Holm, Stef Ann

by Honey

  She moved to the entryway that led to the wide double doors. No sounds from a sanding plane or saw reached her ears. She peered inside the shop, squinting to adjust to the change in light. Her gaze scanned the work area, and the back where lumber was stocked on shelves. No Alex.

  Wondering what to do next, she stood still. It was then that she heard the dull thump coming from behind the wood shop.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Methodical in its repetition. Thump, pause, thump, pause, thump, pause, and so forth. As if something were being hit.

  Camille exited the building and walked to the rear. At the corner, she stopped.

  Alex stood with his back to her, a metal bucket of baseballs at his right foot. In the ground some fifty feet in front of him, he'd created a high slope of dirt and blocked it with lengths of shop wood to create a strike zone. Wearing a pair of loose-fitting trousers and a shirt without its tails tucked in, he bent down and grabbed a baseball, coiled his arm back, and threw it. The ball flew in a brief blur of gray.

  Thump. Dead center into the strike zone.

  Another ball. Thump. Strike.

  Strike.

  Strike.

  Strike.

  One right after the other until the pail grew empty.

  "That's the Alex Cordova I signed to play baseball for the Keystones," Camille said, walking toward him. "Where have you been?"

  Alex turned with a start. He looked up at her through the sweat-damp black hair that fell into his eyes. Square jaw clamped tight and chest rising and falling from his exertions, he glared at her.

  "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Long enough to know my father got his money's worth." With an efficient snap of her wrist, she collapsed her parasol.

  The sleeves on his pale blue shirt had been rolled up to the elbows and the tan skin on his arms glistened. He reached for a towel beside the bucket and wiped his face—first his brows, then his forehead, and then behind his neck. A shadow of stubble darkened his chin and throat. A tingling pushed at her ribs as she watched him wipe the sweat from his skin.

  Tossing the cloth, he combed his hair from his forehead with his hands. "Why'd you come out here?"

  Caught up in the sight of him, she fought to find her voice. She ended up foolishly blurting, "I had to see you alone."

  Growing still, his dark eyes ran the length of her. Long and slow. "Really?"

  Her heart slammed against her chest. "I mean, I need to discuss something with you and I didn't want to do it in front of the other players."

  His gaze seemed to smolder, his full sensual lips quirking up at the corners. "I'm not particularly interested in doing it in front of the others either."

  On a short staccato breath, Camille's mouth fell open. "I—I, well..."

  But before she could make a bigger fool of herself, Alex crooked his finger under her chin and tilted her head up until she was forced to meet his eyes. The touch as sweet and soft as a caress.

  There was a faint smile on his mouth. "What did you want to talk to me about, Camille?"

  She wasn't sure what made her knees go weaker— his finger against her skin or his low, deep voice wrapped around her name.

  She shook her head as if she could clear all her errant thoughts. Her words came out in one big rush. "Your signed photographs are increasing attendance at home games."

  Abruptly, he dropped his hand away.

  "Well, the fans aren't coming in droves," she clarified, thankful to be back on more familiar ground, "but I do believe more are coming to watch us."

  "Watch us make jackasses out of ourselves."

  "It doesn't have to be that way." She looked at the mock strike zone he'd made. "Alex, I just saw what you're capable of. You're wonderful." In more ways than one. Kisses and touches and her name drifting on his tongue. Heaven help her, she should have stayed home and pulled weeds.

  "I'm not wonderful."

  "But you are."

  He began to walk away. "Forget about it, Miss Kennison."

  She was no longer Camille to him. She hated the flare of disappointment she felt.

  She forced her thoughts back to baseball and followed him to the front of the building. "I don't know why you're doing this. Why do you hold back?"

  "I don't hold back. I just happen to foul up when you put me on the mound." He gave her a disarming smile. "I choke under pressure."

  She frowned. "That's ridiculous."

  "That's"—he chucked the underside of her chin, this time in an entirely unromantic manner—"the truth."

  "It is not." She ignored the shivers that his touch sent through her. She followed him inside the building. "You never choked before. What happened in June of 1898 to make you quit?"

  His steps abruptly ceased. Turning, he regarded her through wary eyes. She could almost see the memories reflected in his gaze. She didn't think he'd answer her; when he did, his voice was hard and cold. "It's easy enough to find out."

  "Save me the trouble and tell me."

  "Maybe one day."

  "You said that before."

  He made no comment as he went to the workbench and picked up a length of wood that had been cut into the shape of a crescent moon. There were a pair of them, and he suddenly engrossed himself in the pieces as if she wasn't there.

  She wouldn't get answers from him.

  On a sigh riddled with discouragement and frustration, she offered a parting bit of advice, "Don't be late for this afternoon's game."

  "Have I ever been?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. Four weeks late."

  * * * * *

  "I don't want to go to Boston with you, Alex," Captain repeated as he and Alex walked across from the white-spired church on Hackberry Way to Dr. Porter's office.

  "That's why we're going to the doctor's office, Cap, so I can give him your medicine and he'll help you take it while I'm gone."

  Captain wore a Stetson identical to Alex's. "I can remember things sometimes. I think I could remember my medicine." His fingers splayed through his full beard. "But I can forget things, too. Huh, Alex?"

  "You can."

  "That's why we'd better give the doctor my medicines."

  Crossing the street, Alex said, "You have to promise me you'll go to Dr. Porter's office every day."

  "I promise. Because if I had to give myself my medicine, I might take too much like I did that one time. Or I might lose the bottles. I got lost in Philadelphia. It's a good thing you didn't stay mad at me, or you'd have to kick my ass. Right, Alex?"

  Alex smiled. "I'd never kick your ass, Cap."

  Captain grinned. "Maybe one day I'll kick yours."

  The words landed hard on Alex, but he pushed them off his shoulders. "Yeah, you could do that, Cap. You're a big guy."

  "So're you."

  "Yeah."

  Alex held on to a small bag containing the two bottles he'd been given from the Baltimore Hospital. One was administered daily. The other, a powder, was given only when Cap had a particularly bad headache. Alex had the medicines mailed to him in Harmony when he ran out.

  Between the two, Captain seemed calm most of the time. But that calmness came with a price. His coordination had been affected, he grew drowsy and sometimes confused, more easily agitated—on rare occasions, hostile. But Alex had to give him the medicine. The doctors told him it would help Cap, and Alex knew of no other solution until he could get him to Silas Denton's hospital in Buffalo.

  Alex pulled open the door to the doctor's office and was greeted by the doctor himself. He sat at a desk in the front office. A curtained partition led to the examining room. Glass cabinets with glass shelves held instruments and various items dealing with medicine.

  "Mr. Cordova," Dr. Porter said, standing and extended his hand. "I've been expecting you."

  He was an elderly gentleman with thick white hair and scraggly eyebrows that looked like tree bark. His face was kind and compassionate. Alex would never have agre
ed to do this if it weren't for the fact that he trusted the doc. He'd never taken Captain to him in an official capacity before. There had been no need, as Alex got his medicines from Baltimore and Captain didn't need physical exams.

  "Doc," Alex replied, taking the man's hand.

  "And you are the patient?" Dr. Porter said to Captain in a tone that didn't belittle Cap's capabilities.

  Captain stood his full height, seeming to dwarf the room. His gaze had traveled across the four walls, looking and staring, then finally focusing on the doctor. "I'm Captain." His eyes darkened, uncertain; a little afraid. "I don't like shaving."

  "You don't have to."

  "That's good."

  Alex set the bag of medicine on the desktop. "The bottles are labeled with instructions." He took a piece of paper from his pocket. "I wrote down the names of the hotels I'll be at in case you have to find me."

  Dr. Porter nodded. "You come see me every afternoon, Captain, and we'll take care of everything."

  "All right."

  "If he's not here," Alex said, "you'll have to track him down. Check the mercantile first."

  "I will."

  "Alex," Captain said with a scowl, "you're embarrassing me. I never get lost here. He won't have to come looking for me."

  "I doubt he will." Alex did a quick calculation in his head. Today was June 17. He wouldn't be back until July 5. "I'll be gone eighteen days, Cap. That's a long time."

  "No it's not."

  "He'll be fine," Dr. Porter insisted. "Do you play checkers, Captain?"

  Smiling, Cap replied, "Yes."

  "We can play some games if you'd like." The doctor motioned to the board set up on a small table next to the front window.

  Morning light spilled in through the pane of glass, reminding Alex he had an hour to get to the depot to make the train. "I've got to head out, Cap."

  "All right. I'm going to go to work now." He added in an excited tone, "Then I'm going to the restaurant for dinner."

  Alex had arranged for Cap to eat his meals at Nannie's Home-Style Restaurant every day. "See you when I get back."

  "See you."

  Alex nodded, hoping all would go well. He was reluctant to leave, but for more than the obvious reasons. A date was looming, a date with which he didn't cope well. Every year on June 25, Alex thought about Joe McGill.

  And about what should have been for the Giants catcher.

  * * * * *

  Alex's pitching remained the same. Camille coached him, encouraged him, talked to him—all to no avail. What she'd seen that day at the wood shop had stayed there. The only hope she had of uncovering the reasons why were the newspapers.

  She'd seen Matthew Gage before she'd left for Cleveland. He'd told her the archive room at the Baltimore Sun had sustained water damage and the back issues she was interested in weren't readable. Mr. Gage had taken the liberty of contacting the Sporting News. But it would take more time to get the information she requested.

  They'd since played the Cleveland Blues and won one game because of fielding errors by the opposing team and hits from Duke and Noodles. But they'd lost four. Tomorrow marked the first of a four-game series with the Boston Somersets.

  Their train arrived in Boston shy of eleven o'clock at night. Camille and the players went straight to the St. James Hotel, only to learn their rooms weren't ready.

  At the check-in desk, she sighed. All she wanted was to go to bed. But they did have to eat, so they might as well do that while they were waiting.

  They were shoved into the back corner of the hotel restaurant. Fifteen minutes later, and still every waiter in sight avoided them like the plague. The twelve ballplayers grew more disgruntled. There would have been thirteen, but Mox had stayed behind in Harmony, unable to play because of his broken thumb. Kennison's Hardware couldn't afford to bring the second baseman along just to sit on the bench.

  "What's the holdup?" Cub grumbled. "Just because we're ballplayers doesn't mean we're a bunch of pigs. "Red Vanderguest used to take care of stuff like this. He'd holler over at the guy so loud his head would spin."

  "Yeah," the others agreed.

  Camille gazed at Cub, then the rest of them.

  For the first time, she had to confront a situation where ladylike manners weren't adequate to handle the problem. When she'd had to deal with facing scantily clad men in a clubhouse, she'd come up with the idea of a screen to shield her modesty. But suddenly, she realized her father had always been in charge when they'd sat in a restaurant. And his way would have been Red Vanderguest's way. She searched her mind for a solution because she absolutely wouldn't holler for service.

  With a gentle smile, she turned and summoned a waiter by raising her hand. To no avail. When she swiveled back, her gaze connected with Alex's. He relaxed in his chair, his maddening eyebrows arched as he toyed with his knife. Parted in the middle, his hair fell into his brows and his eyes. The chandelier light above him gave the inky black strands a slight russet hue. When he looked at her, he gave her a slight shrug as if to say: Do you need my help?

  No. Absolutely not.

  Camille determinedly conducted a visual search for a waiter. Finally, one in dress black walked toward them, and she sighed her relief. But it was short-lived as he continued on to a party that had been seated after them.

  Smoothing her napkin with pronounced strokes, she averted her gaze from the players who stared at her, waiting for her to yell. The best solution would be to leave the restaurant. But where else could they go? Nothing was open at eleven o'clock at night. In the end, she said, "I'm sure he'll be right back."

  Cub lifted his coffee cup and held it over the floor. "I'm sure he won't. But this'll get him back."

  Horror made her heartbeat skip. "You'll do no such thing. I'll handle this."

  The waiter walked past them once more.

  Ire began to tick like a clock in her chest, and it took considerable effort not to do as Cub threatened herself. Her fingers itched to drop a coffee cup on the floor. But that would only prove the hotel management right—they were baseball players and as such, had a reputation for being destructive and obnoxious. That's why in Philadelphia the Keystones had had to live on frankfurters bought from a vendor's stand.

  She looked at the maître d' who was conversing with a couple. She waited for him to come their way. When he did, she kept her composure in place while saying, "Excuse me, sir, but we've been waiting twenty minutes for service. Is there a problem?"

  The man had the nerve to smile, as if he didn't know what was going on. "No, ma'am." His eyes leveled on her as if he thought she were a minor inconvenience. "I was going to send a waiter to your table."

  "When?"

  "When I had one available." He gave a long, slow perusal to each man at the table. His nose wrinkled in disapproval.

  Her thoughts raced dangerously to images of hurling her coffee cup at him, but she maintained her curt composure when censuring him, "Many people violate some of the observances of etiquette, whether from ignorance, thoughtlessness, or carelessness. The Keystones have never been thrown out of a hotel or charged with any kind of public disruption. For you to assume our manners are lacking because we are from a baseball organization is prejudice and beyond appalling."

  Although she made an excellent point, one that her finishing-school teacher would have applauded, Camille had to admit she sounded like a deportment textbook. And worse—ineffective.

  The maître d' grew flustered. "Let me assure you, ma'am, we don't base our level of service on the occupations of our customers."

  "Oh?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Then you don't dislike baseball players."

  "As a matter of fact, I like the Somersets. Nobody plays better than Cy Young."

  "Then it's just the matter of our being the rival team."

  His face turned red. "I wouldn't say—"

  "But you already have by not giving us service."

  "Ma'am, you are putting words in my mouth."


  "I would rather put an order in your hand, sir."

  Mottled from annoyance over the quick exchange, his cheeks grew redder. "I will have a waiter here in a moment."

  "That won't do." The thumping of her pulse pounded the inside of her wrists. "You may write down our selections."

  "I couldn't possibly. It's not my station to write orders."

  This was getting her nowhere. She had to think fast and outwit him. Drawing in a breath, she snapped, "Then I'm quite certain it isn't your station to accept a gratuity."

  His brows peaked. "Ma'am, I don't take tips."

  "Of course not. And if you don't, you couldn't possibly take tickets to tomorrow's game. It's a shame, because Cy Young is pitching."

  He stood there, wide-eyed. "The game is sold out."

  "Yes, I know. But I have several complimentary seats. I suppose I'll have to give them to that nice gentleman at the front desk who checked us in."

  All but stammering, the maître d' said, "I could make an exception in this case and—"

  "I wouldn't want you to compromise yourself. We'll wait for a waiter."

  "No need." The red on his cheeks faded to a shade of pink. Delighted pink.

  Within seconds, the maître d' had taken their orders and scurried off to the kitchen to submit them. She lifted her eyes to Alex, who saluted her with his water glass.

  He spoke across the table. "That's one way to handle it."

  "And I didn't have to yell to get my point across," she reasoned.

  "No," Cub said, then chuckled. "You just had to resort to bribery."

  "Yes... well."

  But then the most unexpected thing happened. Cub winked at her and said, "It worked, didn't it?"

  Shortly thereafter, five waiters appeared at their table bearing trays of hot food, and they were served with quick efficiency. Succulent roast beef, whipped potatoes, glazed carrots, bread and butter. For dessert, there were thick wedges of triple-layer chocolate cake.

  As they ate, jovial laughter went around the table. Camille heard her name mentioned over and over, in a way that she'd never thought she'd hear.