He shook his head and gave the rope a sharp yank, grateful to watch the basket stop swaying at last. “That’s love for you.”
Her eyes, still golden in the fading afternoon light, filled with fresh tears. “David, I do love you. So much.”
Muffled voices far below them offered assurance that help was on the way. “It could take them some time to get up here, Belle.”
She wrapped her arms around a shivering Josh. “We can wait. It seems a whole lot safer in here than … where you are.”
From the other side of the basket, Tim stirred. Groggy and disoriented, he lifted his head and squinted at his passengers. “Wh-what … happened? Where did we land?”
“We didn’t … yet.” Belle patted his leg reassuringly. “We’re still aloft. Sort of.”
Tim looked instantly more alert. “Aloft? What is this … heaven?”
David laughed in spite of himself. In spite of his aching arms and cramping leg muscles. “Almost heaven, fella. Stay right where you are. This thing is none too steady, even with the knot we tied.”
Tim scratched his head. “You tied the knot?”
This time it was Belle’s turn to laugh. “It’s not that simple.”
“Sure it is.” David propped his chin on the crossbar, drinking in all her disheveled glory, her arms around his son, her eyes on him. “Norah and Patrick made tying the knot look easy enough.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
From a hundred feet below them came the sounds of firemen, climbing closer by the minute.
“I’m saying let’s continue this conversation when we get you three safely out of this fruit basket and on the ground. You ’bout ready to head down the ladder, Josh?”
Many agonizing minutes later, the first crew members reached them, bearing heavy climbing gear, leather safety straps, and, for good measure, a thermos of hot coffee. Josh was eased down first, crying but courageous nonetheless. Tim, once he got his bearings and a shot of caffeine, climbed down the tower without much assistance.
Belle, with her injured leg, posed a greater challenge. It took three men, a complicated pulley arrangement, and—farther down—a trip in the cherry picker to get her on firm footing. David was beside her every step of the way, encouraging, coaxing, making sure she wasn’t in more pain than necessary.
“David, stop fussing,” she kept saying. He knew better. The woman loved when he fussed over her for any reason. He figured this particular reason would last them about two hundred years.
Sherry stood on the windy hillside, her heart permanently lodged in her throat. Josh! Why can’t I see Josh yet? Swirling around her were EMS personnel and television camera crews, sparring for positions, bumping against her.
A burly cameraman glared down at her and barked out, “Excuse me, ma’am, but I need to get my tripod set up.”
“And I need to get my son down from that radio tower!” It came out on a sob. She turned away, ashamed of the hot tears that sprang to her eyes. Couldn’t he see how awful this was for her?
“Wait a minute! Is there a child up there? Are you the mother?” The cameraman changed his tune in a hurry, waving over a reporter. “Phil, over here! This woman’s son is in the balloon.”
In seconds she was surrounded by camera lenses and eager bodies clutching notebooks. “I really don’t know anything.” She worked hard to get the words out, to make sense of what was happening. “The … the child’s father is up there, too. He’s … he’s the one rescuing them, don’t you see? He’s … saving my son.”
They fired questions at her: Why was Josh in that balloon? Had his father flown with him? Was her son hurt?
She had no answers to give them.
“What’s the father’s name?”
That was one question she could answer. “David Cahill. He’s the engineer at WPER. He’s Josh’s father. He’s …” Catching sight of some movement above them, she turned away, stumbling closer to the tower base, pressing against the thick yellow tape the police were using to hold back the growing crowd of onlookers.
There! Climbing out of the basket …
“Josh!”
He couldn’t hear her, she knew that, but she waved and screamed his name anyway. “Josh!” Far above her, she could barely pick out his small blond head, his striped sweater, his blue jeans. Oh, but it was him. Yes! It was her son. Safe in his father’s arms.
Josh. The center of her universe. Her first love. Her only love. The only person in her life who really mattered—
Just Josh. Not David.
The realization hit her like a gale-force wind. She loved one person, and only one: her son. She didn’t love David. That was the truth of it. And he didn’t love her. That was the truth, too.
Oh, but he was rescuing her son! She’d be grateful to him forever for that. And she would tell him so, the minute he put their son safely in her arms. She would tell him … she would tell him he was …
Forgiven.
More than that. She would ask his forgiveness. For taking his son away. He deserved that, surely. A sudden wave of heat filled her face. Yes, he deserved that. She’d put the man through eight years of torment. He deserved … something. An apology was a beginning.
“Josh!” He could hear her now, she was certain of it. “Josh!”
He was strapped to the substantial back of a fireman as the man slowly made his way down the tower ladder, foot by agonizing foot. She knew her boy would never let go of those shoulders for a second, not even to wave at his mother. The waiting seemed endless, but he was getting closer.
The minute the fireman’s boot touched grass, she ducked under the yellow barrier and threw herself at the young boy whose arms now stretched toward her.
“Mom! Dad saved me. I’m safe, I’m safe!”
David inhaled deeply. If Patrick wanted media coverage, then he by cracking got it. The Bristol television stations had their crews there, satellite trucks circled around the tower base, and reporters from all three newspapers jockeyed for the best photo ops of the rescue.
As the cherry picker lowered him with Belle, herky-jerky toward the grassy hill, David’s eyes sought out Josh. And Sherry. Dread filled him, cold and hard. Could the woman possibly forgive him for carelessly risking their son’s life?
There she is. Josh was barely visible, so tightly was Sherry hanging on to him. David saw her glance his way, and their eyes met.
He nodded slowly in acknowledgment as she moved toward him, Josh’s hand in hers. He prepared himself to be slapped, cursed at, made into a public disgrace. He deserved it and more. The minute she was within earshot he called out. “Sherry! Please … I’m sorry. So sorry. Is Josh okay?”
She came as close as she dared, with all the trucks and equipment around them. He was amazed to see the hint of a smile touch the corner of her mouth. “Thank you for saving his life, David.”
It was the last thing he expected. The last thing he deserved.
“Sherry, didn’t he tell you? I’m the reason he was in that balloon. It was all my fault. I—”
She shook her head now, almost laughing, it looked like. “Nice try, David, but I’ve been this child’s mother for eight years. I know how persuasive he can be.” She shot him a knowing look. “He’s nearly as stubborn as his father. Don’t beat yourself up about this. You’re forgiven, okay?”
The word stuck in his throat. “F-forgiven?”
“Yeah.” She began backing away as an EMS vehicle made a circuitous path toward Belle. “Forgiven. For all of it, okay? The whole thing.”
Grace. Again, Lord. It had been raining grace every day since Christmas, falling in great, cleansing drops. He never lost his thirst for it, could never get enough.
He forced himself to speak, though only one thought filled his heart. “Thank you.” Is that all? What else was there to say? “Thank you, Sherry.”
Thank you, Jesus.
She turned to go, though Josh lingered behind her, his eyes still trained on David’s. “Bye
, Dad.”
“I love you, Josh. See you soon, okay, buddy?”
Josh waved, then turned as a camera flash caught him reaching up to hug his mother’s neck.
David lowered his gaze, overcome with emotion. When he looked up, Sherry had turned back toward him. Her eyes locked with his.
“David, I … I’m sorry, too. For … for a whole lot more than a shaky balloon ride.” Her chin was trembling, but her gaze remained steady. “I was … I never should have … uh … laughed. Let alone left.” She dropped her head and shrugged her shoulders.
It seemed to be all she could manage, but it was enough.
After eight years, it was more than enough.
What had Belle said on Christmas? The past is just that—passed. So be it. He’d gotten his son back. The rest didn’t matter anymore.
Only one woman mattered and she was a mere two feet away from him, being strapped to a stretcher. He turned to give Belle O’Brien his absolute, undivided attention.
“What time is it?” Her voice was hoarse, the dark circles under her eyes a reminder of her ordeal.
He looked at his watch, all the while keeping one eye on her. “Almost seven o’clock. Why?”
She licked her parched lips, then tried to smile. “We were supposed to meet at seven, remember? You had something important you wanted to tell me. Some proposal …”
His grin, dry lips or not, was ear to ear. “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that!”
The EMS crew tucked a blanket around her and rolled her toward the waiting ambulance as she wriggled her head around to watch him follow her.
“Promise you won’t let them take off without you.” It was a warning, not a request.
“Don’t worry, Belle. I’ll never leave your side. Ever.” He let them get her stretcher settled in the van, then climbed in after it, perching on a narrow side bench as they slammed the door shut. Inside the van, all was blessedly quiet. He could almost hear her heart beating. Maybe that was his heart, making such a racket.
He cleared his throat, ignoring the ministrations of the medical team who were poking thermometers in her mouth and checking her pulse.
“It is nearly seven o’clock, so I suppose there’s no point delaying things.”
“No point whatsoever.” Her eyes were gold stars, twinkling in the dim light of the van. If she was in pain, it wasn’t showing on her radiant face.
“It’s like this. Belinda Oberholtzer, will you marry me?”
“Oh, David.” Out of nowhere came a hiccup. “I thought you’d never ask.”
thirty
The sad part about happy endings is
that there’s nothing more to write about.
TAMMY WYNETTE
BELLE WRAPPED HERSELF IN a luxurious terrycloth robe that stretched from the bottom of her chin to the tops of her ten scarlet toes and emerged from the fragrant, steamy bathroom wearing her most beguiling smile.
Her eyes drank in her surroundings. The corner suite at the Martha Washington Inn had sumptuous burgundy carpeting, expensive antique furnishings, ivory and gold walls, and a chandelier poised above a truly enormous king-size bed.
What it did not have was David.
Silly man! Was he playing games with her, tonight of all nights? Her emotions were not to be trifled with, especially at this precise moment when they were spinning in a dozen directions.
She had waited all her life for her wedding night. She did not intend to wait a single moment longer.
After she looked under the bed, where he wouldn’t have fit if he’d tried, she found instead a plain white envelope on her pillow. Belinda was handwritten on the front. No return address.
Then again, he’d hardly need to mail it.
She smiled as she picked up the letter and opened the flap, slipping out a single sheet of paper. Dated today, the fifth of June. Written while she showered, judging by the time noted below it.
Ma Belle Amie—
The cur. He already had her laughing, choosing her all-time favorite ’70s song. Well really, how could it not be?
Have I told you often enough today how beautiful you looked on your father’s arm? A vision in white lace, your tiny hands filled with fragrant blossoms, your face filled with love. Love for your Lord, love for me. Belle, you took my breath away.
As if he didn’t steal her own breath! Waiting at the altar, dressed in black formal wear from the tip of his handsome head to the soles of his strong, courageous feet. Feet that had climbed to her rescue. Even when it had scared him beyond all comprehension. My husband, my hero.
Standing by your side, I couldn’t tear myself away from your eyes, glowing like costly gold coins polished to a rare sheen. A hint of tears made them glisten all through the ceremony. I loved that, Belle. I love you.
She could barely read the words swimming before her on the page.
And oh, that dress, Belle! A perfect fit for your perfect body. I am your husband now, so I can tell you that I have never found anyone more desirable. You are everything your Creator intended a woman to be. I am humbled at the thought of all that waits for me.
She was using the letter as a fan now, being careful not to brush her cheeks, lest they singe the paper.
Listening to your voice as you spoke your vows was like hearing a finely crafted instrument, played by a master. The beautiful speaking voice that has charmed the hearts of many will be the sound that greets me in the morning and wishes me sweet dreams at night.
If only he knew what the sound of his voice did to her. Sent shivers up her spine. Made her heart beat faster. Warmed her to her very soul.
I have only one thing to ask of you, Belle. A small favor from one who loves you more than life itself …
The letter ended abruptly. No signature, no postscript.
“What?” Belle flipped it over. “What one thing? What small favor?”
She heard a soft footfall at the door and looked up to see her beloved David, closing the door behind him, wearing a matching robe and a rakish grin.
“There you are, handsome new husband of mine.” She tuned her voice to the key of purr. “Now, tell me. What one favor would you ask of me?”
“Don’t sing.”
“Don’t … ! Why … why you—” She sailed one of the Martha’s fluffiest pillows in his direction, but to no avail. The man was laughing. Laughing, blast it! And getting closer by the minute.
“I’ll sing if I want to, you … you—” She tossed a bedroom slipper at his shoulder, and nearly took out an antique lamp instead.
“Okay, wife of mine. You’re welcome to sing, as long as I can choose the tune.” He was almost toe to toe with her now, his eyes filled with merriment and something else that made her heart skip a beat, then two.
She stuck out her lower lip. “What is this? An all-request show?”
The man’s grin was wolflike. “You could say that.” His arms circled her, as if she could go anywhere with her legs pinned against the edge of the bed. His voice dropped to a wolfish pitch, too. “I’d like to hear something from, say, the Crystals? September 1963?”
“You don’t mean … ?”
“That’s right.”
“But that song starts out with them dancing …”
He started swaying slightly from side to side, his eyes trained on hers.
The nerve of this man! “David, you’re making me dizzy.” Well, something was making her head spin.
“Belle, you’ve got a ten-second musical intro before the vocals. Do you want to sing the whole thing or just the hook?”
She groaned. “The hook is all you’re gonna get, buster!”
The swaying stopped. “So … let’s hear it.”
This was harder than she’d expected. “I … can’t!”
“C’mon, sweetheart. Just sing me the title, then.”
She cleared her throat with a dramatic flourish, then lowered her voice to a tuneless whisper. “Uh … uh … ‘Then He Kissed Me.’ ”
He slipped h
is glasses off, placing them carefully on the nightstand, never taking his gaze from hers. “Sorry, Belle, I didn’t catch that.”
Oh, those infernal eyes of his! They were looking straight at her, dangerously close.
“Sing it again for me, beautiful wife.”
He meant it, she could see that. Had she really said obey in that ceremony today? Humph. She made herself whisper it again. “ ‘Then He Kissed Me.’ ”
“That’s better, Belle.” He pulled her snugly against his chest, melting any resistance she’d ever thought about attempting. “Once more now, beloved. With feeling.”
“Ohh, David!” Her lengthy sigh was the most musical thing she’d ever sung. “ ‘And Then He Kissed Me.’ ”
And he did. For a very long time.
From the Kitchen of Norah’s Silver Spoon
GLAZED HONEYMOON MUFFINS
Muffins:
½ cup butter, softened
½ cup sugar
1 cup mashed ripe bananas
2 eggs, beaten
½ cup honey
2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
¾ cup roasted and salted peanuts, chopped
Glaze:
2 tablespoons butter, softened
2 tablespoons honey
Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Cream butter. Add sugar. Beat well. Stir in bananas, eggs, and honey. Blend. Sift flour, soda, and salt together in a separate bowl. Stir into banana mixture. Add peanuts and stir until just combined. Bake in greased muffin tins for 25 to 30 minutes or until muffins spring back when tested.
To make glaze, combine butter and honey in small bowl and stir until smooth. Brush warm muffins with glaze. Serve warm.
Dear One:
What a blessing it is to share this, my first novel, with you!
My path to fiction has been circuitous, to say the least. When I was ten years old, I wrote my first book, using a No. 2 pencil and a lined marble notebook. It was a mystery (yes, like Nancy Drew) and it was … uh, let’s just say Carolyn Keene’s job was quite secure. Even so, the fiction bug bit hard.
In school I did theatre. Nothing thrilled me more than climbing into another character’s costume and persona, especially if she had the funniest lines! Ten years of radio—theatre without makeup—came next, then another dozen in professional speaking. Finally writing. Again. Still. Funny how the Lord takes us full circle, right back to where we belong. How faithful God is to wait while we “grow up!”
Mixed Signals Page 37
