Free Mixed Signals by Liz Curtis Higgs

number forthese so-called movers written on the wall of a public restroom.”
    “Now, Norah, the man’s building a radio station on a slim budget. Suppose I put you on the phone with him while I hustle home? They’re forecasting rain for this evening, so the sooner we get my things inside, the happier I’ll be. See you in a few minutes.”
    Norah waited on hold, twisting her silver spoon ring around her finger while she put her thoughts together. Belle was right when she’d said Patrick was impossible. Slapdash, make-do, bargain-basement impossible.
    She heard a
click
on the line, then “Patrick Reese here.” His resonant baritone sang across the phone wires.
    That was the third item on her list of things to be avoided at all costs: dangerous men with delicious voices.
    “Norah Silver-Smyth here.” Her tone was a cool retort. “My friend, we have a problem. Correction,
you
have a problem. Where did you find this … ah, moving company to bring Belle’s furniture from Chicago?”
    “Her stuff made it then. Great!”
    Norah released a sigh of pure exasperation. “Was there ever a reason for doubt?”
    “Well, they gave me such a good price, that …” She could sense him weighing his words. “I wasn’t certain
when
her things would arrive, is all.”
    “Oh, it’s here. And it’s all over my front porch. Did you pay them to actually move it inside, Patrick, or was this a door-to-door arrangement?”
    Silence. “Her furniture is on your porch?”
    “Covers almost every inch of it. You’ll recall it’s a rather large porch. Wraps around the entire east side of the house.”
    “Uh-huh. I’ll take care of it. Sorry, Norah. These things happen, eh?” With that, he hung up.
    They don’t happen to me, sir
. She slipped the phone in her sweater pocket, her hands shaking. What was it about that man that made her blood boil? She had to admit he was handsome. Very handsome, in fact. And he did have a velvet-lined voice. But he’d clearly used his charm and good looks to weasel his way through life. Hadn’t he talked her into reducing the rent for Belle, giving her an extra-long lease to make sure she’d stay for a while, throwing in free utilities?
    The man
was
impossible. Impossible to say no to, among other things.
    Prrrrmeow
.
    Harry the cat made his presence known, rubbing against her legs demanding attention and, more to the point, food. “Oh, you!” She scooped him up and headed for the kitchen to wait for Belle. “Harry, you’ve kept me company for a decade. Why isn’t your feline affection enough anymore?”
    She stared out at the gray November skies. Belle was right, rain was in the making. First day on a new job and already her tenant had a hassle on her hands. Norah had to remind herself not to call Belle a “girl,” though she seemed young, younger than her thirty-two years. Perhaps it was the nomadic lifestyle she led, or that incredible bundle of long hair, or simply the youthful energy that swirled around the world of broadcasting.
    Whatever the case, Belle clearly had more than sweaters and jeans packed in her baggage sitting upstairs in the empty third floor. She’d brought a lengthy list of hurts and disappointments along for the ride. Norah was certain of it.
    Hadn’t she amassed a sizable collection of her own by that age? One husband in the grave, another whose love had died on the altar of infidelity, leaving her only his name and his money.
    Never his heart.
    Norah sighed, trying with little success to will away her unforeseen melancholy. She’d been single so long she’d almost forgotten how nice it might be to have a man in her life again. After years of pouring herself into her hometown, her church, her business, serving on every committee and board of directors Abingdon had to offer, she’d found a comfortable rhythm for her solo life.
    Hadn’t she?
    She balanced Harry on her lap, stroking his thick fur, keeping one eye on the cherry clock above the door.
Almost