Or—and this was by far the majority—the callers were men wanting to know if they could “meet her sometime.” Prepubescent teenagers whose voices changed keys three times in one sentence. Salesmen on cell phones, yearning for a little human contact on the road. Men in their sixties who kept calling her “young lady” and saying how much she reminded them of their own daughters. Lonely guys from neighboring towns like Meadowview, Chilhowie, and Damascus, the town she’d driven through back in November. Students from Emory & Henry College and VHCC, back from the Christmas break, assuring her she “didn’t look bad for an older woman.”
Great.
During the network news feed at noon, she made the unfortunate mistake of choosing the Grill for her take-out lunch. A newspaper rack waited silently inside the door, hitting her between the eyes with that headline one more time. While she stood at the counter, trying to ignore the sidelong glances and elbow nudges her presence had set into motion, Leonard came lumbering out from behind the sizzling grill, wiping his hands on his grimy apron and grinning in greeting.
“Take a look at that fishbowl, Miss O’Brien!” He grabbed it off the display rack and shook it at her. “Betcha got twenty new ones since this morning. Guess that makes you the Belle of the Bowl, huh?”
“Very clever, Leonard.” She smiled in spite of herself. “How about a turkey on whole wheat, light on the mayo?” He was back with her sandwich in record time, but not soon enough to prevent a few good-natured verbal volleys from the regular diners who knew her. Thanks to the paper’s thorough reporting, now they knew even more about her.
Studying the group of photos for the tenth time that day, she decided they might not be as awful as they’d first seemed. Had she ever seen a photo of herself she really liked? The one with the hot air balloon crew, a pose of her climbing into the big rattan basket they called the gondola, was a nagging reminder that her own “date with a winner” would be coming up in a little over a month. The listener part made her nervous, but the ballooning itself was scarier still. Patrick had convinced her she’d be plenty safe, despite David’s insistence that he’d get a group from church to pray for her from takeoff to landing.
Where was David, anyway? She dashed back up the steps, sandwich in hand. She hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of him all day. He usually stuck his head in the studio while she baby-sat the news feed and nibbled on lunch, but not today. The afternoon dragged on. Though the music was upbeat—Animals to ZZ Top—she found her spirits were sagging, especially each time she promoted her upcoming remote broadcast. Why today, Lord? His silence spoke volumes. Clearly she was expected to cram all her misery in one day, get it over with, then jump back into joyful living on Thursday.
When she flew out of the studio at three, Belle reminded herself that in two hours it would all be over and she could crawl in bed and pretend this day never happened. Meanwhile, lots had to happen. In less time than it took her to hurry down Main Street, run up and down the steps and fire up the Pontiac, Belle also squeezed in a hasty iron job on her favorite pants and jacket, smeared some color on her freckled face, and squirted on an extra dose of perfume for good measure.
Bad idea. Her fragrance, like a flower drawing bees, had men swarming around her at Dollar General Store. Microphone in one hand, towels in the other, she was doing on-air chats with Burt back at the studio while listeners stood around and listened to her bubble about white sale bargains. While she hawked the wares, they gawked and stared. It was beyond embarrassing.
With fifteen minutes left on the air, she’d run out of interesting things to say about the sale items. “The sheets are flat, the towels are thick” summed things up in a hurry. Interviewing shoppers, though, was disastrous. As soon as she stuck a mike in someone’s face they said, “Hey, I saw you in the paper. You don’t look the same in person.”
Great.
Forty-five minutes later, she finally unloaded her portable broadcast gear in the parking lot behind the station on Plumb Alley, so named because it ran plumb through town. Avoiding the few remaining icy patches that lurked in the corners of the lot and between the bricks in the sidewalk, she made her way up the hill, then up the steps, clunk-clunking the equipment behind her, biting her lip to keep from saying something she’d regret.
And to keep from crying.
It had been one endless, ragged day. Ten more steps and she’d be at the station door, where everyone would be long gone except Burt in the studio. Looking down at her feet to keep from tripping over the cords and wires, Belle almost landed in the lap of a long-legged man seated on the top step. With something in his hands that, for a blessed change, was not a copy of the Washington County News.
Finally, she did cry.
“Is that any way to thank me?”
David watched as Belle sagged onto the steps, equipment sprawled everywhere, tears streaming down cheeks made rosy by the cold.
“Sorry,” she croaked, digging through her purse, probably for a tissue. He pulled a white handkerchief out of his back pocket and offered it to her with a shake.
“Here. It’s clean, honest.”
She took it, eyeing the other item in his hands but saying nothing. He gingerly sat it next to him on the landing and waited for her to pull herself together.
“What are you doing on the steps? Did you lock yourself out?”
He shook his head.
“Were you afraid I wouldn’t bring back the remote gear in one piece?”
Another head shake, though he couldn’t help smiling at that one.
She, however, was frowning. “You wouldn’t dare ask me about my day, would you?”
“Don’t have to, Belle.” The wear and tear on her was obvious. After the Barter last night, then the article this morning, it was no wonder she was wrung out. “If it helps to hear it, I’m sorry.”
She nodded, clearly not wanting to go down that avenue for another visit anytime soon.
Truth be known, he was particularly sorry about the paragraph where she talked about being single and not being happy about it. About not seeing anyone special right now.
What am I, chopped liver?
The answer was obvious. No. He also had never taken her on a date. Which might be a good thing, considering his plans to leave town someday were picking up speed.
Belle’s eyes were glued to the clay pot by his side. “What are those?”
He handed her the flowers, tall green stems with delicate white blooms clustered at the top. “Paper-whites. Little bulbs coaxed into flowering for a beautiful woman in January so she’ll remember to bloom where she’s planted.”
She looked like she might start crying again.
He shifted down a step. Geared his voice down while he was at it. “It’s a good day for bearing gifts, Belle. The sixth of January.”
Her glistening eyes widened. “Epiphany.”
“The day the Magi appeared.” He nodded and offered her a hand, meaning to help her stand up. Instead, she stayed put and hung on for all she was worth. Her warm touch was soft yet insistent. The smallness of her hands made his own seem too large, too rough. Especially since he’d hammered and sawed at the house all day, reinforcing the staircase to the second floor.
“Magi or not, I’m glad you appeared today. Finally.” Her lower lip edged out in a pretty pout. “Where’ve you been?”
He had to know. “Missed me?”
The lower lip pushed out further. “Answer my question first.”
“Not unless you let me take you to dinner.”
The lower lip dropped in a gasp. “Do you mean a date, David, or are we going dutch treat?”
How had he gotten himself into this? Seconds earlier, he’d prided himself on never taking her on a date, and now here he was, doing precisely that. And loving it, Cahill.
He squinted at her as if sizing her up. Unnecessary, when she was the perfect size. He’d found that out when he’d embraced her last night. She fit snuggly under his chin. Her arms circled his waist just so. Her li
ps landed right on top of his heart. Or rather, where his heart used to be before she stole it.
She asked you a question, man. “Ah … since you studied Latin and I studied French, Dutch isn’t our language, wouldn’t you agree? I’m paying, of course.”
Belle smiled for the first time since she’d landed on the steps. Maybe the first time that day. Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Are we talking the Martha Washington Inn for dinner, then?”
He snorted, yanking her to her feet along with him. “We’re talking Bubba’s Best Barbecue.” And we’re not talking about the envelope in my pocket. The one with the solid gold job offer from WBT in Charlotte.
They dragged the equipment inside the station doors, parking it out of harm’s way, and headed down the steps. He could sense her mood lifting and hoped he was part of the reason why. Although it was Epiphany, a night for gifts and revelations, he couldn’t bring himself to reveal his latest news, not yet. Not until he saw the station in North Carolina. Not until WBT’S management explained the terms of their generous offer. Not until he decided if and how Belinda Oberholtzer fit into his future.
twenty
Money often costs too much.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON
SWERVING TO PASS A guy whose cruise control was set on crawl, David adjusted the mirrors on the rental car. Nice to be able to use an interior button to handle all that instead of rolling down both windows and shoving things around by hand, the way he did on the truck. That piece of junk was sitting at Ratcliff’s Auto Clinic and Body Shop getting the engine worked on while he tooled down Highway 16 in a brand-new borrowed Taurus, pointed toward Charlotte.
Not a soul in Abingdon knew where he was headed or why.
He was good at keeping secrets. All through his growing-up years, he’d tried to keep his dad’s drinking a secret. All through the service and college, he’d kept his shabby upbringing hidden from his buddies. And hadn’t he managed to keep Josh a secret from everyone he’d ever known for eight long years?
Everyone except Belle.
Which was why the WBT offer was burning a hole in his conscience. His dream station. The money and security he’d longed for waited for him three hours south of Abingdon. He hadn’t hinted to Belle about it, even after more than two weeks. Instead he talked to the Lord nonstop and begged for wisdom.
He couldn’t risk telling her, not yet. What if she told Patrick? Or told Norah, and she told Patrick? Belle wouldn’t tell a soul, and you know it. Well, what if she got all weepy about him moving? Worse, what if she didn’t shed a tear and wished him well, sayonara, good riddance? The whole thing gave him a headache.
Take in the scenery, man. Get a grip.
The late January day was cold but sunny. Now that he’d left behind the snowy mountains of the Blue Ridge, there wasn’t a patch of white stuff in sight as he drank in the rolling hills of western North Carolina, heading south toward the Piedmont Plateau. Beautiful country, this.
Great weather for working on the house, he realized with a guilty start. He’d worked hard all Saturday at the station to earn this day off, worked all yesterday after church pulling down the crumbling plaster in his living room, feeling bad about laboring on Sunday, convincing himself he could continue to worship while he worked.
His set-building gig at the Barter had paid for the carpet that waited upstairs for him to install. But with that side job over, his bank account was back to zilch. Again, still.
Money, always money. And time. It would take him another three months to finish the house. Less if he had help. The supplies were covered. What he needed was an extra pair of carpenter’s hands. Friends from church had generously offered, but he was down to the problematic stuff he’d never ask a novice builder to tackle. The kind of detail work his father had been a master at. On his sober days.
Thinking about his dad meant thinking about Josh, yet another situation that had sent him to his knees often this month, ever since the boy’s letter. He didn’t dare call or write him back—Sherry would have a fit. He hadn’t told Belle about that one either. Too complicated.
He hoped Josh would write again, but he hadn’t. Clearly the kid needed a father. Why hadn’t Sherry found herself some laid-back California kind of guy by now? She was cute enough. Friendly enough. Too friendly. Why didn’t she marry somebody and let the man adopt Josh as his own?
Over my dead body.
The thought hit him hard, knocking the breath out of him for a second. He didn’t want anyone else to father Josh. His only child, his look-alike son. Selfish, David. Yeah, well. It wasn’t pretty, it was merely the truth. Taking the job at WBT would at least let him send twice as much money every month. Maybe more.
Not that the job was his yet, not hardly. He had a long day ahead with plenty to prove. To himself and to the chief engineer at Jefferson-Pilot’s flagship station with 50,000 clear-channel watts in a top-fifty market in a city surrounded by half a million people. The Queen City it was called, after Queen Charlotte Sophia, the wife of King George III.
The city might have a queen’s name, but it didn’t have a Belle.
He sighed, determined to concentrate on transmitters and towers and not the auburn-haired temptress back in Abingdon. It didn’t help that he’d gone out of his way to drive smack dab through the middle of Moravian Falls. And he ignored the obvious when WBT came booming in on his car radio, playing the Fifth Dimension’s “One Less Bell to Answer” as the lead-in for the station’s midday talk show.
He’d call Belle tonight when he got home. After he saw what WBT had to offer and what the job entailed. The salary and benefits were no doubt double what Patrick was paying him. Whether he took the job or not, he had to know if he was good enough. Had to know if he had enough talent and drive for the big time.
Stretching his shoulders, grown stiff from sitting behind the wheel since dawn, David consulted the map stretched out on the passenger seat. He’d be there in half an hour. A quick glance in the rearview mirror convinced him that he still looked decent. Clean-shaven. Since his beard grew in blond, he could get away with a few more hours before the shadow showed.
His hair looked better than usual, thanks to a fresh trim from Belle, who’d insisted on cutting it last week. Said she’d always done her younger brother’s hair. As Patrick would say, the price was right, plus it didn’t look half bad. The best part had been her nimble fingers running through his hair, tickling his scalp, putting all his senses on alert when she leaned over him, the scent of her perfume filling his head.
Enough, Cahill. Think transmitters. Think towers.
The traffic around him had grown more congested, the scenery more urban. Not long now. Out of habit, he straightened his glasses, smoothed down his tie, tucked in his shirt, eyed his suit coat hanging in the backseat. Big day, fella. Don’t blow it.
Belle stretched her fingers, grown stiff from writing. The stack of mail on her coffee table didn’t seem to be shrinking, though she’d already written a dozen letters, hoping her listeners would be pleased with a handwritten response. Even if every one said, in essence, “No, thanks, I’m not interested in dating anyone right now, but I really appreciate your invitation.”
Liar. She didn’t appreciate them one bit.
That’s not true either. She appreciated the trouble they took to listen to her show, to read the article about her, to write her a letter. It was the dating inquiries that undid her.
Two days after her newspaper story, the phone calls eased up in time for cards and letters to start pouring through the station’s door with her name spelled every which way. Bell, Bella, and Bailey for the first name, Obryan, Ober, and—her personal favorite—O’Brainy for the last.
Like the phone calls, they fell into two categories, discussing either her appearance or her marital status. If they wrote, “I thought you’d be a blonde,” she referred them to the lovely and talented Heather. “I thought you’d be younger” prompted her quick reply, “Me, too.”
Letters from prison i
nmates were a staple of disc jockey life, but not this many, not in a couple of weeks. She consoled herself with the fact that her faithful prison fans wouldn’t be hounding her for a date anytime soon, not like the other writers who offered their bucket seats for her to sit in the next available Saturday night. Men of every age and ilk tried to tempt her with trips to Bristol for a movie, jaunts to Kingsport for a concert, or mile-high climbing expeditions up Mount Rogers, the highest point in Virginia.
It left her dizzy and gasping for air just to think about it. So did the prospect of answering all the mail staring back at her. She shuffled through the remaining stack, pulling out a few that looked more promising than the others. Typed letters on classy stationery. Letterhead bearing the logo of one of the law offices in town. Might be nice to know a good lawyer. Another from a med student, interning at Johnston Memorial Hospital, right up Court Street. Handy guy to have around when we launch the Happy Together balloon.
Should she take the risk? Write back and agree to meet one of them, if only for a root beer float at the Grill? The idea was enticing, but only from one standpoint—it might get David off high center and moving forward in her direction if he thought he had some competition.
Things had been going along swimmingly, from Christmas right through Epiphany, at which point their relationship stalled like an old Ford truck. Like his truck, in fact. He’d used the rusty clunker as an excuse to get out of a trip they’d planned to White’s Mill, an 1840-vintage grist mill three miles outside of Abingdon. This morning she’d noticed his Ford parked at Ratcliff’s Auto Repair and decided David had taken the day off to get his truck worked on, maybe pick up some more supplies for his house projects.
Heaven knew he’d spent enough time and money on that place lately. More than he’d spent on her. What was his rush? The roof was solid, the outside was painted, the kitchen was nearly done. That’s what he’d told her, anyway. He hadn’t invited her to the house yet. Kept saying he wanted to wait until it was totally done. Silly man. She wasn’t getting any younger and these letters were starting to sound more appealing by the minute.
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