Free Mixed Signals by Liz Curtis Higgs Page A

four
. It was only a ten-minute walk from the station. Belle would be there any moment. Would Patrick come over himself and move the furniture up that narrow staircase to the third floor? He didn’t seem the type to do heavy lifting.
    He managed to knock you off your feet, didn’t he?
    The realization came out of nowhere, unexpected and unwelcome.
    She could categorically deny it. Insist it was hormonal. Call it a midlife crisis in the making. Write it off to a passing fancy. Argue that though they’d spent a great deal of time together since he moved to town, it didn’t mean anything. He simply needed someone to show him the ropes, a welcoming committee of one, and she’d fit the bill.
    Only one problem. They were lies, every one of them.
    She was falling in love with Patrick Reese as surely as he was in love with Belle O’Brien.
    The naked truth of it left her breathless, clutching at her chest as if her heart had taken a physical blow. After so many seasons of singular contentment, why now? And why him, of all people? “Foolish woman.” She sniffed, unable to keep two stubborn tears from rolling down her cheeks. She hugged Harry tight, but his soft fur and rumbling chest couldn’t ease the pain.
    Foolish
was an understatement. Patrick was five years younger, never married, and treated her like his sister. “His
older
sister,” she mumbled into Harry’s ample fur. “Besides, every woman in town will have designs on him by Christmas.”
    Not to mention the fact that he didn’t share her enthusiasm for spiritual things. They’d be “unequally yoked,” as the Bible called it, unless he had a wake-up call from God.
    And then there was Belle. Adorable Belle, who wasn’t sure
what
she wanted. So bright, so personable. The woman didn’t know how beautiful she was.
    Norah dabbed her tears dry, taking deep breaths to settle herself down. “Why, Lord?” She aimed her comments at the pots and pans swinging over her head, knowing her words traveled much farther. “And why Patrick? It’s all wrong. You know it and I know it.” She didn’t expect an audible answer but took comfort in knowing God was, as always, listening, even as she agonized about an overgrown teddy bear who’d accidentally walked away with her heart in his paws.
    A tap at the door woke her out of her reverie. Slipping Harry onto the terra-cotta tiles at her feet, she patted her cheeks to make sure they weredry and tugged open the door, setting the tinkling bells in motion.
    “Just me.”
    “No need to knock, Belle.” She stepped back, waving her inside. “This is your home now. If and when we can find our way to the front door again, you can use that entrance to take you straight up to the third floor.”
    “Sorry about your porch.” Belle slumped into a chair, a sheepish look on her face. “I realize it’s not my fault, but I still feel terrible.”
    “Pish-posh! We’ll let Patrick worry over it.” She could feel her old, confident self returning, and was grateful to have her pity party behind her. “Let’s cook up something scrumptious for dinner. Whoever ends up hauling that load up the stairs will be ravenous when they’re done.”
    Belle agreed, offering to join her in the kitchen as soon as she carried the smaller items and fragile pieces upstairs. “I’ll need to change first. Get ready for my grubby look.” Having issued fair warning, Belle disappeared.
    Norah began pulling down pans, emptying cupboards, and exploring the fridge while Beethoven blasted away on her kitchen CD player. Had she ever been “grubby,” as Belle called it? She looked down at her expensive burgundy slacks, French silk blouse, batik swing jacket, and laughed.
Not in this lifetime
.
    Sounds of the front door, repeatedly banging open and shut, meant her tenant was putting a dent in the pile on the porch, but it would take some strong-shouldered men to handle the heavy pieces. Soon the front door closed for good and Belle appeared in the kitchen.