by Honey
"James, you're not doing your health any good by getting this excited," Camille's mother reminded him, lightly touching his hand.
"What would do my health a world of good would be to have a piece of Will White's hide for running off with Pearl Chaussee." He frowned. "As soon as my investigator finds him, I'm going to sue White within an inch of his life."
Pouring her father more coffee, her mother asked, "Any word from Mr. Hogwood?"
"Not a one in over a week." His brows rose. "Grayce, I believe that detective likes spending my money. He's taking his sweet time about looking. I got a bill from the Excelsior Hotel in Denver. Now I ask you, what would Will White be doing in a thirty dollar room at the Excelsior Hotel?"
"I wouldn't care to speculate, James."
Annoyance marked her father's tone when he said, "It chafes my hide to pay for a luxury room that I can't enjoy—much less afford."
"Are we that bad off?" Concern worried the corners of her mother's mouth. "I could cut back on the household spending and—"
He bristled "We aren't starving. I have money. Just not as much as we once had."
"Still no replies on your advertisement for a manager?"
"None," he grumbled.
And it had been two weeks. Camille didn't think there was a man left in the country who'd be willing to manage the Keystones. No one was fool enough.
Right now, the players were fending for themselves, with her father as temporary manager. But the thirteen games he'd overseen had taken their toll on him. Considerably more hotheaded than normal, he couldn't run a business and a baseball team at the same time—not to mention going on road trips without hiring help for the store. He adamantly refused to let his wife or daughter behind the counter. Bertram Nops would think he was a powder puff, needing a woman to help him get along.
"I don't know why an able-bodied manager hasn't stepped forward," he continued. "I ask you, what man could turn down a salary of twelve hundred dollars for the season?" He tossed a cube of sugar into his coffee, messily splashed in some cream, then stirred the brew with a spoon—over and over and over. K-clink, k-clink, k-clink. "Do I give a man grief? Do I cause aggravation? Am I a hard person to get along with? Did I not tell the then Miss Huntington that Tom Wolcott had bought that red paint himself?" K-clink, k-clink, k-clink. "And for my honesty, did I not forfeit that much desired rubber froggy lure I'd been wanting? I think that makes me a likable fellow." K-clink, k-clink, k-clink. "I never get under anyone's skin."
"Never under my skin, dear," her mother replied.
"Then why does Ned Butler think I cause him stress?" he shot back, a slosh of murky coffee jumping out of the cup. "I've got to get things turned around. And soon."
Camille grew pensive. If Alex's skill as a pitcher was even half of what had been written about him, he could turn things around. Then it popped into her head: What about his reputation off the playing field? She had heard he was a notorious womanizer. A lady's man. But she hadn't seen him keeping company with women since he'd been in Harmony. Maybe he visited them late at night.... Maybe—
"I don't suppose you could convince Alex Cordova to play for you," her mother said.
At the name, Camille jumped. Thank goodness her mother couldn't read her mind. Even so, her wayward thoughts put guilty heat on her cheeks. She locked her gaze on her father's face, waiting for his reaction.
The clinking motion of spoon and cup ceased. "Grayce, now I ask you, how many times have I tried to get Cordova?"
"I haven't been counting."
He exploded. "Well, you should have been!" Her mother didn't flinch a bit. "I've done everything but grease his palm with pure gold oil. The man is ironclad. Built of a steely resistance stronger than that of a string of locomotives. If I could, Grayce, I'd sign him."
Camille ate her toast in silence.
The conversation on the boardwalk had been the only one she'd had with Alex since he'd moved to town. Now, she couldn't quit wondering how she could meet him again.
The front bell cranked and her father quickly pushed away from the table, his coffee untouched. "That'll be Duke and Jimmy. They said they would check on Ned's condition and report to me. With any luck, his skin has cleared up and he's all set for tonight's game."
He'd barely rounded the table when Leda, the housemaid, showed the two players into the room. Both men removed their hats and nodded to Camille and her mother.
Duke Boyle had broken his nose in a fight, which had left it angled. Jimmy Shugart flashed his teeth, the uppers as crooked as an old picket fence.
"Mr. Kennison," Leda announced, "Mr. Duke and Mr. Jimmy are here to see you."
"Yes, yes," he said impatiently.
She gave him a frown, her currant-black eyes silently chastising him for his shortness with her. Leda and James Kennison got along about as well as the Wolcotts' dog and cat.
As he gazed at the left fielder and first baseman, his expression filled with optimism. "Well? What's the word?"
Jimmy held his hat out in front of him and nervously turned the brim in his hands. "The word is, he's still scratching."
"We saw for ourselves," Duke added. "As soon as we mentioned your name, he started itching again. His wife made us leave."
"Thunderation!" Her father ran his hand through his hair and through the pomade he'd earlier combed through it. For a moment, he put his palm over his mouth, forefinger on his nose, tapping in thought. Apparently he didn't come up with anything brilliant, because he merely said, "All right. We'll play this one on our own again. We won't give up. We'll get a manager. Eventually." Absently, he fussed with his tie and let out a long sigh.
"Maybe Alex Cordova would manage us," Duke suggested.
James's fingers stilled.
Duke made an apologetic face and took a step backward. "Never mind."
"I tell you what, Duke," James countered, "if you can get me Cordova, I'll make you the manager. How's that?" The knot in James's tie was now crooked, a match for his uneven mood. "In fact, whoever gets me Cordova can be the manager."
Jimmy grinned. "No kidding?"
"I most certainly am not. As you well know, I'm a man of my word," he said, clearly enunciating his oft-repeated maxim. "All right, boys. I'll see you later today."
Duke and Jimmy showed themselves to the door.
Camille's father bussed her mother on the cheek. "I'm going to the store."
"Daddy, let me see if I can change Alex Cordova's mind." The words were uttered before Camille could thoroughly think the idea through.
"What was that?" He must have been too startled to immediately object.
In those seconds, she had enough time to gather her wits. As her father didn't possess the best of temperaments and the situation was desperate, somebody who kept a level head should approach Alex. And she was the perfect candidate. "I'd like to try to persuade him to sign on."
"You most certainly will not," he fired back. "I won't have my daughter gadding about Elm Street. It isn't respectable." He glared at her with a critical squint. "And besides, Camille sugar, I've given up on him. Nobody can persuade Alex Cordova—not even if it were to sign on with the Lord, with the Devil right there reaching for his passport to hell."
"James!" her mother admonished.
Camille opened her mouth, but her father plowed ahead. "Grayce, I won't have you telling me she's capable of convincing that man. She's too soft. She doesn't have it in her. He'd chew her up and spit her out before she knew what happened. Cordova is ironclad. Ironclad, I tell you." With a flick of his thumb next to his watch's face, the case snapped open and he noted the hour. "I really have to get to the store or I'll be late."
When he talked about her as if she weren't in the room, Camille wanted to scream.
"Will you be home for dinner before tonight's game?" her mother asked, trying to keep the peace and change the subject. "What would you like Leda to fix for you?"
"A bicarbonate," he replied glumly, slipping his timepiece into the slash of
his vest pocket. "Game three against the Blues should be a real lollapalooza. No doubt Gage will be happy to report the grim results in tomorrow morning's newspaper."
On that, he quit the dining room with a grimace.
His bay rum aftershave had barely drifted away when Camille said, "If he weren't my father, I would have thrown my toast at him."
"If it's any consolation, you threw up on him when you were a baby."
Camille's mouth curved into a smile.
Grayce rested her hand on Camille's. "He's too set in his ways to change his thinking, Camille. Try not to let him bother you." Then, letting out an airy sigh, she asked, "Well, what are you going to do today?"
"The same thing I did yesterday." With a snap of her wrist, she tossed her napkin onto her plate. "Make mad passionate love to men all afternoon."
Her mother laughed.
Camille and her mother didn't mince words for the sake of "delicacy." Grayce Kennison had always encouraged her daughter to freely express her emotions and thoughts, be they in jest or in sincerity.
"I'm going to meet with the ladies this morning," Grayce announced as she stood. "We're still just so tickled by Mrs. Wolcott's news that she's going to have a baby. Mrs. Brooks has suggested we begin planning a cradle party for her even though the blessed event isn't going to be here for another seven months."
Camille politely listened, but her heartbeat still raced.
She's too soft. She doesn't have it in her.
"Would you like to come, Camille? We're meeting at Mrs. Wolcott's house."
He'd chew her up and spit her out before she knew what happened.
"Meg Gage will be there. So will Crescencia Dufresne and Johannah Teeter."
Focusing now on her mother, Camille debated seeing her former schoolmates from Mrs. Wolcott's Finishing School. Meg Brooks, Crescencia Stykem, and Johannah Treber. Properly tutored and well mannered from their education. All three were now married.
And Lucille Calhoon had gotten engaged at last Friday's Elks dance to Julius Addison, her childhood sweetheart. Her friends were getting married fast and
Camille was the only one to hold out. But somehow she felt there had to be more. But what? Cordova is ironclad.
"No, Mama. I'm going to stay home." Did her casual tone sound too forced?
"Well, if you change your mind..."
"I won't. I'm going to work on my garden plans."
She lingered a moment after her mother left, then stood and went directly to the parlor window. Looking out, she watched the bob of plumes on her mother's hat as Grayce headed toward town.
Camille really had planned on drafting a layout for her garden. How she sowed the seeds and bulbs would determine how the next six months would color and blossom. The apple tree needed pruning and dusting for codling moths as soon as two thirds of the petals had fallen. And then there was...
Camille sugar, nobody can persuade Alex Cordova...
... the snail bait to be spread.
She's too soft. She doesn't have it in her.
The Garden Club meeting was Friday night and she wanted to make a good impression. She had to make preparations and plan.
I won't have you telling me she's capable of convincing that man.
But those plans had now changed.
As soon as her mother disappeared from view, Camille's heart skipped a beat. Before she could think better of it, she snatched a straw hat she kept hanging on the hat rack and pinned it over her hair. She buttoned her gloves, exited the door, and went down the steps.
So much for respectability.
Miss Camille Kennison was going to take a walk down Elm Street.
* * * * *
Alex had an appreciation for wood.
Most of his life, he'd earned his living from it. In his early youth, by carving scythe handles for cutting tobacco in Cuban fields. At nineteen, by swinging a bat at baseballs, a professional career that had lasted six years. And now, at twenty-eight by designing and creating furniture.
To Alex, wood defined who he'd become, where he'd been.
He skimmed a jack plane across the hinged top of the bride's chest he was finishing for Grant Calhoon's daughter. The tool seemed dwarfed by his grasp and, to an observer, would look ineffectually held by his large hand. But Alex was always in control, passing the blade with a fluid motion over the wood's surface.
The wood felt warm and smooth beneath his touch. He caressed it like he would a woman, slowly sliding his hand over the grained surface, feeling every sensation in his fingertips. Sometimes he'd leave a slight dimple on the finished surface—much like that of a barely discernible mole on a woman's inner thigh. Small blemishes lent certain furniture character.
Inside the wood shop, the mellow scent of old wax and boiled linseed oil hung in the air. They mingled with the woodsy distinction of ash. He'd left the barn-size doors open so the fresh smell of that particular wood wouldn't trigger memories. But it did.
It stirred in him the overwhelming desire to once more become a part of the American pastime: baseball. To go home. Home to the sport he'd loved because of its speed and grace, failure and hope, and the defining moment that overrode every other feeling ever known: winning the game.
That surging emotion, that passion to play that came with the arrival of spring and ended with onset of autumn, could still grip him three years after he'd quit But now, they were merely two seasons in a calendar of four. He no longer allowed himself to anticipate either, because he'd sworn to never again pitch another ball or swing another bat.
Thoughts clouded his gaze, and he set the jack plane down. He left the bride's chest and went to his workbench, where he placed both hands on the side rest and leaned forward. A suffocating feeling pulled the air from his lungs.
He couldn't afford to let baseball haunt him now. Only the present mattered.
Alex reached for the door handle on one of the wall cabinets above the bench. Hidden behind the boxes of cut nails and cans of varnish was an envelope. He slid it from its niche and held on to it as if it were thin glass. He read the typeface in the left corner.
Silas Denton Sanatorium for Nervous Diseases
209 Niagra St., cor. Main
Buffalo, N.Y.
Holy Christ—a big problem weighed on him.
Money.
He needed a lot of it. Close to four thousand.
Alex didn't know why he felt he had to look at the envelope. By memory, he knew what was typed on the outside and printed on the inside.
Silas Denton was renowned for his treatment of brain disorders. His sanatorium had pioneered innovative ways to deal with patients. Alex had no intentions of abandoning Captain to their care. He would go with him and make sure nothing went wrong. Because none of those blood-letting docs who'd put Cap through hell for years in the Baltimore Hospital for the Public had made any progress. They'd scared him senseless.
Within a week, Alex had moved him to the State Orthopaedic Hospital and Infirmary, hoping they'd be able to help. During the day, Alex worked as a carpenter so he could pay for the bed and treatments Cap needed. The nights, he spent with Captain, reteaching him everyday things like how to tie his shoe, use silverware, and recognize the letters of the alphabet.
Although Cap lived in relative peace, his outbursts of paranoia, terror, and desperation made Alex fear Cap would lose what was left of his mind if he left him in the infirmary. So he made the decision to have him released into his care. The physicians told him he was making a severe mistake, but they gave him Cap's medicines and told him to keep him on a specified dose and to mail them for more when he ran out.
It had been with unshakable belief that Cap could recover that Alex had put Cap and himself on the first train out of Baltimore to Montana. Montana held a special meaning for Alex, and he hoped that the spirit that had touched him years ago would touch Cap and make him better. Only Cap wasn't getting better. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse.
He had his good days and his bad days. So
metimes a spark of memory from the hospital would ignite in his head and he'd become petrified. It was growing more and more difficult for Alex to reassure Cap that things would turn around. What had happened yesterday at Kennison's Hardware had been the deciding factor for Alex.
He couldn't always be with Cap. If that woman hadn't been there—he hated to think of what could have happened.
Alex drew a deep breath. He didn't know her name. He'd been aware of the vague scent of her perfume, but he hadn't really looked at her. Their eyes had briefly met, hers brimming with genuine concern. For a moment, he tried to remember their color. Light. Blue? Like summer skies? It really didn't matter. He wouldn't be sticking around in Harmony. So he put the image of her face out of his head.
It was clear Captain had to see the best doctor there was. And that was Silas Denton. But for that to happen, Alex had to come into a large sum of money.
Tucking the letter in its place, he closed the cupboard and went back to the bride's chest. As he smoothed the jack plane across the wood, he went through his options.
He could sell the wood shop. But he'd barely make squat. Whoever bought it would have to know what to do with it. The tools were of no value to somebody who didn't understand wood.
He could advertise his skills in nearby Waverly or Alder. But it would take a hell of a long time to accumulate extra income. The bride's chest he was finishing sold for twenty-eight dollars. He'd have to make a couple hundred of them to come even close to the four thousand.
So how to come up with it? Of course he knew the answer. In truth, he understood what he would have to do—a sad irony that only Captain would understand—if only he could.
"Mr. Cordova?"
Alex swung around, his body tight, his thoughts evaporating into the thin summer air. He hadn't heard anyone approach the shop.
A woman stood in the double-wide doorway, sunlight spilling over her. She looked like an angel— blond, tall. She wore pale colors, the light fabric of her skirt doing a soft dance around her ankles.