heart. “You won’t regret not meeting him? The man who longed for you to fill his house with laughter and receive his love with open arms?”

  “My, but you have a good memory, David.” She was flirting with him now, her voice a decided drawl. “For a man who saw that letter only once, it certainly made an impression on you.”

  “Not half the impression you made on me the first time I saw you.” He had to get her attention away from the letter-writing Mr. Ears and on to safer territory. “Could we step inside the stairwell, out of the cold?” He tugged at her arm, unlocking the door and ushering her inside the dimly lit landing, the stairs to WPER stretching up into the darkened space above them. He pulled the door shut and leaned against the wall, shaking off an unexpected shudder.

  Better she never know the truth about the letters. It made no difference at this point, did it? She’d chosen him over her mystery man, that’s all that counted. “All Ears” was history. David knew for a fact the man would never write her again. The thought made him chuckle.

  “Are you saying you laughed when you first saw me, then?” Belle was more alert, eyeing him closely.

  “No, not at all.” Watch yourself, buddy. “If you recall, our relationship started with a bang. A head banger at that.”

  “So it did.” Her eyes had left his and were focused on the envelope sticking out of his pocket. The one he’d meant to mail some ten minutes ago. A long white envelope, with only the return address showing. His return address. A post office box.

  “What’s that?” Her eyes widened.

  Outside on Court Street, a knot of people streamed by, their voices muffled. Inside the stairwell, things had grown quiet indeed.

  “A … letter.” He worked hard to keep his voice steady, his tone light.

  “Why?”

  The look on her face told him why. So did her words. “I’ve seen those plain white envelopes before. Twice.”

  “They sell ’em by the dozens at Walgreen’s.” His light tone now qualified as desperate. Even he could tell that.

  “Not with that return address printed on it, just so.” Belle reached in her purse and pulled out two more envelopes. Same white, same style of type. And the exact same post office box in the corner. Her hands were shaking. “What’s going on, David?”

  He forced himself to smile, to look as ingratiating as possible, as if the whole thing were a game, meant to be fun. “You’re such a bright woman, I’ll bet you already figured it out. So you tell me, Belle. What do you think has happened here? Go ahead, you talk. I’ll listen. After all—” he forced his smile to broaden—“I’m all ears.”

  Thwat!

  She’d meant to slap him this time.

  He was sure of it. Sure he deserved it, too.

  Though it wasn’t much more than a petulant swipe, it stung like anything. He resisted the urge to place his own hand there and massage away the pain, see if she’d torn off any skin.

  Lord, I’ve messed up here, major league. I need your wisdom. Don’t let me blow this.

  “Belle, I’m truly sorry.” Again. Still.

  “Well, you should be!”

  Here was a side of Belle he’d not seen before. Hoped he’d never have occasion to see again. A hopping mad, face flushed, arms flailing Belle. She was a small woman, but when she got angry, she looked bigger, swelling up like a tropical puffer fish, and about as poisonous.

  The truth, man, tell her the truth.

  He dove in. “I never meant to mislead you.” Not on purpose, not exactly. “You said you would choose the most promising letter and write to him, arrange a meeting.” He shrugged and begged for sympathy with his eyes. “I wanted to be sure the letter you chose was … mine.”

  “Why?” A hint of hysteria hung behind her words. “So you could make a fool out of me, watch me fawn all over this mystery guy, telling him all about you, so he’d …”

  Her face became the color of her dress. Only redder.

  “Ohh, noo.” She groaned and slumped against the other wall. “You read the letter I sent to him, didn’t you? I mean, to you … I mean, about you.”

  He felt his own skin grow warm. “Yes, I did read it. A dozen times. I’m glad you think about me, Belle. I think about you all the time, too.”

  “Oh, you … !” Her fluster suddenly fizzled. “You … do?”

  “Yes, Belle.” He lowered his voice to a soothing murmur, hoping he’d seen the last of her red-tipped fingernails poking at his chest. “Pretty nails, by the way.” Yeah, there you go. Drown her in compliments. That’ll help. His eyes drifted over her, his gaze appearing to calm her further. At least she wasn’t stomping her high-heeled foot anymore. “The red matches your dress perfectly, I see.” He knew squat about colors and clothing, only that women ranked them right up there with food and shelter. “Am I to assume there’s a nice set of matching red toes hiding in those spiffy shoes?”

  “Humph!” She’d folded her arms over her chest, not resembling a puffer anymore, but still packing a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “Not likely you’ll ever see those toes again, Mr. Cahill. Or shall I call you Mr. Ears? Your ears aren’t particularly big, but they do hear things that aren’t said and make promises they can’t keep, and—”

  “Wait a minute.” He dropped down a few inches to get her attention, make eye contact. “What promises did I make in my letters that you think I won’t keep?”

  She yanked one of the envelopes from her purse and unfolded it with great showmanship. The Barter Theatre folks had it all wrong: Belinda Oberholtzer was a born actress.

  “There are four promises, as I see it.” Belle began reading aloud in what he recognized as her radio voice, “Promise number one: She’ll have ‘my whole heart as her dwelling place.’ Well.” She stared pointedly at his chest. “A decent size home, I suppose, though hardly a royal palace.”

  “It would be if you lived there. As my queen.”

  “Oh.” She feigned disinterest and continued reading. “ ‘My complete attention would be given to her needs and hurts.’ ” She sniffed dramatically. “I’ve seen no evidence of that this evening.”

  “Ah, but the evening is young.” He wiggled his eyebrows meaningfully.

  She pretended not to notice. “Here’s a third promise. ‘My utter devotion would be hers, guaranteed for a lifetime.’ Puh-lease! How could a man possibly make good on such a guarantee?”

  “With a wedding ring.”

  “Ah … I … see.” But she didn’t see his teasing smile, or her own becoming blush.

  He was toying with her now. “Is there a fourth promise, Belle?”

  She stared at the letter and gulped, finally mumbling, “ ‘My boundless passion would ever be at her command.’ ”

  “And … ?”

  “And that better come after the wedding ring!” she snapped, folding the letter along well-worn creases.

  He slipped his arms around her in a loose embrace, feeling her pulling as far away as she could, pressing back against his hands, still fighting him. Lord, she deserves those four promises. More. Help me say what needs to be said tonight. Starting now.

  “Belle.” He inched her closer, nuzzling her hair with his chin, feeling her relax the slightest bit. “Will you forgive me? For being so jealous, so afraid you’d find someone else to make those promises to you, that I … lied to you.” That’s what it was. A lie. Not a game. Forgive me, Lord. “Do you remember what else I wrote in that letter?”

  In a tiny voice she croaked, “Which paragraph?”

  “The one that ended, ‘I’m hoping that woman is you, Miss O’Brien.’ Remember that line?” Under his chin, he felt her curly head nod. Now. Go. “Is that woman you, Belle?”

  Wrong, Cahill. You’re forcing her to say it first. He took a deep breath. Before his words poured out, Belle moved h
er head again, up and down.

  She’s nodding. She’s nodding!

  “Belle, I love you.” There. Done. She was still nodding. Good, good. Keep talking. “I meant every word in that letter. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to tell you … how I feel.” His voice was hoarse, uneven, a thousand emotions squeezed into a few words.

  Such important words, though.

  He pressed on, needing to voice his feelings, wanting her to know everything. “The only time I ever told a woman I loved her, she … laughed. Hard.” The catch in his throat surprised him, threatened him.

  When he felt her begin to shake under his hands, he fought for equilibrium and feared the worst. “Please, Belle. Look at me. Are you … laughing?”

  She looked up.

  No. She was not laughing.

  Tears were streaming down her face. Her sobs, which she seemed determined to hold inside, made her shake so badly she was forced to release them in small, airy gasps.

  It was several minutes before she could speak and make sense.

  “David—” she sighed, then hiccuped—“David, I can’t believe it was you, writing those letters. All along, it was you.”

  “Are you glad?” In the shadowy stairwell, he caught a glimpse of her eyes, sparkling like twin moons, and her smile, which told him what he needed to know.

  She thumped his chest, well-padded by the parka. “Of course I’m glad. I planned that whole letter thing for one reason. To make you jealous.”

  “Which you managed to do quite well.”

  She put her hands around his waist only long enough to snag a handkerchief out of his back pocket. “What year was this last washed?” she muttered, then blew her nose in it anyway. Leaning back, she squinted at him. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing, confessing love to a woman who is five full years older than you? A woman who has a great face for radio? If we were in a bright light—”

  “Which we aren’t, but if we were, I’d be looking at the most beautiful woman in the universe.”

  “Says you.”

  “And who else needs to say it, pray tell?”

  He had her there.

  “But look at these lines around my eyes.” She tilted her head sideways to give him a better look. “See those?”

  He took her face in his hands, treasuring the feel of her soft cheeks resting in each palm, and gently kissed the corner of one eye. Slowly. Then the other. “Don’t see a thing.”

  She sighed. “This hair, then. Too thick, too unruly, not a smooth mane like Norah’s, not … uh, David, what are you doing?”

  He’d untied the ribbon that held her braid in place and began pulling the plait apart, taking his time, enjoying the feel of her silky, curly locks as they unwound in his hands. He watched her eyes turn to leaded glass as his hands reached the nape of her neck.

  “Someone once told me—” He massaged his fingers into her scalp in small, expanding circles—“that this improves circulation and stimulates hair growth.”

  “Huh-uh. My hair dothn’t need to grow. Pleath thtop.”

  He wondered if Belle realized she was slurring her words.

  “Seems to me you also complained about your lips once. Too thick, too straight, you said.”

  “Athparaguth.” She nodded then, clearly not trusting herself to say another word.

  “Well, I happen to love fresh asparagus, which means I love your lips exactly the way they are.” To prove it, he kissed her thoroughly, molding his lips to hers, fanning her hair across her shoulders and down her back as he did. When the kiss finally ended, he pulled her against him, marveling again at how perfectly she fit there. “You are just the right age for me, Belle. Just the right size. Smarter and more beautiful than I deserve. But most important of all, I believe the Lord has brought us together for a reason.”

  “What’th that?” she mumbled against his chest with a sigh of contentment.

  “Eathy—” His laughter filled the gloomy stairwell with a joyful noise—“We can help each other get to the main post office on time for the last pickup of the night.” He gave her a final squeeze, then released her and pushed open the door. A wintry breeze swirled around them. “We’ll toss this envelope in the mailbox out front, then have dinner as planned, shall we?”

  She looked up, the blurry stars in her eyes seeming to focus again. “Are we talking the Grill?”

  “No, woman, we’re talking the Martha Washington Inn.” He relished her gasp of surprise. “Let’s just say I’ve been blessed with a … bonus of sorts today. Thanks to Norah. And George. And you.”

  “A bonus?” She sounded suspicious, working to keep up with his long strides as she stumbled along in her ridiculous red shoes.

  He had to admit, those high heels did nice things for her legs. Bet she doesn’t know that. Women sometimes missed the obvious.

  “David … you didn’t … take the job at WBT after all, did you?”

  He stopped. Letting her catch up, letting her see his face when he told her. “I ran upstairs and called them right before you saw me tonight, Belle. Turned the job down. I’ve got a house to finish. And other details to work out.”

  “Am I back to being a detail again?” She tapped her red-heeled foot impatiently.

  “You are the detail, woman. The reason I’m staying. Does that spell it out for you?”

  “Ohh.” She smiled her dreamy, asparagus smile. “I’m so … relieved.” Belle climbed into his truck from the driver’s side, muttering softly, “Gee, this feels familiar.”

  “Yeah, sure does.” The engine started with a roar. He pulled her closer for one more kiss, simply because he could. And because he was certain she’d kiss him back. Without laughing. “We’ve come a long way since Christmas, Belle.”

  With miles yet to go …

  He pushed the thought away as they drove into the starry night.

  twenty-five

  Work is love made visible.

  KAHLIL GIBRAN

  THE LIST WAS ENDLESS, David decided. He threw himself down on a lumpy secondhand sofa and reviewed the ever-growing inventory of tasks that needed to be tackled before his house was done. His house. And to think he’d actually expected to pour all this energy into a place and then sell it.

  No way. This was his home now.

  He’d attended the early service that morning to get his Sunday started on the right foot. Nothing was more important than worship. Not even Belle, though she was mighty high on the short list of priorities in his life. Especially after dinner Friday night at the Martha Washington Inn.

  The woman was a vision by candlelight. Her pale, freckled skin glowed with its own incandescence. Her amazing red dress earned her an entire restaurant of admirers, none more attentive than he. Her laughter filled the room—and all the corners of his heart.

  He’d told her he loved her and he meant it. She hadn’t said it in so many words, but she’d nodded in all the right places. Works for me. In the next few weeks, they’d know if their love was meant for a lifetime or a season.

  He didn’t need a few weeks. He didn’t need an hour. He knew. But Belle needed time, it seemed. He could wait. Meanwhile, he had a house demanding his every waking hour.

  He’d tackled plumbing and heating when he first moved in. It was hard to function dirty and cold. Though he remembered vividly many childhood winters when he’d done just that. Never again. Not this Cahill.

  Late at night, stretched out on his bed with the quiet house settling around him, he wondered if that wasn’t his whole motivation for remodeling the house. To complete the projects his father had never finished. To prove that a poor boy with nothing could grow up to be a rich man with something.

  Not rich as the world defined riches, but rich in the things that mattered. In faith, in friends, in family. Faith and friends were in place and growing; family was a dream waiting to be born.

  “Patience, man!” he roared into the stillness.

  His voice echoed against the four living room walls, bare exc
ept for the plasterboard he’d nailed up last week. And speaking of patience. Those walls needed taping, drywall mud, and sanding. Hard enough for a crew of two or three to handle, but a real bear for a handyman trying to go it alone on evenings and weekends.

  Some of the single guys from church had helped him nail the plasterboard up, but he couldn’t impose, couldn’t ask for more of their time. Three rooms, a stairwell, an upstairs hall? Nah. He couldn’t ask people to deal with that. It was endless hours of work he’d have to do himself.

  Especially since the twenty thousand dollars was history.

  It’d been a kick to look at that check, to think about spending it, to add up all the labor and supplies it could buy. But it couldn’t buy honor. Couldn’t buy pride. Definitely couldn’t buy peace of mind. He’d earned those things the hard way and they weren’t for sale.

  Heading to the kitchen for a soda, he smiled as soon as he hit the room. At least the kitchen was done. From snazzy cabinets to new counters to the ceramic tile floor. The almost-new refrigerator had two recognizable items in it—gray lettuce and green cheese—but by jingo, the room looked good. Big selling point, the realtor had assured him. Good reason to keep it, he’d assured himself.

  He’d finished the outside stuff. The roof, replacing the boards on the front porch, painting the clapboards white, those things had happened late last fall, before it got too cold to work outdoors. All that was left was inside work. Refinishing the pine floors in the living room, installing the carpet in the two rooms upstairs, the drywall hassle, and all that woodwork and trim. And wallpapering. And painting.

  The detail work his father had excelled at during his dry spells. The same skills John Cahill had passed on to his son.

  Skills that were serving him well these days. No time like the present, fella. He took the steps up to his bedroom two at a time, tossing his good clothes on the back of a chair and finding his grungiest jeans and sweatshirt. Norah and Belle wouldn’t arrive with Sunday dinner for another three hours. The floor sander in the corner downstairs was whispering his name.

  “Shhh!” Norah gently jabbed a silk-swathed elbow into Patrick’s side. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you to whisper in church?”