Holm, Stef Ann

by Honey

  Confused, she murmured, "See me?"

  "See your face." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "Look at you."

  This time she ran her hands over the curls that felt like a lopsided mass of corkscrews on her head. "Yes, well... I'm not looking that great."

  The power that was usually in his voice was muted; he spoke softly and almost with a degree of reverie. "I think you look fine, Camille."

  Under his quiet appraisals, she wasn't sure what to say, what to do. All the pieces didn't fit together. He'd never acted this way before. As the seconds seemed to stretch out, she felt a restless need to move.

  Just when she was about to open her mouth, Alex said, "Captain could be getting better. The doc's put him on a new medicine."

  She looked at him with surprise. "Alex, that's wonderful." She motioned behind her. "Please, come in and I'll make some lemonade. You can tell me everything."

  He did and she closed the door. While he sat at the small kitchen table, she fixed a pitcher of lemonade.

  Handing him a glass, she asked, "How did the doctor know to change the medicine?"

  His jaw tightened. "The old medicine wasn't doing him any good."

  "Oh?"

  When he didn't elaborate, she said, "You must be thrilled that he could take a turn for the better."

  "Yeah. I'm a lot of things."

  She got the impression he wasn't telling her everything. "Alex? What's wrong?"

  The deep color of his eyes warmed, but he didn't enlighten her. "You should see him. He shaved."

  "Really?" She tried to imagine Captain with a clean-shaven face.

  "He looks... different."

  She watched the lemon slices floating in her glass, then lifted her gaze to Alex. She felt strangely comforted by his desire to tell her the news. "I'm so glad you told me."

  He stood. "I've got to go. I just came by—because I came by."

  She tilted her head in confusion, then followed him to the door. Once there, he turned to her and raised his hand to her cheek, trailing his fingers down the line of her jaw. Then he gave her a kiss. Very gentling. Barely there. Just a whisper of lips brushing together, making her forget that she didn't understand the full reason why he had come by. The depth of what she felt in the kiss touched her. That sense of closeness created in her a euphoria that nothing else did.

  He moved his lips over hers again, then spoke. "I needed to feel you, touch you. You make me want to be more than I am."

  Then he walked down the steps toward the side of the house. Camille put her hand on the doorjamb and stared after him until he was gone from her view. She already missed him.

  She closed the door and left the kitchen, passing the dining mirror on her way to the table. Absently, she glanced at her reflection. There was a line of black grease beneath her nose where she'd rubbed that itch, making her look like she had painted a mustache on her upper lip.

  Once in the dining room, she looked at the mess of mail and papers waiting for her on the tabletop. She'd already read the articles of interest in the newspapers, their pages yellowed but sturdy. But no matter how many times she'd digested the words, they still didn't make sense.

  Sitting, she opened one of the back issues of the Sporting News that Mr. Gage had given her when she'd gone to the newspaper office earlier in the day. Once more, she read the words in the narrow columns, skimming down to the last paragraphs. Then she viewed the next edition's headline.

  The Slugfest Ends

  Their relationship fouled up from the beginning, Alex Cordova of the Baltimore Orioles and Joe McGill of the New York Giants ended their slugfest at this afternoon's game on an ominous note when Cordova leaned into a pitch delivered by Amos Rusie. The swing hit the Giants' catcher on the side of the head and knocked him unconscious.

  Overly aggressive behavior, fighting, and prolonged violent incidents are nothing new to these two players. In fact...

  She didn't read further because she already knew what happened. She scanned the next issue from the day after the accident. And the edition the following day. And the day after that. She had a week's worth of newspapers. Not a single one supported Alex's story. Joe McGill never died on home plate.

  He simply disappeared.

  Chapter 19

  August arrived with the drowsy scent of flowers and sun-warmed glove leather. The citizens of Harmony became more caught up with the national pastime as the summer played out. The Keystones had won a three-game home stand against the Detroit Tigers in mid-July, and ever since, the seats at Municipal Field had been packed with fans.

  As the first game with the Cleveland Blues progressed, Camille asked from her seat on the bench, "Specs, do you have your horseshoe?"

  He held it up. "I never sit here without it."

  "Good. You're batting next. We're going to win this. We're two runs up." Looking down at Doc, she inquired, "How about you, Doc? Four-leaf clovers?"

  Doc shifted on his backside to get to the hind pocket of his pants. "I'll check, but I'm sure I've got my special one here."

  Camille didn't want to leave anything up for grabs. Mox rubbed the oil lamp in his lap; the adhesive tape on his thumb was a white blur as he put some vigor into the motion. His finger had healed enough so he could come back into the game. The chain of rabbit's feet Bones used for inspiration hung around his neck. He'd added two more feet to it—for insurance, he'd told her—after they'd beaten the Milwaukee Brewers a week ago Saturday. The air smelled of bad liniment, compliments of Cupid's shaved head. And Yank swigged back a Bromo from the beat-up tin cup he always used.

  To the unenlightened, the scene would have looked bizarre—certainly nothing to get hopeful about. But to Camille, everything was just right.

  The momentum had begun when Noodles came running out of the clubhouse, his uniform on inside out. He'd arrived minutes before the coin toss and had been in a rush. But he socked a triple his first at bat.

  If he hadn't shot the ball deep into left field, Camille would have taken him to task for missing practice. But the fact that he started them off with a great hit made her decide not to give him a lecture. Especially when Yank ripped off his jersey, flashed his ribbed undershirt, and proceeded to put his yellow jersey back on—inside out.

  "Never seen Noodles lead off with a triple, Miss Kennison," he said as his fingers worked over the buttons. "If it works for him, it might work for me."

  No longer skeptical when it came to their good-luck tactics, she smiled. "Good idea."

  Yank hit a flare into right and took first base with a single.

  As soon as that happened, Jimmy, Mox, and Cub put their jerseys on inside out as well.

  "I can't find my clover," came Doc's distressed cry from the end of the bench. "I had it in my pocket, but it's gone. Oh good Lord..." He stood and looked beneath the bench. "Dammit all. Oh good Lord."

  Camille immediately rose to help him look, as did Cupid and Charlie. Alex gazed beneath his seat, then shrugged.

  "It's gone. It's as simple as that," Doc moaned as he straightened.

  "You can use my rabbit's feet," Bones suggested.

  Doc just about took his head off. "The hell I can. I'm not wearing any feet of dead animals around my neck." He moaned. "Oh good Lord. I can't go out there and hit the ball without my clover."

  "What happened to the jar of them you had?"

  He put up his hands in defeat. "I lost it yesterday when I was out on the lake. And now look—bad luck is coming my way."

  Camille thought a moment. There was no point in wasting time trying to convince him he'd be all right without a clover. She didn't want to leave the park, but there was nobody she could send. The lineup was set and she couldn't disrupt it.

  "Stay here," she insisted, "and keep things going. Specs, you get out there and stall. Adjust yourself. Do what ever it takes to add some time."

  Specs wrinkled his nose. "I never adjust myself in public. Things stay where... they're su
pposed to stay on me once..."—his cheeks bloomed the color of an imperial red geranium—"... once I put things where they should go."

  "Then pretend your... shoelace is untied."

  On that, she ran all the way to the mercantile and bought one of those souvenir clovers in pressed wax paper with a tiny round frame around it. In a matter of minutes, she was back at the dugout and presenting Doc with the new clover. "You're all set now, Doc." She was heaving as she tried to calm her racing heartbeat. She'd never moved so fast in her life.

  Doc stared at it. Looked up at her. Then down again. "I can't use this."

  Specs had untied and retied his shoe at the plate so many times, the umpire threatened to call him out. But Camille and Doc still debated the luck quality of personally found clovers versus store-bought.

  Doc was adamantly against his new one until Alex intervened saying, "Doc, you know who has a clover just like that one?"

  "Who?"

  Alex had one leg over the other, knee to heel, his arm stretched out on the back of the bench. "Art 'the Dodger' LaFlamme."

  "No kidding?"

  "Kicked some butt with that framed clover. Batted three-oh-two the first season he had it."

  Doc's expression lightened. "Well, if he used an artificial clover, I guess I could, too."

  Specs had struck out, the crowd booing and causing Doc to look over his shoulder. "I'd better go out there and clean up the mess junior made."

  "You do that, Doc." Alex adjusted the slouch in his stocking. "Go get 'em."

  After Doc grabbed his bat, Cub gave Alex an elbow in the arm. "You were yanking his chain, huh, Alex?"

  "I never lie," he stated while looking at Camille.

  She got mad at herself for blushing, the day on the bicycle coming back to her. In the weeks that had passed, she hadn't forgotten how close they'd been on that July night. Or the shared moment in her kitchen. She missed him in that way, missed his company. She shouldn't have expected it, or wanted it, but Alex was the closest thing to a best friend she had. There were times when she wanted to talk to him, to tell him small things. Silly things. Things that didn't matter to anyone but her, like her pipe not dripping, or the fact that she'd ordered the paint for her house.

  When she ate dinner alone, she imagined him sitting beside her. She was being foolish and ridiculous, overly romantic. Neither one of them had made promises to one another... and yet...

  Sometimes at night, she wished Alex were in bed with her. She longed for his hands over her body, his lips on hers. But she couldn't tell him such tilings. So the feelings he'd evoked in her remained private memories.

  It was hard, though, when he did things like this with Doc for her. He was helping to make the team all that it could be.

  The other day, he'd brought his sanding paper and a small wood plane. He'd gone up to Charlie and told him, "You've got too much meat on your bat, Char-he." With his woodwork tools, he made minor adjustments, reshaping the bat's barrel. "That ought to help you out."

  It had. Charlie's hitting stats had increased. Alex used his skills on the bats of the other players as well, altering, adjusting, customizing the bats to each player's height and weight and to the power they put into their swings.

  Her mind was pulled back to the present as Deacon came in from being tagged out, a frown souring his face. "I couldn't hook the bag or he'd ride me right off."

  Cub snorted at the brawny first baseman for Cleveland. "Next time, run into him."

  "And kill myself?" Deacon took his seat and wrapped a towel around his neck.

  From above the dugout, the sound of a laugh filtered through the raspberries and hisses.

  Bertram Nops.

  Recalling her confrontation with him, Camille's eyes narrowed with displeasure. She'd asked Mr. Nops if he'd noticed anything flashy about their uniforms. He'd said he thought they looked good. As he spoke, the corner of his left eye occasionally twitched. Had he always had that tick?

  And the fact that he'd laughed when Deacon slid out only increased her suspicion he wasn't honest. Her father had been right about him. Mr. Nops was untrustworthy. Unfortunately, he'd come up with the cash she'd needed, and that couldn't be changed.

  She pushed that thought to the back of her mind as the game went on, and the stakes got higher. Extra innings factored into the afternoon, as the score tied in the twelfth and fifteen innings. With each team at eight runs apiece, the bottom of the sixteenth was met with the threat of darkness. The Keystones needed this win for morale.

  They were tied against Milwaukee for the most losses this season. But if they could put this game in the win column, they'd be ahead of the Brewers by one. That would put them in seventh place for the pennant. Not wonderful, but hopeful.

  The umpire's voice, hoarse from calling balls, strikes, and outs, fought the dust as he hollered a strike on Mox—who was nearly mowed down by a fastball.

  The relief pitcher for the Blues was a young hotshot, tall and slim, light-haired and buck-toothed. He practically burned a hole into the catcher's glove with each throw.

  Sitting at the end of the bench, Cub observed, "That guy can do everything except steal first base."

  "He does that," Alex remarked in a low tone from beside Camille, "in the dead of night when nobody's around."

  From the tightness in his voice, it was apparent he didn't like the way the pitcher was throwing. Camille had noticed the killer sliders, too, and was keeping a close watch on them. Some pitchers were notorious for bean balls; some players actually liked them. Once hit on the body, the players could take the base without having an at bat and risking a strikeout.

  The Cleveland quick-delivery artist wound up for the next pitch to Mox and unloaded a zap of lightning. Mox jumped out of the way and went down in the dirt.

  Camille rose, mouth open. Mox clambered to his feet, wiped the dirt off his sleeves, and retrieved his bat

  Alex swore, threw off his cap, and paced in front of the bench. He stalked, his eyes narrowed in a scowl as he paused to look at the field once more.

  Mox took his stance in the batter's box and the pitcher let go with a fast one. The ball caught Mox on the shoulder, bounced up at his head, and nearly took off his ear. It was no accident.

  Before Camille realized what was happening, Alex had leaped over the edge of the dugout and had knocked the pitcher down. In a tangle of legs and arms, the two engaged in a fiery fistfight

  "Holy cripes!" Jimmy blurted from behind her. "Cordova struck that guy like a roadrunner going after a rattler!"

  Camille yelled for her players to stay on the bench and not get in on it. But as soon as the first Blue jumped in, the rest of the players on both sides made a heap of flying fists.

  She ran to the edge of the brawl, calling for them to stop, but her cries went unheeded.

  Pandemonium ensued as the umpire yelled over the upset. "You want to get thrown out of the game, Cordova? I'll throw you all the way into the clubhouse." When Alex made no attempt to get off the pitcher, the umpire shouted, "You are out of the game!"

  Suddenly, Captain appeared, tall and undaunted by the display of upper cuts and jabs. She'd seen him in the seats with Hildegarde and was thankful he'd come down to try to stop Alex from hitting the pitcher. He went right up to them, cutting his way through the knot of players without being struck—even though he pushed men this way and that to get to Alex.

  "Alex! Hey, Alex!" Captain grabbed the back of Alex's shirt in his big fist and pulled with enough force to get his attention. "Alex, you're going to hurt him. You're going to hurt him bad. Cut it out."

  Alex, drenched in sweat, looked up—just as the pitcher laid one on his jaw and snapped Alex's head back. Dazed, he stopped and staggered to his feet. "Sweet Jesus."

  The others quit their fists, began to nurse wounds, and ambled back to their respective benches.

  Alex's lip had been cut by that punch from the opposing pitcher, and the corner of his left eye had begun to swell. "I'm sorry, Cap. I didn't mean for yo
u to see. I'm sorry."

  "It's okay, Alex... that pitcher did wrong. But still..." Captain put his arm around him and the pair started back to the dugout. "You're a big guy. You could have knocked his head off. I don't want you to get arrested. I know what that is. J-a-i-l. It spells slammer."

  "I'm sorry," Alex repeated.

  "You didn't hit me, Alex," he replied, patting him on the back and trying to get him to smile. "I'm not mad at you."

  Alex's next words were barely audible. "Ah God, Cap. You should be."

  Camille stood there, watching the two, shades of a sunset glowing off their shirt backs. It was an odd irony—Captain calming Alex.

  The game resumed and the Keystones won, but Alex was suspended for the next five days.

  As Camille walked home that evening in the twilight, she couldn't help thinking about Joe McGill... and wondering.

  * * * * *

  Camille opened the front door, wearing her robe and with her hair falling about her shoulders, to find Alex. Although the screen separated them, he could see by her disheveled appearance that he must have awakened her. Her eyes blinked back the bright morning sunshine that spilled over the porch veranda. She put a hand to her brow to shade her gaze.

  Her words came out in a sleepy Southern drawl. "What's the matter?"

  As she stared past him to her lawn, he smiled. The players had set up shop on her grass, holding buckets of paint, brushes, turpentine, and protective sheeting. Then her gaze rested back on him.

  A ray of hope lightened her sleepy blue eyes. "Did you get the umpire to lift your suspension?" Her accent reminded him of sugared peaches.

  He had to shake his head. "Nope. But you're going to have your house painted today."

  "I am?"

  He dipped his voice down low. "Get dressed, honey, and tell us how you want the colors."

  She paused, looked at the yard once more, then nodded. "Okay." She shut the front door.

  He turned and viewed his crew of recruits. Captain had joined in. He sat on a tree stump studying the color chart Kennison had given them when they'd picked up the paint.