Mixed Signals (10 page)

Turning down Spring Creek, he could barely make out his driveway ahead. The relentless rain had turned the narrow dirt circle into a mud slide. If he drove through it tonight, his tires would carve out two permanent gullies he’d have a hard time filling later.

No way around it. He’d have to park along the gravel shoulder of the road and make a dash for the door. Slamming the truck door shut without bothering to lock it—every night he prayed someone would steal the heap and put him out of his misery—he slipped and slid his way across the mud and grass, digging in his pockets for the keys as he ran.

He locked the house every day, but only because the few valuables he owned were inside: his tools, books, and computer. The structure itself wasn’t worth one thin dime. Patrick had planned to tear it down until David talked him out of it. Told him he’d buy the house and two acres, remodel it, make it into a place he’d be proud to call home.

Except David had no intention of living in this town any longer than it took to get the house ready for market. He hoped Patrick would forgive him when the time came to move on, wouldn’t think he was an unappreciative heel. The station would be nailed down by then, every kink worked out, all equipment installed. A part-time engineer was all WPER would need. Save them money, too. Patrick would love that part, he thought with a chuckle.

That’s why he’d mailed his résumé to WBT in Charlotte that morning. The big one. A fifty-thousand-watt, clear-channel blowtorch, every engineer’s dream. He knew it’d take months, maybe years, to get hired there. Still, sending them his résumé was a beginning.

He’d spent his first nineteen years in Abingdon. Long enough for any man. Too long for a Cahill. Coming back after eight years, he felt as if he’d never left.

It wasn’t a good feeling.

He didn’t know why he’d ended up back here. Habit, maybe. A solid job offer, sure. The need to prove to this town that he could amount to something. Yeah, that was closer to the truth.

But look at this house. Exactly like all the rental properties he’d lived in as a kid. Hammered-together shacks on all the wrong streets in Abingdon. Falling-down houses rented by his falling-down-drunk father. They’d kept moving but their creditors always found them. It was a sorry way to live.

Four years of seeing the world through a serviceman’s eyes, four years in college, and a lifetime of devouring every book he got his hands on had shown him it wasn’t the only way to live. Not by a long shot.

His front door creaked open and he reached for a light switch, bathing the dilapidated entranceway and staircase with the faint yellow light of a sixty-watt bulb swinging overhead. This place was depressing, especially after being in a house like Norah’s. Instead of the fragrance of home-cooked food and cinnamon, his home smelled like mildew and sawdust and worse. The first thing he’d rebuilt was the heating system so at least the temperature was bearable now, and he’d installed a new hot water heater.

Six long weeks of work, evenings and weekends, and most of it in the basement, where it didn’t show. It’d be next summer before he’d let anybody from church or the radio station anywhere near this place.

If he still lived here then.

He shook off his sopping wet jacket and threw it over the dish drainer, then peeled off his soaked jeans and added them to the pile.
All this so I can get wet all over again
. He laughed to himself, sprinting up the steps and into
the remodeled shower. If it took emptying the entire contents of his new hot water heater on his head, he intended to feel clean and warm.

Later, he’d take another look at the letter in his shirt pocket. The one with the photo he’d begged to see, the one that had turned his day upside down even before he’d had a head-on collision with Miss Belle O’Brien.

C
INNAMON.
D
EFINITELY CINNAMON
.

If every morning began with such luscious smells wafting up her staircase, Belle didn’t care if she never left Abingdon.

For that matter, she didn’t care if she never left the snug comfort of her down-quilted bedcovers.

Mmm
.

In the murky darkness, she squinted at the clock radio inches from her face and her head shot off the pillow. Twenty minutes before six. Twenty minutes before Frank Gallagher would hit the remote start button on the transmitter, firing up 25,000 watts of oldies power. WPER would be on the air, live with Frank.

The Crank.

She couldn’t help it. The name fit him like a glove. Patrick had tried to talk him into using his old handle. Told Frank it suited the format perfectly. “I’m a morning personality,” Frank had grumbled. “Not a jive-talking disc jockey with stacks of wax for Jills and Jacks. No way. I’m too old to crank the hits. Got it?”

Patrick had backed off for the moment. But Belle was willing to bet Frank didn’t know how persuasive his new boss could be.

Sliding to her feet, Belle stretched her tired muscles, sore from too many trips up and down the steps with boxes of valuable cargo. It had seemed valuable when she packed it, anyway. Now it was nothing but a
collection of brown boxes stacked everywhere she turned.

Every other box was marked
Stuff
.

Good thinking, Belinda girl. Very helpful
.

She tiptoed barefoot through the maze of cartons en route to her antique bathroom and climbed into the clawfoot tub. The shower curtain dangled high above her from a silver oval as the hot water struggled to find its way to the third floor. Low water pressure was a small price to pay for an apartment that would be stunning when and if she got it all together.

The large pieces of furniture were already in place, thanks to David and Matthew, the broad-shouldered duo who’d hauled it all upstairs last night. Matthew the Methodist certainly was a looker, she thought, massaging a generous glob of peach-scented shampoo into her hair. He was kind, helpful, obviously committed to his ministry.

Good for him.

Not so good for her.

Why was that?
She was genuinely perplexed. How could she, a woman who’d spent so many years of her life in a church, now find the idea of dating a minister … She couldn’t put her finger on the right word.
Predictable? Tame, maybe?

Belle let out a measured sigh, stepping out of the tub and reaching for a textured bath towel. She loved God, of course. Had plans to find a church home, pronto. Especially after all those dry months in Chicago, when her six-day work week meant Sundays were her only day to sleep in.

Sleeping in had become a habit. One she knew needed breaking, and soon. She missed having a church family, a place to call home.

But still. Dating a man like Matthew Howard—okay, he hadn’t so much as hinted that he might call, though he did seem rather attentive—dating a minister brought with it certain expectations that she wasn’t sure she could deliver. Like wearing dresses instead of jeans, or taming her wild and woolly hairstyle. And if it got more serious than that? Well, she couldn’t play the piano, cook the Wednesday night supper, or carry a tune in a bucket.

Why not come up with a few more stereotypes while you’re at it, Belle!
She shook her head at her reflection in the mirror and continued brushing her
damp hair. What minister in his right mind would want a disc jockey for a wife anyway? A woman liable to slip free promotional CDs in the offering plate and station T-shirts in the clothing-drive bin.

“Run for your life, Matthew!” she called out in the direction of the windows overlooking the church, then chuckled.
You’re in some mood this morning, girl
.

Almost six o’clock now. She reached over and flipped the radio on, already tuned to 95 FM. A faint hiss, distant static was all that greeted her. Nothing more. Soon that would change forever. The anticipation hummed through her nervous system. She’d never been part of putting a brand-new station on the air before. Hadn’t realized until this instant how exciting it could be.

Belle hurried through her morning routine, digging deep in her suitcase to find all the essentials. She’d at least get her bathroom together tonight, and enough clothes pressed and ready for the week. Every station had its own unspoken dress code. This one seemed fairly casual, but she figured on playing it safe this week by wearing some of her favorite sweaters.

Maybe Patrick would notice.

She grimaced. With her luck, that blond, brooding engineer would be the one to notice. Honestly, what was his problem? He was friendly, in a detached sort of way, but she’d swear he was hiding something. The way he looked at her when she pretended to look the other way, then hooded his eyes when she glanced in his direction. Weird. Moody. And too young.

“Though not as young as
Heather
Young,” she sang out into the cool darkness of her bedroom, laughing. Come to think of it, those two deserved each other. Maybe she’d have to work on that over the holidays. A little matchmaking to take her mind off the puzzle that was Patrick.

She was in the middle of tugging a new russet-colored cotton sweater over her still-damp hair when the radio suddenly came alive with a drum roll and Patrick’s baritone pipes announcing with a dramatic flourish, “Ladies and gentlemen of southwestern Virginia, welcome to WPER-FM Abingdon—Oldies 95!”

The drum roll built into a frenzied crescendo as a classic bass line came
pumping in and a voice full of attitude growled, “It’s Frank the Crank, baby, here to jump-start your morning with a solid gold memory from the summer of 1969, Oliver singing ‘Goooood Morning Starshine.’ ”

Go, Frank, go!
Belle gave her sweater a spirited yank, wiping away a tear of sheer joy in the process. Frank the Crank was alive on FM 95, and she was thrilled to her toes. This was real radio, not some computer-generated jukebox. “Hoooeeee!” she hollered into the morning stillness, pulling on her boots with unaccustomed gusto. For the first time in a long time, she couldn’t wait to get to work.

Quickly braiding her hair and slapping on her makeup, she practically skipped down the steps to the first floor, where spicy cinnamon mingled with the heavenly aroma of fresh coffee.

“We’re on the air, Norah!” She hurried through the darkened gift shop toward the bright lights in the back room. She found Norah slicing bread with the kitchen equivalent of a claymore. “Remind me not to tweak your nose when you’re wielding that thing.” Belle backed off with mock concern.

Even busy with her baking, her landlady was impeccably dressed. Belle noticed Norah had WPER tuned in as well. Frank the Crank had switched gears and was playing a sentimental single, “To Know Him, Is to Love Him.”

“What do you think, Norah?” Belle tipped her head toward the small radio perched on a shelf among a dozen battered cookbooks.

“This is my music, remember?” Norah grinned. “1958. The Teddy Bears have never sounded better.”

Belle regarded her playfully. “One teddy bear in particular sounded especially fine at the top of the hour, don’t you agree?”

Norah laughed, nudging a wisp of hair off her face with her shoulder. “If you mean Patrick, yes. He has a wonderful voice.”

“In the business, we call them
pipes
, like the pipes of an organ.” Belle grinned and poured herself a cup of fresh-brewed coffee. “Our man Reese has them in abundance.” She found a plate and wandered out to the glass case where the morning’s fare was on display. “I’m serving myself a muffin, Norah. What do I owe you?”

“ ‘Owe me’? Humph. You’re my new tenant and my new friend. You don’t owe me a dime.”

Belle returned to the kitchen, shaking her head, an orange-nut muffin firmly lodged between her teeth. “Huh-uh,” she said as soon as she could swallow. “That’s not how it’s gonna work, or I’ll feel guilty every time I come down here. Suppose we keep a running tab for one muffin and one coffee a day, and I’ll write a check at the end of the month when I pay the rent.”

Norah shook her head, clearly defeated. “Are you always so hardheaded?”

Belle laughed. “Ask David.” She gulped down the last of her coffee and shrugged into her coat. “I’m off to make my own debut on WPER. Think warm thoughts around ten o’clock, will you?”

Norah’s dark eyes settled on her. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll be praying for you. Okay?”

“Thanks.” She hurried out the back door into the chilly morning, calling over her shoulder as she went, “I’ll take all the prayers I can get.”

Belle shoved her hands into her pockets and stepped carefully along the steep brick sidewalk covered with a layer of leaves still wet from the night’s hard rain. The skies bore no trace of the storm and were instead a clear dark blue, washed clean by the downpour. In the east was a hint of the sunrise to come, in the west, a faint trace of stars twinkling in the heavens. She took a lungful of the fresh-scented air and breathed it out with giddy abandon.

Abingdon was quietly stealing her vagabond heart. Along both sides of the street were houses constructed a century and a half earlier. Solid brick, most of them, with tin roofs on top. Others were sturdy clapboard that had been painted white, over and over, decade after decade. Some had names, like
Marcella
, while others proudly displayed the year they were built on small plaques—1836, 1819, a few even in the eighteenth century. Belle peered over a white picket fence at a charming garden with a pair of benches facing one another and attached by a wooden canopy overhead. It was easy to imagine wisteria climbing there, with two summer sweethearts sitting knee to knee, gazing at one another with love in their eyes.

Oh, brother! You
are
in a rare mood this morning, Belle O’Brien!

Within minutes she was unlocking the door at Court and Main and mounting the endless staircase. She barely noticed the climb, so excited was she to get there. The station doors sprang open at her touch and she went directly to the on-air studio, making sure the warning light over the entrance had blinked off before she pushed the door open.