Mixed Signals (7 page)

He nodded at his new program director. “Do whatever it takes to get ’em ready for tomorrow, Burt. I expect the newspapers to stop by, maybe some TV types from Bristol.” Patrick grinned like a proud papa. “Dress sharp and come in smiling, folks.”

He disappeared into his corner office while Belle and the rest of the staff moved into the main studio. Unlike every other station she’d worked at, all of which had been jammed with flotsam and jetsam and covered with a thick layer of dust, the freshly carpeted, neat-as-a-pin studio was a pleasant discovery. David, the mystery engineer, had done an exceptional job.

Belle listened and nodded as Burt pointed out the “hot clock”—a hand-drawn clock face showing where commercial breaks occurred each hour and what records should be played when.

“At the top of the hour, I want an upbeat ’60s tune coming out of the news. Sweep the other quarter hours with something farther down the charts, a nostalgia piece.” Burt nodded her direction. “Frank, Belle, you know the drill. Keep the mix interesting. Heather, we’ll create a special music clock for you to fit in the requests, and Rick, I’ll give you a complete playlist each night. Just push the buttons—”

“And stay awake. I know, I know.”

Burt showed them the handful of liner cards posted on a clear plastic clipboard mounted on top of the console—single lines like “Abingdon’s Own Oldies 95”—to be read between the songs.

Belle recalled the days when reciting liner cards was all she felt safe doing when the mike was on.
Would Heather have much more to offer?
An
odd sensation crept up her spine. Heather was so … so
young
. What could Patrick have been thinking?

The green-tinged emotion was easy to recognize: jealousy. Belle sighed. Hadn’t she been exactly Heather’s age when Patrick hired her the first time?

She dragged her attention away from the animated blonde, whose questions about everything in sight had her coworkers smiling indulgently. The rest of the staff seemed likable enough and more than competent. But, as usual, none of the guys were likely prospects for getting her mind off Patrick.

Radio men were either happily married or loners, drifting from station to station. The only coworker she’d ever dated was in Philadelphia. They’d had too much in common for real sparks to fly, though she did cherish the set of videotapes he’d given her—every episode of
WKRP in Cincinnati
, with all the commercials painstakingly edited out, bless his techno-geek heart.

Listeners made even less likely prospects. They either held her in awe, treating her like a one-dimensional celebrity of sorts, or dated her strictly to earn bragging rights with their friends.

Most depressing.

Belle wandered into the hallway, awash in a sudden, inexplicable wave of loneliness. New job, new town, same old longing to love and be loved. She leaned against the freshly painted wall, head tipped back, blinking hard to keep any renegade tears from slipping down her cheeks. She was certain of one thing: Mr. Right wouldn’t be walking through this door anytime soon.

Sherry Robison knew for a fact that finding Mr. Right wasn’t difficult—it was impossible. Hanging on to him was harder still.

The late-afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, revealing horizontal glimpses of a seedy Sacramento parking lot, throwing pale yellow bars of light across her paper-thin linoleum floor. The carpet in the living room was worse, an industrial-strength variety with the flimsiest padding money could buy.

She glanced at the plastic kitchen clock. He’d be home soon, swinging
open their front door and heading straight for the fridge. He always arrived home hungry. Insisted he was going through a growth spurt. Maybe she’d beat him to the punch and start dinner early. It’d be sloppy joes. Again. With corn and green beans, his favorites. No ice cream, though. She’d polished off the remnants of the fudge ripple last night before she cried herself to sleep watching
The Way We Were
.

Snapping on the gas burner, Sherry pulled down the skillet, seeing her face reflected there for a half-second before the hamburger hit the shiny metal surface. She chopped at the sizzling meat, covering any traces of the woman who’d stared back at her. The twenty-something woman with the familiar short brown curls, brown eyes, and small bow of a mouth. The expression was familiar, too. She’d seen it more and more lately. It was the one that looked suspiciously like defeat.

She’d headed west nine summers ago, a high school diploma in her back pocket and vinegar in her veins. A small-town girl, determined to make her own way in sunny California. A rebel with no cause whatsoever.

Her agenda had been simple: get an apartment, get a job, get a man, get happy.

Piece of cake
.

More like crumbs, she soon realized.

Money didn’t go far in Sacramento, so the apartment wasn’t much to talk about. Employers turned a deaf ear on an eighteen-year-old girl who’d never held a job—any job—and whose résumé featured four years in pep club as the high point. As for finding a man … well, they were there. But the California guys she met seemed too slow in some ways, too fast in others, the kind of trouble that’d sent her packing in the first place.

Nobody cared that she was Sherry Robison, a banker’s daughter from one of Abingdon’s nicest families. In the Sacramento Valley, she was merely another disillusioned easterner, too proud to go back home and admit she’d made a mistake. A big one.

A few pieces of mail scattered by the phone caught her eye. Had she already read those? She stirred the meat while pouring in the sauce, both hands working on autopilot, and squinted at the stack, trying to remember. The Sears bill was on top, then two more past-due notices from the
furniture place. A simple white envelope with a Virginia postmark was on the bottom.

That last one had her thinking hard these days. About doing the right thing. Whatever that was. Nothing made sense anymore. Pinching pennies, juggling aggressive creditors, trying to squeeze in time for night classes so she wouldn’t be working ten ‘til two at the Florin Mall for the rest of her natural life.

Not a soul back home knew how far she’d lowered her sights these days, how little it took to send her emotions spinning toward the basement.
Face it, Sherry. The joy is leaking out of your life
. She felt it somewhere deep inside her, dripping like the faucet in their garish, green-tiled bathroom. In both cases, she couldn’t figure out how to stop the leak from slowly driving her mad.

As if on cue, the front door flew open and a familiar voice hollered a noisy greeting. Despite her melancholy mood, Sherry forced a smile to her face. He deserved that, didn’t he?

“I’m in the kitchen, honey.” Even as she called out, she knew he was already headed in her direction.

A
FTER LUNCH, THE REST
of the on-air staff scattered to gather material for their debut shows while Belle made a beeline for the production room, bent on creating a memorable opening, something playful to pique the listeners’ interest.

She settled into the chair, sliding her hands along the carefully restored console, breathing in the mingled scents of cut pine, fresh paint, new carpet. Alone in the pristine studio, she was in her element, surrounded by equipment that gave her the power to be anything she wanted. With a push of an effects button and a dash of dramatics, she could be a sweet shy thing or a wretched old hag, a British nanny or a Spanish siren.

Theater without makeup.

She threaded a fresh reel of tape onto the deck and was pulling the microphone down toward her chin when the mike slipped off its mounting and crashed to the countertop.
Bang!

At that instant, the studio door
whooshed
open and a startled male voice demanded, “What do you think you’re doing?”

She whirled around to find a grim-faced stranger storming toward her, screwdriver in one hand, needle-nose pliers in the other, brandishing both like medieval weaponry. A shock of straight, wheat-colored hair fell over his eyes, shrouding them. In his worn jeans and buffalo plaid shirt, he had the look of an engineer.

An angry one.

David Cahill, no doubt. But hadn’t Patrick said he was the quiet type?

“I … it slipped.” She tried vainly to reattach the wayward microphone, her heart lodged in her throat. Engineers could get so testy about their equipment.

“Here, let me do it,” he muttered, leaning over her shoulder, running his hands over his electronic patient—no doubt feeling for broken bones. Not so much as a slight bruise, she was relieved to notice as he mounted the mike back in place.

“I’m very sorry.” She felt terrible and hoped it showed. “Obviously it’s brand new, and the last thing you want to do with a microphone is drop it.” She waved her hand in a gesture of embarrassment and promptly knocked the microphone off the metal stand—
again
—this time launching it over the console and onto the floor, where it landed with a sickening
thud
.

“Oh,
no!
”

“Good grief.”

They both dove under the counter to rescue it. In the dark, cramped space, depth perception became an issue. Their elbows were soon entangled. Two grunts and a gasp followed.

“Ouch! I’ve got it.”

“Excuse me, but that’s the chair leg.
This
is a microphone.”

“Fine. I’ll handle things from here, if you don’t mind.” At which point their heads banged together with a resounding
crack
.

“Ohh,” they grumbled in stereo.

Dizzy from bending over and stunned with a searing pain, Belle rested on her knees for a moment, letting her head clear. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Both had merit.

David stood up first, one hand gripping the microphone, the other rubbing his temple where a visible knot was forming. “You are one hardheaded woman, Miss O’Brien.”

At least he knew who she was.
The blockhead
.

“You’re quite solid yourself.” She nursed her own injury, a nasty lump growing on the crown of her head. She had to look up the long expanse of his Levi’s-clad legs before she made eye contact. “You need to do something
about that microphone.” Her tone was sharper than she intended, but she was in pain and more than a little embarrassed. “It shouldn’t release that easily.”

“It was fine until
you
stepped in the studio.”

She eyed him through narrow slits. “I’ve been in this business a decade longer than you have,
Mister
Cahill. I’ve worked with all kinds of microphones and never—I mean
never
—have I seen them fall off their mountings like this one has today. Twice. What does that tell you?”

She stood up an inch at a time, grabbing the back of the chair for balance until she was eye to eye with him.

Or rather, eye to chin.

Like it or not, she had to admit it was an impressive chin, strong and chiseled along classic lines.

“David.” The word was gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Wh-what?”

“Call me David. And what your experience with microphones tells me is that your major-market engineers let you get away with murder.”

She could still feel the heat coming off his chest as he brushed past her to remount the microphone. The tension in his voice was palpable. “Do you have any idea how long I had to beg Patrick to let me order new microphones, let alone this Electro-Voice?” Although no longer furious, he was clearly still frustrated with her.

“Knowing Patrick’s tightwad ways, I can only guess.” She reclaimed her seat and rolled up to the console, determined not to let her own temper get out of hand. In the smoothest voice she could muster, she said, “Let’s make sure it survived, shall we?”

He dutifully angled the mike toward her mouth as she slid the fader up. “Test, test. 1-2-3, 1-2-3.” She felt him hovering over her and looked up to catch his eye. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

She slipped off her headphones and pulled the fader back down. “Sounds fine, thank goodness. And I really am sorry, David.” Pushing back her chair to put a bit more distance between them, she gazed up into dark blue-gray eyes, the color of storm clouds at sea, snapping at her behind the latest style in wire-framed glasses.

She took a deep breath. “Suppose we start over. I’m Belle O’Brien. Middays.” She extended her hand and watched him turn five different shades of red before he reluctantly shook it. A firm handshake, nonetheless. Strong hands, rough from wrestling with new lumber and old transmitters.

And careless air talent.

He had a swimmer’s build, lean and muscular, no bones, no padding. The glasses gave him an air of intelligence, though she wasn’t fully convinced. He seemed to be struggling to express himself, brushing his thick, straight-as-straw hair away from his eyes as he spoke. “Sorry to be … so …”

“Rude?”

“Yes, rude.” His head snapped back in her direction. “No,
not
rude. Responsible.” He tossed his hands in the air with a noisy sigh. “Look, I’m in charge of this equipment, Belle. I’d like to keep things working at least until we get the station on the air tomorrow.”

“Understandable.” She pinched off her grin, not wanting to upset the greenhorn further. And he was young, wasn’t he? Fresh out of college, Patrick said. Early twenties, then, though he looked older. “I promise to only
speak
into the mike but not touch it, okay?”

He smiled then, full lips spreading across his freshly shaven face. “It’s a deal. Now do I get to hear about Chicago?”

She leaned back, dismayed. “Weren’t you at the staff meeting?” She knew, of course, that he hadn’t been, but felt compelled to act as disinterested in this upstart as possible. “I promised myself I’d never tell that story again. Ask Patrick.”

“I did.” His smile took a wry turn. “He said I’d have to hear it from you.”

She shook her head, feeling off balance all of a sudden.
It must be from that bump on the head
. But she knew better. “What difference does it make?” She waited for his response, watching, fascinated, as his storm-filled eyes steered toward calmer waters. For a fleeting moment, she thought she saw empathy reflected in their blue-gray depths.