Authors: Honey
"Cap,
I'm leaving." He spoke as he walked.
Once
on the street, Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and felt for a matchstick
and cigarette. He came up empty. Seven months ago, he'd quit smoking. But the
urge to light up hadn't fully gone away.
Captain
caught up to him. "How come you're in such a hurry?"
"Do
you understand what happened in the lawyer's office?"
"Yes.
You explained it to me yesterday. You're going to play baseball. Just like you
used to." Captain stuck his fingers inside his shirt pocket and took out a
small photograph, its edges worn, yet not a single tear or tatter marred the
paper. The image was of the Baltimore Orioles team. The players in the front
row held up a banner that read 1897 pennant winners. Pointing to a spot on the
picture, Cap said, "That's you."
Alex
gave his likeness a cursory glance, a flood of memories coming at him.
"I'm
going to ask Mr. Plunkett if I can leave work early tomorrow so I can watch you
play."
There
had been a time when Alex had given Cap the photograph, that he'd wanted him to
see more in it than a group of ballplayers. Now he lived with the paralyzing
fear Cap would find the hidden meaning. And that fact made him ashamed.
When
Alex turned, he saw Camille Kennison walking toward him and Cap, moving with
that fluid stride of hers. Head held high. Tiny pearl-and-gold earrings
dangling from her earlobes. Earlobes that looked sweet. Too damn sweet. Very
kissable.
Hell
"Hello."
Her greeting was directed more to Captain than to Alex.
"Hello,"
Cap replied, recognition lighting his eyes. "I know who you are.
Kennison's Hardware."
"Yes."
She held the handle of her pocketbook. "How are you feeling today?"
Confused,
he looked over his beard to the tips of his shoes. He gave his chest a pat,
felt his cheeks and the wiry hair on his chin, then said, "I feel the same
as I always do. Do you want to feel me to make sure?"
A
delicate crease formed on her forehead. "Oh. Well, you do look nice."
Alex
knew Captain didn't remember what had happened. At least not all of it. He
didn't forget his headaches, but after most episodes, he couldn't recall what
had set him off. On days like today when he appeared to be well, it made it
harder for Alex to accept he wasn't improving.
A
man walking toward where the three of them stood tipped his hat to Camille.
"Good afternoon, Miss Kennison."
"Good
afternoon," she replied as he strode by.
Alex
watched the man retreat. She'd barely glanced at him.
"Mr.
Cordova." Her voice pulled his attention back to her. "There are a
few things I neglected to mention." She seemed less anxious now that she
was free of the book-lined walls in the lawyer's office. "The Keystones
are playing the Boston Somersets tomorrow at four o'clock. Cy Young is starting
for them."
Another
"Good afternoon, Miss Kennison" came when a businessman in a dapper
coat headed for the doors of the building.
"Good
afternoon."
Alex's
mind momentarily focused on the brief exchange, then returned to the
conversation at hand. He hadn't figured on facing Cy so soon. He wasn't in the
best physical shape he could be in after having sat out several seasons. The
prospect of going against the Cyclone when he hadn't used his pitching arm in
so long increased his misgivings. Then there were other things. He'd known that
by signing on, he'd meet up with players he knew. He wondered how many of his
former teammates were in the American League.
What
had happened to make him quit was something Alex lived with every day. He
wasn't ready to talk about it. Most people could move forward, but the other
players didn't get that. They'd been uncomfortable around him, frequently not
saying anything at all for fear of saying the wrong thing. At least in Harmony,
nobody knew the details. His old manager had paid off the newspapers to bury
the speculation surrounding his departure.
"Practice
begins at three," Camille continued. "There'll be a uniform for you
in the clubhouse at Municipal Field. What size shoe do you wear?"
"Eleven."
"Good
afternoon, Miss Kennison." The doffer of the hat this time was a young man
whose broad smile took up half his face.
"Good
afternoon," she replied. Without a breath, she added, "I'll make sure
you have a pair. I don't believe there's anything else. Uniform, shoes,
equipment." She inhaled, standing taller. "All right, then.
Everything will be fine," she said, as if more to convince herself than
him.
The
braided brim of her ivory hat kept her face in partial shade. The rest of her
reminded Alex of a statue of a Greek goddess. Pure marble; smooth, soft, and
desirable.
The
barber stepped out of his shop with a broom. Seeing her, he called across the
street, "Good afternoon, Miss Kennison."
"Good
afternoon."
The
overabundance of male greetings got on Alex's nerves for reasons he didn't care
to examine. A woman like her had to be used to the attention and probably
enjoyed it. Even so, he couldn't curb the exaggerated grin that curved his
mouth. "Do you ever get tired of hearing that?"
To
his surprise, she didn't blush. "Why don't you say it to me, and I'll let
you know." She began to walk away.
He
took the bait. "Good afternoon, Miss Kennison."
Without
interrupting her stride, she glanced at him over her shoulder. She hit him with
a smile that was so beautifully candid, so captivating, he had to fight himself
from going after her. From sliding his hand around the back of her neck and
kissing her fully on the mouth.
The
muscles in his body tightened. He wanted to take her straight to paradise. Run
his hands over every inch of her body. Hold her breasts in his palms. Trace the
nipples with his—
Her
wave cut short his fantasies; then she went on her way. She didn't say
"Good afternoon" in return.
She'd
made a mackerel out of him.
"I
think she likes you, Alex," Cap mused aloud.
"No,
Cap," he said, watching her until she was out of his view. "It just
seems that way."
* * * * *
When
Camille was a little girl, strawberry taffies had always made her feel better
when she was anxious. But she felt no different now than after she'd eaten her
first one.
She
sat in the clubhouse, at the manager's desk, a bag of the candies in front of
her and empty wrappers littering on the desktop. As she chewed the sugary
confection, she settled into the brand spanking new chair and looked around the
brand-spanking-new clubhouse that her father had spent a lot of money to build.
Even
while it was under construction, the building had been off limits to her. It
was a man's domain. A player's place. That she was in here now, actually had
the key to the door in her purse, would be the manager—
She
had to unwrap another taffy before finishing the one in her mouth.
The
room smelled of yellow pine and varnish. Behind her, a long row of open cubbies
spread across a wall. Inside them, knob hooks held freshly laundered uniforms.
In the trunks below, were the players' personal possessions. Athletic shoes
rested on the lids. A placard with the name of one of the thirteen Keystones
hung above each cubby. Bats forty-two inches in length stood on their ends in a
wall rack. A large basket of regulation balls lined the floor, some virgin
white, but most tar black or at least a dark gray.
Camille
swallowed her taffy. She'd come here after encountering Alex Cordova on the
street corner. That he could put her out of sorts was an understatement. One
small glance from him in Mr. Stykem's office had set her heartbeat to an uneven
rhythm. She'd conversed with good-looking men before, but she'd never asked
them their shoe size...
Eleven.
Such a personal detail; its only relevance should have been purely
professional. And yet, with the information had come a flustering confusion
that had tickled her ribs and woven a cocoon of intimacy around her.
She
never should have flirted with him like that. She just should have said
"Good afternoon" back. Her silence had implied more. She'd had a
lapse in common sense. Blame it on his voice, with its hint of an exotic accent
from someplace far away. There was a quality to it that made her want to hear
how
he
would say those two words to her. He had a wonderful mouth. She
wondered how his lips would feel against hers. How—
She
quickly put the new piece of taffy into her mouth.
She
couldn't squander valuable time thinking about Alex Cordova or dissecting the
feelings he evoked in her. There were far more important issues at hand.
Namely,
plotting how to kill Bertram Nops.
Last
night, Camille had tossed and turned over the events that had led her into this
mess. She blamed Mr. Nops. But every way she thought about his hand in making
her the manager, she had to concede the same thing.
It
was her fault.
She
never should have asked him for the money.
Little
did she realize what affect it would have on her life—on her Garden Club plans.
When she'd left her father no choice but to take her challenge, the
ramifications had sunk in. She'd felt faint. Sick at heart. She'd had to go to
her room to lie down or she would have keeled over.
How
could she be president of the Garden Club if she had to manage a group of
spitting, scratching, and jockstrap-adjusting baseball players? The mere
thought had made her woozy.
But
today, the problem didn't seem as awful as she'd initially thought. This was a
way to show her father she had know-how on a level that he could relate to.
Managing might even be fun. Well, as much fun as spitting, scratching, and
adjusting could be.
On
her off hours, she could plant her garden. She could still run for president.
This Friday's meeting was at seven o'clock. Friday's baseball game should be
completed by then. Balancing playing schedules and tending flowers and
vegetables could be done.
Just
thinking about that gave her enough optimism to commit herself to both. That
wasn't to say it would be easy. It would be quite difficult. But she could do
it. After all, organization was her forte. She'd never met a more organized
person than herself. A list for everything. A place for everything. A chart. A
box. A notebook.
She
moved aside the growing pile of taffy wrappers to lay her hand on the baseball
regulations book. She'd have to study it tonight and learn it by heart. She'd
been to many games, but she'd never memorized the rules. She didn't want to
come across as unprepared. She knew what to look for to call a ball and a
strike. Fielding strategies and batting positions. The basic things. There was
a lot in between she would have to grapple with.
But
she could do it. She
had
to do it.
She
slid the crumpled candy wrappers into the trash, then grabbed the rule book and
her purse. Locking the door behind her, she headed for home. The afternoon was
sunny and bright; the grass on the field had just been mowed. The baselines had
been freshly chalked in white, and the bags in the corners and both the
pitcher's mound and home plate had been dusted.
On
a satisfied nod, she told herself tomorrow would go just fine.
* * * * *
Camille
never fell into a deep sleep that night. At 1:28 in the morning, she woke with
a start.
She'd
forgotten something.
She
tossed the covers aside and quickly went to her wardrobe. Fitting her arms into
the sleeves of her kimono and absently stepping into felt slippers, she pushed
one of the dangling curl papers from her forehead as she entered her mother's
sewing room, a tiny alcove beneath the stairs fitted with a hanging electric
light that gave off a bright beam.
She
turned the switch and blinked against the flood of light. Cold air skimmed
across her skin. She shivered and struck a fire in the small parlor stove so
that she could warm her feet. Her mother kept folds of material beside her
Singer and Camille riffled through them. For the most part, they were remnants or
weren't as long as she needed. Only one would work—the fifteen yards of Paris
organdy with lace-on-lace effects and blushing pink rosebuds twined with hunter
green leaves. She had been going to sew a summer dress out of it, and now she'd
have to use it for... but Paris organdy?
It
would have to do. With a snap of her wrists, the silky fabric billowed open,
and she set to work.
Hours
later, the floor was littered with snippings of threads and dribbles of ashes
from the small heating stove. But she deemed her task complete just as the
melodic chime of the parlor clock struck four. Yawning, she returned to her
bedroom, crawled back into bed, and closed her eyes.
Now,
tomorrow
would go just fine.