Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  Patrick dutifully dropped his booming baritone to a low-pitched murmur and bent closer. His warm breath on her cheek sent a quiver vibrating through her heart.

  “Remember, woman. Church is a new experience for me.”

  “Ah, so it is.” How easily she forgot that Patrick’s newfound faith was only weeks old, so quickly was he learning and growing. God was clearly at work in Patrick’s heart. Yours too, Norah girl.

  She tipped her head toward his as they rose for the opening hymn. “Mother wouldn’t even let me whisper during the sermon. She made me write notes.”

  His eyes on hers were full of mischief. “Got any paper?”

  Minutes later, seated again, she offered him a small tablet in jest, and was surprised to see him slip out his pen and begin scrawling on it with a bold script while Matthew Howard ran through the weekly announcements. She tried not to stare at the paper—hadn’t Mother cautioned her against that rude behavior as well?—and waited for him to finish writing whatever bit of foolishness had momentarily turned his attention away from the morning service.

  Finally, he slipped the pad into her hand, his eyes fixed on the altar, his expression blank except for a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  She glanced down and read the few sentences. A well-timed, spirited arpeggio from the pipe organ kept her gasp of amazement from filling the sanctuary. “Patrick! Are you … do you … mean this?” Her fingers gripped the pad of paper while she struggled to get an equally firm grasp on her wildly beating heart.

  She read the note again. There was no mistaking his words.

  I love you, Norah. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, for the rest of my days, than right here by your side. Will you marry me, love of my life? Just say yes.

  “Patrick, I …”

  “Shh.” He pressed a finger to her lips, a playful grin tugging at his mouth as he poked at the tablet with his pen and underlined Just say yes.

  “But shouldn’t we … ?”

  He pried the tablet from her hands and flipped to a blank sheet. She couldn’t bear to look away this time as he wrote.

  I’ve prayed about this for a month. God says yes. Your turn.

  It couldn’t be that simple, could it? She’d buried two husbands, cried an ocean of tears, mended her ragged heart twice. Could she risk a third gold band on her ring finger, a third vow of commitment for a lifetime?

  Could Patrick be the one? Had God indeed saved the best for last?

  Her hands trembled as she reached for the pen and paper and added one word across the bottom in a shaky script that skitted across the page in rhythm with her heart.

  Yes!

  “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?” Belle watched Norah packing enough food for a dozen hungry men into an enormous wicker basket. Fried chicken, biscuits, cole slaw, baked beans, corn with limas, and brownies by the truckload all disappeared into a square picnic basket lined with Norah’s familiar blue-and-white checked napkins. Belle shook her head. “Who’s going to eat all that?”

  “David will tuck away most of it. In case you haven’t noticed, that man of yours has a powerful appetite.”

  That man of yours. Belle shivered at the delicious sound of it. She’d seen David’s appetite in motion at the Martha on Friday night. The man ate all his dinner, most of hers, and made cow eyes at the man’s plate next to them until she threatened to kiss him right there in the restaurant, if only to keep his lips occupied.

  That ploy did not work.

  He stole a kiss when no one was looking and still ordered a second dessert.

  That man of hers had looked more handsome than ever in such an elegant setting, wearing his jeans, white shirt, and a tie scrounged out of his glove compartment. The Martha would never be the same.

  She watched Norah dance around the kitchen, convinced the woman was up to something. “Granted, David can eat some serious food—”

  “And whatever he doesn’t eat today will keep nicely in that pitifully empty fridge of his.”

  “How do you know it’s empty?”

  Norah twirled in her direction, her flowing jacket following in a graceful swirl. “A guess, nothing more. Honestly, have you ever known a single man to have a decent collection of leftovers?”

  “Absolutely not. Most of the guys I dated didn’t know what a leftover was. Nor did they own a single roll of plastic wrap, let alone storage containers. If you peek in a man’s margarine tubs, you’re guaranteed to find nails and screws.”

  Norah nodded, laughing. “Precisely why you’re taking a whole box of plastic zip-up bags.”

  “I’m taking? What about you?”

  “Oh, I’ll join you soon enough. You go ahead.” Norah winked. “I have important business to take care of first. Which means you’ll have a little time alone with David. But only a little, mind you.”

  “Fear not.” Belle snapped a mock salute. “We are a trustworthy twosome.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a minute.” Norah’s tone was softer. “Sharing the same faith and convictions makes all the difference. Still …” Her smile spread from earring to earring. “Let’s not tempt the flesh and take too long about making certain decisions, eh?”

  “If you’re talking marriage, please don’t. David hasn’t.”

  Well, there was that brief mention of a wedding ring Friday evening in the stairwell, but he was merely teasing her. Right? She was in no hurry, not after behaving so impulsively with Patrick. Hadn’t that turned out for the best, though? Norah’s constant smile was proof positive that it had.

  “Besides—” Belle added, studying Norah with an appraising eye—“You’re a fine one to talk about delaying decisions and avoiding the inevitable trip down the aisle.”

  Norah’s face turned a rosy hue. “I suppose you’re talking about Patrick. And me.” She sighed, patting her cheeks as if to cool them down. “All in good time, my pretty. All in good time.”

  “Humph. Now you sound like the Wicked Witch of the West.” Belle grabbed the heavy lunch to go. “Which makes me Dorothy, complete with my red braid and basket. Where’s Toto when you need him?”

  “Harry will have to do.” Norah scooped up the inanimate object curled up at her feet. “Though I fear he couldn’t care less about Kansas.”

  “Harry’s all yours.” Belle headed for the back door, grabbing her coat off the chair, then turned. “See you at David’s. At two, promise?”

  “Oh, I’ll be there on time.” Norah’s features were filled with expectation, hinting at a well-kept secret. “I wouldn’t miss this get-together for all the ham in Virginia.”

  David had worked up a king-size appetite, steering the circular sander back and forth across his living room floor, hand sanding the corners and the pine mantel. His back and shoulders ached from the effort and his stomach growled in agreement.

  A battered windup alarm clock on the windowsill reminded him he had less than half an hour to get cleaned up and ready for Belle and Norah’s visit. He looked around the room, shaking his head in resignation. What a mess. Sawdust and wood shavings covered every inch of the living room, throwing a fine layer of dust over the foyer and into the kitchen, the only room worth bragging about.

  At least he’d get himself clean, he decided, brushing the worst of it off his sleeves as he headed toward the steps. The sound of tires turning onto his gravel driveway jerked his head toward the window. A Pontiac.

  Belle.

  Dressed in work clothes, by the look of it, and bearing a basket almost as big as she was.

  He watched her pause in his drive, gazing up at the house. Why hadn’t he brought her here before? Ego, man. He’d wanted everything to be finished so he could impress her with his carpentry, his prowess with saw and sander. Instead, she was seeing the before picture—and it wasn’t pretty.

  Belle didn’t appear discouraged by what she saw. Was smiling, in fact. Man, did he love her smile. Name something you don’t love about her, Cahill. Right again. She was moving toward
the porch, weighed down by a basket that, big as it was, still probably didn’t have enough food for the three of them. A shame. He’d hate either of the women to go home hungry.

  He let her knock first, not wanting her to know he’d been observing her every move, then yanked the front door open with a flourish and a broad smile. “Welcome.”

  “David, it’s wonderful!”

  Three words and she’d stolen his heart all over again.

  Keeping his eyes locked on hers, he reached out and carefully took the basket from her hands, surprised at how heavy it was. It was soon at his feet, forgotten, as he pulled Belle inside and closed the door behind her, folding her into his arms where she most certainly belonged.

  Outside, the last day of January spread its mantle of gray sunshine over the frozen farmlands around David’s house. Inside, it was quiet and warm, a cozy oasis with a fire burning in the grate, fed with freshly cut pine that crackled and warmed every corner of the room.

  Belle broke the weighty silence with a giggle. “I may be crazy about you, David, but not crazy enough to kiss a man with sawdust all over his face.”

  He lifted one hand long enough to sweep away his bangs, sending a cloud of sawdust raining down on the top of her head. “Now we match.” He slipped off his glasses, also coated with dust, he discovered.

  Belle’s eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “Didn’t I warn you about those eyes of yours? They’re lethal weapons, my friend, sawdust in your eyebrows or not.”

  “Suppose you brush me off, then, while I shut these peepers you think are so dangerous.” He let his eyelids drop and in an instant felt her small hands lightly moving across his forehead and over his hair. Her touch was feathery, like a kitten batting at a ball of yarn. Was it his imagination or could he hear her smiling?

  “You’ve been working hard today, David.” Those soft hands of hers had finished with his hair, his forehead, and were carefully smoothing away the dust around his eyes, his nose.

  His mouth. She seemed to be taking her time there.

  Hmm. He spoke, the words muffled by her fingers hovering over his lips. “Does this mean I have more sawdust there?”

  “Just clearing a space.”

  Ohh.

  He opened his eyes in time to watch her stretch up on tiptoe, her own eyes wide, and press her lips where her fingers had been only seconds before. They gazed at one another as they kissed, her hands moving up to his shoulders, his down to her waist.

  So right, so right.

  He held himself back, not wanting to frighten her.

  Does she know what this does to me? What her eyes are telling me, even if she can’t say it with words yet?

  He broke the kiss. Had to, needed to.

  “Belle, I … I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too.” She tweaked his nose, then bent to pick up the discarded basket. “Norah promised to be here at two. Hope I didn’t throw you off being early.”

  Throw off? And then some. “No problem. What’s for dinner?”

  She rattled off the menu, making his mouth water more with each word. “If you like, we can set things out. That is … uh … if there’s somewhere we can eat that isn’t …” She peeped in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Yeah, there’s a table in there. I’ll put a fresh cloth on it.” He grinned. “Then you won’t see the sawdust.”

  They made quick work of it, putting out three place settings, finding dishes and glasses, storing the perishable food in the fridge until later. “Will you show me around while we’re waiting?” Belle’s eyes shimmered with anticipation.

  “Promise you won’t notice the mess?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him. “Oh, I’ll notice, but I promise not to say anything. How’s that?”

  He pulled lightly on her braid, steering her in the direction of the other rooms. She seemed impressed with what he’d done so far. Especially the new tile in the bathroom and the decorative wood trim on the staircase. She asked intelligent questions, offered suggestions he intended to pursue, and kept saying it was wonderful, which made his chest expand right along with his ego.

  I want her to love this place, Lord. To love me, the man who rebuilt it. The man who loves her so much it hurts.

  “Who’s that?” Belle gazed out his second-floor window, looking toward the intersection where a pickup truck was turning onto Spring Creek Road, headed their direction. “Anybody you know?”

  He stood close to her, enjoying her nearness as they stared out the window together. No, he didn’t recognize the truck. A Chevy. Fairly new, a nice one. Don’t I wish mine were in that kind of shape. Three-quarter ton. It would carry a bunch of lumber. Had some wood piled in the bed, he noticed, as it slowed down approaching the house. Sure enough, the truck was swinging onto his gravel drive, right below them.

  “Whoever they are, they’re here.” Belle started to turn, then gasped. “It’s … it’s Norah! In a pickup, no less. Will wonders never cease?” She squinted through the glass. “Who’s the guy with her?”

  David felt his entire nervous system kick into overdrive, his attention riveted on the man getting out of the truck.

  Tall. Lanky, but muscular. Dark blond hair, starting to thin on top. Wearing work clothes and a solemn expression. The man stood there, assessing the property, shading his eyes as he bent his head back.

  When the man’s eyes—the same blue-gray as his own—connected with his, all movement ceased.

  “It’s my father.”

  Belle’s soft gasp sounded far away. His heart was beating so loudly it drowned out her words, threatened to leap right out of his chest. His father. He hadn’t seen the man since he’d left Abingdon eight years ago. Had spoken to him once, when his mother died. Hadn’t come to her funeral, which he suddenly regretted more than anything he could think of.

  His father. Here.

  “David, your dad? Really? What … why …” Belle was scrambling for words, obviously as surprised as he was. “Did you invite him?”

  “Not hardly.” Nor would I. “It must have been Norah’s idea.” Again. The knock at the door sent them both heading toward the staircase, Belle first, then him, moving as if through water with slow, measured steps.

  He’d barely reached the landing and turned when the front door swung open and Belle stepped aside to welcome the newcomers. Norah ventured in wearing an expression that suggested hope mingled with apprehension.

  His father’s face was easier to understand. The man looked grim. Scared to death. And sober, if his clear eyes were any indication. David watched him scan the rooms on either side, then lift his head toward the staircase. Their eyes met again, closer this time. David could see the man’s eyelids flicker, his mouth tighten.

  Tension stretched between them like a rope. Belle and Norah faded from view. It was only the two of them. The stillness was thick, the silence was deafening.

  Time came to a standstill.

  He could bear it no longer.

  “Dad.”

  His throat was pumping like a rusty well as he swallowed again and again, fighting against the flood of tears that threatened to choke him right where he stood.

  His father didn’t move, only waited in the doorway, waited for him to say something else, to invite him in, give him permission.

  He’s waiting for me to … to say …

  He couldn’t make the words come out, couldn’t make his feet move forward, down the rest of the steps, into the foyer, to the doorway where a man waited in silence.

  No, not silence.

  His father’s lips were moving. His voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Son.”

  He didn’t know who moved first, didn’t care. In the blink of an eye, they were locked in a fierce embrace. Their hoarse sobs echoed in tandem through the empty house.

  His father had come home.

  God welcomed me home, didn’t he? Then I can do the same.

  Because of grace.

  They stood slapping each othe
r’s strong backs. Shaking hands, then embracing again, without a word. Shared memories and emotions and unstated truths swirled around them until the air seemed to change color. Seconds went by unnoticed. Eventually, haltingly, things wound down into a throat-clearing sort of chuckle.

  “Well.” His father spoke first. His eyes were lowered, his face a study in conflict. “Your prodigal dad has finally come home.”

  “I’m glad.” And he was. Alcohol had taken his father away from him. Sobriety—and humility—had brought him back. “You look good, Dad.”

  His father’s gray eyes regarded him, steady, determined. “I’m a recovering alcoholic, David.”

  As if he hadn’t known that. Still, the confession was obviously painful for his father, tightening the cords of the man’s throat.

  “I know, Dad. I understand.”

  “Appreciate that, son.” He shifted his weight onto his other foot. “Though the truth is, you oughtta hate me for what I did. Causing you so much heartache growing up.”

  David watched him swallow hard. “Never mind that now, Dad. It’s over. Believe me, I’ve made plenty of my own mistakes since we parted ways.”

  His father nodded and they exchanged a glance that covered a multitude of seasons and as many sins. “I’ve been sober for four years, son. Since your mother died. Moved to Damascus to start my life over. Got full-time work there as a carpenter.”

  “Of course.” David smiled in spite of the emotional tug-of-war going on in his heart. “How’d you find me?”

  His father nodded in Norah’s direction. “She found me. Drove to Damascus last Thursday. Tracked me down like a regular Sherlock Holmes.”

  “Pish-posh.” Norah shrugged at his praise. “It’s not too difficult to find a skilled carpenter with John’s reputation in a town of nine hundred.”

  His father’s voice grew warmer. “She told me about you, son. About how you’d made your way in the world. Joined the service. Got a college degree. And a good job. Found a house of your own. And a nice girl.” He nodded at Belle, who blushed furiously. “Norah thought it was time I came and saw for myself how you’d turned out.”