Mixed Signals

by Liz Curtis Higgs

  John paused.

  David waited.

  “I couldn’t be prouder, David. I know I had nothing to do with it. Did more harm than good. But still, I’m proud of you.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m also here to help you get this house of yours finished. Evenings, weekends, I’m yours. It’s a nice place, son. Together we’ll make it look even better. Are you game?”

  “Sure, Dad.” David’s eyes threatened to fill up again. He used his tried-and-true method of swallow, blink, cough, and managed to keep the tears at bay. Barely.

  He needn’t have bothered. The women were sniffling, big time.

  Even his father’s voice was gruff. “Guess I owe this little reunion to Norah Adams … uh, Silver. No, Smyth, is that it?” He tossed up his hands in frustration. “Woman, I never can keep all those old husbands of yours straight.”

  She laughed through her tears. “It’s easy, John. The only thing that remains are their names. They’re both gone now. Deceased.”

  Belle seemed surprised at the news. “Randolph Smyth, too?”

  Norah nodded with a pensive sigh. “It was in the Bristol paper last week. Heart attack.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. It was awkward, David realized. The death of a man who’d walked out of her life so long ago. “I’m sorry,” he offered. You’re a regular conversationalist, Cahill. But it felt appropriate.

  “Thanks.” Norah sighed, as if a door had closed on a part of her life. Her face brightened a little. “It was a long time ago. Those feelings are buried with him for good now.”

  His father gave Norah a sideways glance. “You’ll pardon me for asking, but might that mean you’re available? You always were the prettiest girl in our class, Norah Adams. The dream of every red-blooded adolescent boy in Abingdon.”

  Everyone laughed, especially Belle. “David, it’s patently clear where you learned your flirtatious ways. And Norah is spoken for. Isn’t that right, Norah … Norah … hmm. Let’s see. How would Reese sound?”

  Norah turned a shade of red not seen before in nature.

  David winked at Belle, sending a spark in her direction that boomeranged back.

  His father, clearly confused but obviously happy to be there, merely smiled.

  Belle’s lighthearted comment had served as a breath of fresh air, blowing away the discomfort of all that came before it. David imagined for a moment the joy of spending the rest of his life with such a woman.

  Which whet his appetite. Which reminded him of a refrigerator full of food.

  “Folks, if it’s all right with you, I say we continue this conversation over fried chicken. The kitchen is right this way.”

  Belle went ahead of him, quietly adding a place setting. Making room for one more at the table, he realized with a smile.

  Just like Christmas.

  twenty-six

  There are no secrets better kept than the secrets that everybody guesses.

  GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

  “MOM, IS THIS LIKE CHRISTMAS?”

  “NO, Josh.” Sherry shook her head, still in shock. “We’ve never opened a gift like this on Christmas or any other day.” She stared at the calendar. February 4. David’s support checks usually came on the fifteenth of the month, give or take. Not this early.

  Besides, no way was it a support check.

  It was a miracle.

  Josh bounced up and down on the couch next to her, his eyes sparkling with boyish enthusiasm. “C’mon, let me look at it again.”

  She held out the check, cautioning him not to touch it, just to look. Her hands were shaking. Her insides were shaking.

  One piece of paper and her whole world was transformed. It meant everything was okay. The debilitating effects of five weeks without a paycheck would vanish. Poof! Just like that. She could pay off the creditors. Get caught up on her rent. Buy some decent clothes for Josh. Fix her car. Better yet, trade it in on something dependable.

  Take classes. Yes! She could finally look into college courses. Maybe while Josh was in school. She could afford a sitter now, too. Her head was spinning, her heart racing.

  “HOW many zeros is that, Mom?” Josh’s eyes were big as zeros, trying to count them all.

  “It’s twenty thousand dollars, Josh.” She whispered it, afraid someone would hear, would come and take it away, say there’d been some mistake.

  Josh’s voice was awe-filled. “Wow. Did an angel send this?”

  “Not an angel.” But close.

  The check was made out to David Cahill. Endorsed by him and made payable to her, in his handwriting. The note in the envelope simply said, “Josh needs this more than I do.” Probably true, but it didn’t explain why the check was drawn on her father’s account.

  George Allen Robison. With their home address. The house she grew up in.

  Did that mean her father knew about Josh? Finally, after all these years? Had David marched in and demanded this on her behalf? Maybe her dad wanted to send her money but didn’t have her Sacramento address.

  Nah. He coulda found me long ago. They both knew that.

  She didn’t understand where the money came from. She only knew it was the single most incredible thing that had ever happened in her life.

  Other than Josh, of course.

  “So Mom, what are you gonna buy first? This is like money, isn’t it?”

  Gathering him up in her arms, she pressed the tip of her nose against his. He loved when she did that. Said it tickled. “Young man, we’re going straight to the bank and then to the grocery store.” She hugged him tight, tears streaming down her face. “The first thing I’m buying is fifty jars of sloppy joe sauce.”

  Belle O’Brien had discovered a talent she didn’t know she possessed: hanging wallpaper. As long as Norah was at the other end of the long roll, Belle was fearless with paper and paste.

  This came after three weeks of finding out what she didn’t do well. No matter how hard she tried, no matter how much she wanted to help David and his father finish the house on Spring Creek Road, she had to face the truth. Taping drywall was not in her skill set. Neither was painting trim without accidentally coating an additional two inches of newly stained floor or windowpane or freshly primed drywall.

  But once Norah taught her the mysteries of measuring and hanging wallpaper, she’d hit her stride. After the men did the dirty work, the women arrived with food fit for kings and buckets of wallpaper paste. The men made the rooms solid and secure. The women made them beautiful. What a team, Belle thought, as February passed in a blur of activity.

  Patrick often came by to watch. He was not permitted to touch a single tool. He was allowed to touch Norah, but only on the lips, and only if she was feeling exceedingly generous. Norah was there to work, she insisted, not play spin the bottle with her beau. Her serious beau, Belle couldn’t help but notice.

  As for Belle, she cherished the time with David. Watching him work in his element, muscles in motion, his clever mind coming up with creative solutions to problems, all fueled her appreciation of his talents. Yet it was seeing his relationship with his father begin to heal and grow stronger that most warmed her heart.

  God was at work. His grace and mercy were flowing everywhere. True, David and his dad had a few verbal battles, mostly over the best way to measure trim. Even when it ventured into personal territory, though, they resolved things, moved forward.

  She liked John Cahill. An older version of David. Handsome, physical, smart, intense. He walked in smelling of Old Spice; wore jeans and a white T-shirt, always. He was proud of his work. Prouder of his son. David told him about his own son, Josh. Showed him his picture. Three generations of Cahill males, she realized. Blond-haired, gray-eyed, strong-chinned Cahills.

  When would David finally see Josh? She still couldn’t imagine what kind of mother wouldn’t want a father for her child, especially a man as fine as David. Her loss, my gain, Belle thought, then chastised herself for being selfish.

  When it was certain they’d finish by the
end of the month, plans for a housewarming party were put in motion for the last Saturday night in February. Norah and Patrick put their heads together for the guest list. It included the entire crew from WPER, David’s friends from his church, Belle’s friends from hers, and Norah’s friends from all over.

  “The more the merrier.” Norah’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Trust me, we’ll have all sorts of things to celebrate by month’s end.”

  Patrick mentioned springing for the food, though Belle was sure she’d misunderstood him. Patrick? Paying for something? Impossible.

  His San Diego tan was fading. So had his regular references to other markets, other stations. It was obvious that Abingdon had become home for him, just as he’d planned.

  She was so busy working at the station all day and on David’s house most evenings, that Belle didn’t pay attention to an appearance schedule Burt posted in the studio. Much Ado about Nothing was opening at the Barter. It was sponsored by Oldies 95, which meant before each performance, one of the radio personalities was expected to stroll out on stage and welcome the audience on behalf of WPER.

  Tonight, February 25, was her night.

  “Norah, I can’t do this.” Her bedroom had an after-the-cyclone look. Discarded clothes draped about, jewelry in heaps, shoes in piles. She stood there in her slip, holding up yet another fashion possibility, then groaning and tossing it nowhere in particular. “I give up. I don’t know what to wear, let alone what to say.”

  Norah held court on a mission oak chair, offering wise counsel. “Of course you know what to say, lovey. You do this kind of emcee thing all the time. Just be Belle. Make them glad they came. Short and sweet. Funny. And warm, as only you can be.”

  “But Norah, the Barter. The stage.” Can’t the woman see what this will cost me? Norah had helped her work through the catastrophe of her audition for days afterward. Surely she understood what the evening ahead meant, what it would take to get her back out on that stage.

  “You’re not there to act. You’re there to be yourself.” Norah rose and gave her a much-needed hug. “That’s the role you were born to play. Break a leg.”

  Belle finally settled on the red dress. The David Dress, she’d named it. Knowing he would be there, center orchestra, cheering her on, was good news and bad news. He’d seen her make a fool of herself on that stage once before. She couldn’t bear the thought of it happening again in front of so many people.

  Especially in front of people who might remember a certain newspaper article about Belle O’Brien and her crazy dream of doing theater.

  She arrived half an hour before curtain and paced the floor backstage until she realized she was making the stage director nervous. She wouldn’t need a microphone, since the acoustics of the old theater were breathtaking. She wouldn’t need notes for a one-minute welcome. What she needed was a calm spirit and she knew where to turn for that.

  Lord, help me think about the audience instead of myself. Let your joy shine through me and give me strength. If you’re on stage with me, I know that whatever happens, I’ll survive.

  At precisely eight o’clock, the stage manager gave her the nod and she entered stage right, the bright stage lights hitting her like an oncoming freight train.

  Hadn’t she faced lights like that hundreds of times in her career? Not to worry, girl. Remember what Norah said. “Just be Belle.”

  She took a deep breath and plunged in. “Good evening and welcome to the Barter Theatre, one of the oldest continuously operating regional theaters in America. My name is Belle O’Brien and I do the midday show on WPER-FM—”

  Without warning, the audience burst into applause, first one section, then the other, until the whole house was clapping with gusto. In particular, a little knot of people front and center. Norah. Patrick. David. And not just them. Heather. Burt. Rick. Even Frank the Crank, bless his craggy heart.

  She shot a look of concern in Patrick’s direction. Who’s running the station?

  He shot a look back. Relax. Break a leg.

  She didn’t break a leg, but it did appear she charmed the crowd, if their reaction was to be trusted. She shared a brief story they found amusing. Invited them to listen to the radio station. Described the historic building they were sitting in. Gave them a quick introduction to the play. And welcomed the artistic director to the stage.

  It was the same man who’d judged her unimpressive attempt at Ursula.

  He sidled up next to her, smiling at the applauding audience as he whispered in her ear. “Why play the part of someone else when you’re so talented at playing you? Congratulations, Miss … uh—” He winked. “Oberholtzer.”

  She floated off the stage, down the steps, and into the waiting arms of a man who put Antonio, Claudio, and the rest of them to shame. Mere mortals in velvet doublets and hose, men who wouldn’t have the faintest idea how to swing a hammer or sand a wood floor.

  Let alone hang wallpaper.

  Two days later, Belle’s wallpaper skills were on display for three dozen of Abingdon’s finest, as David threw open the doors of his refurbished farmhouse for a Saturday night of celebration and good-natured inspection.

  He’d waited a lifetime for a place to call home, with pride. That time had finally arrived.

  “Where’s Norah?” He scanned the roomful of friends, old and new, looking for a familiar head of silver hair. “I haven’t seen her since she dropped off the food six hours ago.”

  “Mmm.” Belle finished another one of Norah’s delicious orange pecan muffins wrapped around thinly sliced sugar-cured ham. “Hard to tell, with so many folks here, but I don’t think I’ve seen Patrick either.”

  Candles glowed on the mantel, on the windowsills, and all through the kitchen. Party music filled the downstairs—oldies, of course—which made it hard to talk without shouting. He was content to slip his arm around Belle as they surveyed the living room together.

  There was Matthew the Methodist, chatting with Heather Young, of all people. Interesting. Frank the Crank had Millie on his arm—those two were a regular item now, yet another reason the WPER staff had started calling the place “The Love Boat.” Rick and Burt were hovering around the food table, stuffing their faces with Norah’s food.

  “Where is Norah?” Belle wondered aloud. A commotion at the front door answered her question. Norah was inching across the threshold. Perched in Patrick’s arms. Wearing a silvery white lace dress.

  And a sheer white veil.

  A veil?

  Belle’s shriek of delight rang through the noisy room. “I can’t believe it!”

  A spontaneous cheer rang out in the foyer as David steered Belle through the throng. Patrick was making a big show of dropping Norah to her feet, sweeping her into a precipitous dip, and planting a major smacker on her pretty pink face.

  The blushing bride, David realized, grinning broadly. Well, what do you know?

  Belle’s cello voice was squeaking like a violin. “Norah! What in the world … ? I mean, when … ?”

  Patrick cleared his throat with a booming broadcaster’s ahem. “Now that we have your attention, ladies and gents, may I introduce the first and only Mrs. Reese, my beautiful bride of one hour.”

  The room exploded in celebration. Paper napkins were tossed in the air and Rick dug out a CD featuring the Dixie Cups classic, “Chapel of Love.” As if on cue, the partygoers made an aisle for Norah and Patrick to walk down, arm in arm, until they reached the fireplace across the room and demonstrated another showstopping kiss.

  “The whole story, please,” Belle called out.

  Patrick cheerfully obliged. “You’ll remember, I spent a few years in Tennessee, so I knew all about their marriage laws. You don’t need to be a resident. No appointments needed to get a license. No waiting time, no blood tests, and at our age—” he squeezed Norah affectionately—“no need for our parents to sign the certificate for us.”

  Norah nodded, her eyes sparkling, her smile dazzling. “My charmingly cheap husband decide
d that since we were already having this get-together, it would make a dandy wedding reception.”

  Patrick pretended to be embarrassed and shrugged. “The price was right. A quick trip to the county clerk’s in Bristol, thirty-six dollars in cash, and the woman of my dreams is all mine. We hope you’ll share in our joy. And look at the bright side.” He flashed his infamous white teeth. “You didn’t have to spend a dime on a gift.”

  Another general cheer rang out before the guests started lining up to congratulate the happy couple. Belle ran up first, hugging Norah for the longest time, David noticed. What is she thinking? Feeling? After all, she had designs on Patrick herself once. He watched the women together, both their faces radiant, and realized Belle was only happy for Norah, nothing else. Put it to rest, man. Ancient history. The only direction he needed to look was forward.

  She made her way back to his side, slipping her arm around his waist, looking up at him. He could see the wheels turning. What, Lord? What’s on her mind? He had a pretty good idea. Lace dresses. Long veils. Marriage licenses. Now, Lord? Here? Is it too much, too soon?

  He’d do a trial run. Yeah, that’s it.

  “So, Belle, what do you think of this happy news?” He kept his voice steady, his gaze steady, his hands steady. His insides were a joint-jumping mess, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “I think it’s wonderful.” She sighed, her golden eyes glowing like stars, her voice a cello once more. “How ’bout you?”

  “Wonderful.” Is that the best you can do? The place was all wrong, he realized that. TOO crowded, too noisy, not the least bit romantic. She’d want that, wouldn’t she? A quiet, cozy corner at the Martha. Candlelight. Soft music. Him on one knee. Two, if it made her happy.

  He looked down at her, his heart bursting. Oh, Belle. Marry me. Be mine until heaven. Maybe if he said it with his eyes, she’d know, she’d understand. The words would have to wait until later, but he wanted her to know now, right now, how he felt, what he longed for.

  She simply smiled up at him, then turned to see about some food for the newlyweds.

  So be it. Later. He watched her as the evening progressed, making people feel welcome in his new home, serving their guests more punch, more food, more hugs. It was eleven o’clock before the crowd began to thin. Maybe by midnight he’d have her to himself. Not for a long time, but for long enough.