He’d never seen a woman more appealing than Belle as she’d stood there in her wrinkled, comfy clothes, ten perfect toes marching along the edge of the steps like little soldiers sporting red hats, her long hair a mass of tangled curls spilling to her waist, her eyes still clouded with dreams, her freckled face scrubbed clean, her generous mouth free of lipstick for once, begging to be kissed.
No, not begging. He’d be the one doing that.
Belle was so sure of herself, so complete without a man in her life, it seemed. She’d probably been kissed a thousand times by men with more money, more class, more to offer her than a twenty-seven-year degree from the University of Hard Knocks.
The years were another stumbling block. He saw nothing wrong with the five-year gap between them, but Belle might not agree. Patrick, the last man she’d been interested in, was older. Much older. Maybe she preferred a man with a dozen more years under his belt, a father figure.
David tossed his wrench aside in disgust. So what? This woman—any woman, but especially this one—was off limits right now. The timing was all wrong. He had career goals, financial goals, spiritual goals, and no intention of staying in Abingdon two seconds longer than necessary.
And that little pep talk is starting to wear thin, Cahill.
The truth was, Belle O’Brien had stolen his heart. He didn’t know when it had happened or how. It just had. From the minute they’d bumped heads in the production room, he should have seen it coming. It wasn’t just her saucy smile or amber gold eyes or how she filled out a pair of Levi’s. It was her love for life, her witty way with words, her growing enthusiasm for her faith.
And that velvety voice.
He’d held his interest at bay while she and Patrick fumbled through the sorriest attempt at a relationship he’d ever seen. What was that, anyway? He shook his head, remembering the two of them giving each other the cold shoulder for days at a time.
By Thanksgiving, something had shifted. Patrick became a friend to Belle, period. He, David, became something … more. For one thing, she teased him less. He trusted her more. They talked, really talked, in the studio, in the Grill, at her church that candlelit Advent night.
He shoved the dish rack into place and closed his eyes, fighting the image of her standing there on the steps this morning, clutching his heart in her hands. She doesn’t even know. Know how much she mattered to him. Know how scared he was of putting his feelings on the line. Again.
He sighed, exasperated. The only thing that mattered at the moment was getting Norah’s infernal dishwasher back in business. Putting all the parts back where they belonged, he finally resorted to an age-old engineering trick—banging the blasted thing with a hammer. It shuddered to life, spraying him with water faster than he could close the door. He slammed it shut and grabbed a dish towel to mop himself off, willing his temper to stay put.
“So that’s how you fixed Frank’s old tape deck last week when I wasn’t looking.”
David jerked around, towel still in hand, and found Belle watching him with a smirk on her face, her hair tamed into a snug braid down her back, lipstick in place, toes out of sight. “You look nice,” he said automatically, thinking instead that he’d liked her better dishabille.
She shrugged. “Anything would be an improvement. I see you’ve worked your magic on Norah’s beastie.” Her wry expression softened. “She’ll appreciate that, David. Thanks.”
He also liked her better when she teased and taunted him. A grateful Belle? More dangerous than ever.
“Time to face the music.” With a sigh she pulled on her coat and tucked a blue-and-green wool scarf around her neck. “See you up the street.”
Here was his chance to put Curt’s last Bible lesson into action, the one about being kind, serving one another. Sure, buddy. It’s also the perfect excuse to have some time alone with Belle. He grabbed his jacket. “I’m finished here. Can I give you a lift?”
She shook her head with a laugh. “You crazy thing, it’s four short blocks. By the time you get that sorry truck of yours started, I’ll be pouring coffee in the jock lounge.”
That’s the Belle I’m used to.
“You haven’t felt that frigid air out there. Frank’s weather forecast is full of snow advisories.” He tipped his head in a question. “Sure you don’t want a ride?”
“You win.” She groaned dramatically, grabbing her purse. “But only because I look terrible with a bright red nose.”
He couldn’t resist. “What about bright red toes?”
She swatted him with her scarf. “Don’t you dare tell a soul you caught me looking so frumpy. Got that, mister?” Her tone was stern, her eyes twinkling.
“Got it.” He nodded toward the door. “Truck’s out front. Lead the way.”
Driving up Main Street, he counted his blessings. For one, he’d cleaned out the truck cab earlier that week. He only had a dozen copies of Broadcast Engineering behind his seat, instead of four years’ worth. And two, the engine turned over on the first try.
Then he caught Belle’s eyes focused on the small bundle of letters on the dash, wrapped in a thick rubber band, and realized his luck had run out. Why hadn’t he put those somewhere else? Simple. He’d never expected to have Belle O’Brien in his passenger seat.
Here she was and there were those letters from Sherry, an eight-year collection of short, meaningless messages. Valuable only because they, along with the picture at home, were his one connection to Josh. If he’d ever had the slightest doubt that Josh was his, the photo put that concern to rest forever.
He couldn’t deny fathering him. Couldn’t claim to be parenting him, either. Two hundred dollars a month did not a parent make.
He kept his eyes on Main Street and his other senses tuned to the woman next to him who was humming along with the radio while Nat King Cole roasted chestnuts on an open fire. Another blessing worth counting—Belle didn’t mention the letters. She had one booted foot up on the dash, inches away from the handful of envelopes, utterly unaware of the incriminating truth inside them.
She didn’t need to know. No one did.
It was between him and God. God had forgiven him, and that was more than enough.
Patrick was sipping a cup of bracing hot coffee when the glass doors to the station swung open, letting in a chilly blast of air along with his engineer and his midday talent, in that order.
David and Belle … together?
Nah, they’re not together. He’s three feet away from her. Patrick took another sip, hardly aware of burning his tongue on the hot liquid. Her cheeks are kinda pink. Is she blushing? Nah. Cold morning, that’s all. Look, they’re going their separate ways without so much as a howdy-do. They’re not together.
But the mental gymnastics didn’t work. The image of the two of them walking in like that bothered him all day. He couldn’t say anything—what kind of a fool would he look like if he did? The thing between him and Belle was over. He knew it was over; she knew it was over. It was over. Heck, it’d never really started.
They were friends. Wasn’t it nice to have a friend? He had two friends in Abingdon now—Belle and Norah. How lucky could a guy get? One made him laugh at her funny jokes, the other one made him eat her fabulous cooking. Neither friendship cost him a dime.
Such a deal.
Patrick watched the late afternoon sun, pale and cloud-covered, dipping toward the western horizon. The snow hadn’t arrived yet, but Burt was reading the forecast on the air, and the possibility of one to two inches was still there.
Ten days until Christmas. Patrick hoped it would be a white one.
Wonder what Belle’s doing for the holidays? He hadn’t asked. Didn’t want to seem nosy. Or pushy.
Things had settled down between them. With any luck, Belle might renew her contract instead of stomping out the door on the first of May like she’d threatened to. You almost blew it, fool. His stomach knotted up so tight thinking about it he reached for a Tums on his desk.
She real
ly had become the Belle of Abingdon. A solid gold hit, that woman. The Washington County News had called, wanting to do a big feature article on her the first of the year.
He’d said yes on her behalf.
Maybe it would be a good idea to notify her as well.
Patrick got up from his desk, vaguely aware of tightening his tie, brushing the wrinkles in his trousers, wondering if he’d taken an orange-colored Tums instead of the kind that turned his tongue green.
He found Belle standing outside the production studio, talking to Anne St. Helen, recently dubbed the “Traffic Volcano.” Excessive make-goods or shoddily produced commercials made Anne blow her top. Wisely, the staff had learned to abide by her wishes and air every commercial exactly when and where Anne wanted them played.
Or prepare to duck.
“Belle—” Patrick watched her carefully—“When you get a second …”
She nodded, though her eyes were still focused on Anne. “I’ll record that spot before I leave, okay?” Anne took off for her cubicle, shuffling an armload of program logs, while Belle moved in his direction, her familiar perfume arriving first.
“What is it, Patrick?”
He forced himself to sound casual. “Got ten minutes? Or does Anne need that spot immediately?”
She eyed him, clearly curious. “No, it can wait ten minutes. Here or in your office?”
“My office might be best.”
She looked concerned, but he ignored it and turned to lead the way. He knew Belle wasn’t overly fond of publicity stuff. A newspaper article filled with photos and an in-depth interview, delving into both her professional and personal lives, might send her into orbit.
Better if that happened behind closed doors.
“Have a seat, Belle.” He pointed to the chair farthest away from his. Safety measure. “I’ve got some interesting news.”
“Oh?” Her gold eyes lit up like candles as she dropped into the chair, braid swinging, and stretched out her slim legs to rest the heel of one boot on the toe of the other. He’d seen that before—her I’m not the least bit anxious pose.
Sure.
He grinned, longing to spar with her again, if only for a minute. “Sorry, Belle, it’s not an offer from New York.”
She made a terrible face. “Why would I want to live in New York?”
“It’s the number-one radio market, kid.”
Belle rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Pish-posh!”
He knew where she’d picked that up. “No interest in returning to the majors, then?”
“Not really.”
Her answer threw him for a curve. She looked surprised herself.
“Patrick, I’m having fun on the air.” She shrugged, as if it pained her slightly to admit it. “It’s nice to look forward to coming to work again.”
He cleared his throat, feeling it tighten. Go ahead and ask her, man. “So you’ll probably still be here come May, then?”
Her gaze was steady, her features calm. “Yes, I’ll be here. I’m sorry if you’ve been worried about that.”
“Not worried, exactly.” Liar. “We hadn’t settled it, that’s all.” And it’s taken you six weeks to bring it up, Reese. Finally, he admitted the truth to her—and to himself. “I’m glad, Belle.”
Her smile was utterly genuine. “Me, too.”
It’d been so easy, this conversation. What a fool he’d been to put it off. Grabbing a newspaper, he tossed it in her lap. “These good people will be happy to know you’re here to stay, since they want to do a big feature article on you, like this one.”
She scanned the article with the two-inch headline, half a dozen large photos, an entire page of column type. “Ohh.” Belle’s eyes widened. “Lots of pictures.”
“Think you can handle it?” He knew she’d hate the process but love the finished product. “Might as well let the print media crown you queen and get it over with.” He sobered, wanting her to know he appreciated the effort. “It’ll be a boon for the station, Belle. Especially our Happy Together contest.” Wiggling his eyebrows playfully, he added, “What a lot of fishies this will put in your bowl at the Grill, eh?”
“You would bring that up.” She shook her head, eyes still glued to the paper, no doubt imagining her own face splashed all over its pages. “When will they do the interview?”
“The week between Christmas and New Year’s, if it suits you. Article runs in early January.”
Belle nodded. “Why not? That’s a quiet week. Speaking of which, what are you doing Christmas Day?”
An odd sensation skipped along his spine. “Uh, same as every year. Watch old movies on TV. Call my brother. Eat a frozen dinner. In other words, nothing.”
“Good. You’re coming to Norah’s for Christmas dinner.”
He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the cluttered surface of his desk, assuming his own low-anxiety look. “I am?”
“You are. Three o’clock Christmas Day. Promise me you’ll come? My parents will be there, too.”
“Your parents?” Wait a minute. What am I missing here?
“Yeah, the whole thing was Norah’s idea.” Belle was swinging her foot like a metronome. Tick tock.
He recognized it as her I’m nervous but trying to hide it look and so assumed his Mount Rushmore face to keep from laughing.
“Norah knew I hated not being able to go home for the holidays, so she got the brilliant idea of inviting my parents up for dinner, right after I get off the air at three.” Her foot stopped ticking. “She wondered if you might want to come.”
“So this was Norah’s idea?” He sensed something important in the air, some message he was supposed to get. I hate when women do this. Dropped subtle hints. Expected men to read their minds. Even now, with their relationship—or whatever it was—over, he found Belle’s womanly way of looking at things a confounded mystery. Why didn’t she just come out with it? Was she saying Norah had designs on him? Was she saying she approved?
Oh, bother.
Belle was nodding. “Yup, strictly Norah’s idea.” She paused meaningfully, leaning forward in her chair. “She’s expecting you.”
Does she want me to say yes?
“It would mean a lot to Norah.”
It would? “Fine.” He tried his best to appear nonchalant. “Anyone else coming?”
Belle’s face took on a pensive look. “Funny you should ask. Norah thought we oughtta invite David.”
Uh-oh. Another hidden message. Say something safe. “Really?”
“Yeah, I guess she wanted to set an even number of places around the table. But I was afraid my parents …” More foot ticking. “Well, I’ve been single so long, I thought they might jump to conclusions. Make a wrong assumption.” Under her freckles bloomed a distinct layer of pink. “Well, you know.”
I know what? He blurted out something safe again. “Parents are like that.”
She nodded. “I knew you’d understand.”
Understand what? Patrick had a sudden flash of insight. “What would David think if you invited him?” There. Throw the ball in somebody else’s court, that’s the ticket.
She shook her head. “The guy’s a mystery to me. I haven’t got a clue what he’d make of it.”
Patrick hid his surprise. So it works both ways, then.
“David needs a woman in his life, don’t you think?” Belle’s question seemed loaded, baffling him further.
He lifted his shoulders in a noncommittal way, then had his second bright idea of the afternoon. “Say, how about Heather? She’d be a good match with David, don’t you agree?”
“Heather?” Belle was on her feet in an instant. “Heather the Young?” She shook her head vehemently, the most animated she’d been during their entire conversation. “David would never be interested in Heather. She’s not experienced enough.”
Patrick baited the hook. “In radio?”
“No, silly, in life. She’s too naive, too … too …”
“Young,” he
finished for her, swallowing a smile. Belle was getting easier to decipher. The woman had feelings for David Cahill and didn’t know it yet. Look at her. Conflicted, confused, fighting it all the way.
He had no intention of making it easy on her. It was too much fun watching her wriggle on the end of his line. “Heather is only five years younger than David. Twenty-two to his twenty-seven.”
“But those five years make a huge difference in maturity.” Belle had started to pace. “I mean, when David started junior high school, Heather was only in second grade.”
“And you were a senior.”
Belle paused midstep and turned to look at him. “There, you see? Age does matter.” Her face went through a fascinating series of expressions as she processed their conversation. Obviously she had second thoughts about that last comment. “Age matters until you get older,” she corrected, flustered. “Then it hardly matters at all. I mean, when you’re … uh, older … what’s five years one way or the other?”
Patrick made sure his expression gave away nothing. “When does five years not matter, Belle?”
She faced him full on, her hands parked determinedly on her hips. “When two people are right for each other, age doesn’t matter one whit. Got that, Patrick?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.” Do you? he wanted to ask, but thought better of it. “Tell Norah I’m only too happy to say yes.” He finally gave in to a grin so wide it hurt his face. “After all, we’re both older. What’s five years, one way or the other, right?”
His phone rang, putting an abrupt end to their discussion. As he settled into his chair for a long chat with his banker, he watched Belle gather her things and head for the door, looking thoroughly befuddled.
So. David, then. He was amazed that a twinge of jealousy didn’t surface at the thought of the two of them together. Sure, he’d gotten a little green around the collar when he’d seen them walk in together that morning, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Okay, so the guy was five years younger than she was. So what? David was mature beyond his years. And Belle was, truth be told, a little young for her age. David was quiet, she was noisy. David was serious, she was fun-loving. Complete opposites.
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