by Honey
Captain's recovery had continued—amazingly so since those days in July. His headaches had subsided, but he suffered from blocks of memory loss. His day-to-day recollections had improved. He could tell Alex what he had for lunch the day before and remember the meal with detail. He hadn't been able to do that before.
He conversed about things he hadn't in a long while—basic topics, like cooking scrambled eggs, riding a sled in the snow, playing cards.
And he asked questions, too.
A lot of questions. Why did the doctors give him the wrong medicine? How did Alex's bow drill work? What do you call the machine with the wide trumpet where music comes out? Who is the president of the United States? Where is the hospital he used to be in? When did he get sick?
Alex wondered when these questions would eventually lead to: What happened to me, Alex? When the time came, Alex would be honest. And it was going to kill both of them. But he owed Cap. He'd tell the truth.
In the meantime, each day remained an uncertainty. Alex still thought taking Captain to Buffalo was the answer. If the doc here could help Cap so much, Silas Denton ought to be able to bring him back to his old self
So Alex didn't want to get used to sticking around in Harmony. He'd already sent what he had of his bonus money to Buffalo. At the end of the season, he was going to walk out on his contract. Only now, it was going to get him in the gut to do it. Before, he didn't know Camille, didn't care if he ruined her father's team. He'd cared only about helping Cap. Now, he thought differently.
But the bottom line always came back to having to put Cap first.
He kept telling himself he couldn't risk falling in love with Camille. In the long run, he'd hurt her. And he didn't want to do that. He'd do anything not to do that. She was too good for him. He didn't deserve her. Not when he went off in a rage yesterday and nearly beat a guy senseless right in front of her.
What kind of a man would do that?
A man who'd seen this kind of arrogant pitching before—because he'd lived it, done it himself. Watching that Cleveland pitcher had been like looking into one of those glass snowballs that kids shake. Inside, Alex had stood on the mound, a mean streak and an arm that let him knock the batter out of the box. He didn't play that way anymore; there just wasn't any justifiable excuse for trying to cut a guy down at the plate.
At least none of the Keystones were cutthroats.
Looking at Cub and Yank arguing over what size brush to use on the porch posts; Noodles, Cupid, Jimmy, Bones, and Mox comparing mustache growth because of the bet they'd made with one another to see who could sprout the fullest one fastest; Doc on his knees, running his hands over the grass blades to look for clovers; Specs wiping off another trial pair of spectacles; Deacon, Duke, and Charlie puffing on ten-cent cigars and making smoke rings—Alex felt a pang grab him in the ribs. He was going to miss these fellows more than he could have predicted—much less have imagined. They were a good group of players. They weren't the best he'd ever played with, but winning, to them, didn't mean killing anybody to get the trophy.
The Keystones played with heart. It was something to be proud of, and Alex was. And Camille had the grit and determination to bring them to the playoffs. For her, Alex would have liked to get the pennant.
He wanted to do everything he could for her before October. It seemed too close, to be coming too quickly. On the day he pitched his last pitch of the inning, he would leave. Until then, he'd fill the gaps in his life with thoughts of her. She occupied his mind all the time—when he sculpted wood or carved a new design on his totem pole, when he walked over to the ballpark, when he lay in bed at night wishing he had her to cradle in his arms, to kiss and make love to.
He looked forward to seeing her each day. He liked being with her and watching how she moved, walked. How her hands gestured when she talked. When she was with the team and telling them how to play, she was funny and smart. She didn't always show her emotions, which made her all the more alluring, more complex.
The screen door's rusty hinges made noise behind him as Camille came out wearing one of those dresses he liked. They looked light and breezy, feminine in all the right places in the way the fabric draped her body. The dress had smooth lines and fancy trimmings. Its color was lavender, like the fragrance she wore so often. The pale violet hue seemed to turn her eyes that same shade.
She hadn't done up her hair in pins, just loosely braided it. The curls looked soft and sensual, although he doubted she realized that. A few tendrils caught at her forehead and ears, where he noted she'd put on a pair of tiny pearl earrings.
Jesus, she was beautiful.
"How did you get the paint?" she asked, stepping out to meet him.
"Your father." He breathed in, savoring her perfume, noting she did smell as good as she looked. "We went over to the hardware store and told him we wanted to paint the place for you and he said your order had come in the other day."
She gazed into his face. "That was thoughtful, Alex."
"Hell, I don't want to be thoughtful. After the way I got suspended, I owed you."
"You owe more to Cub. He's going to have to pitch five days in a row now." Her lips were pink and shiny. He wanted to kiss her, the memory of her lips against his not enough. "Maybe you should be painting his house instead of mine."
"I like Cub fine enough, but he's not as pretty as you."
He always thought she blushed nice; he wasn't disappointed, because she blushed now.
"How did my father react to your coming into his store?"
"He gave me a new behind for getting suspended." Alex took off his hat and readjusted the Stetson on his head. "He can take the hide off a bear when he gets started."
That made her laugh, and he drank in the sound. "Yes, he can."
"He'll make it hard for his son-in-law to call him Father."
Alex didn't know why he'd said that. He wasn't the husband for Camille, and he didn't want to think about some other man standing beside her at the altar. The image of her wearing a white gown, with a veil over her face, made him think about honeymoon trips—kissing, bedrooms, sex, eternity.
Longing set into Alex and he had to force it away.
Captain came up the steps and greeted them with a question. "Alex, what does revival mean?" He pointed to the paint card and the square of Colonial Revival Blue.
Alex shoved one hand in his pocket and leaned back against the porch post. "In this case it's a restoration color."
"Restoration?"
"A color of paint that brings back the way a house used to look."
"Oh." Captain clearly wasn't thinking along those lines. His face was a cloud of confusion as he looked at the paint square once more, then at Alex with a puzzled gaze. "I was wondering if it could mean something about a tent, too."
"No. It doesn't mean tent. A tent is a canvas shelter you put up with poles."
"I know that," Captain said with some impatience.
"Do you mean a tent revival, Captain?" Camille asked gently. "Where people meet and there's a man of the cloth—"
"—who wears a thin black tie and he's got liquor in his coat pocket and he asks people for money," Captain finished in a rush, his cheeks flushing in an animated way. "He stands there with a Bible in his hand, and we know he's got booze in that coat pocket because we saw him take a swig when he was behind the curtain, and he yells we're all going to hell if we don't do like he and his Good Book says. And then me and Frankie Munson throw bottle caps at him and tell him he's a worm and a fraud. We had to run from the coppers... back over to Frankie's house. He lived at 240th Avenue and his father was a dumb ass just like... just like..." His words trailed, the look in his eyes distant, as if he were grasping for a thimbleful of information but couldn't quite reach it. "I think I know somebody else who is a dumb ass."
Alex had followed the story with his heart lurching and burning in his chest. He'd listened, his breath trapped in his throat and the muscles in his arms hard beneath his sleeves. Each word of
Cap's reflection hit him with the force of a blow. Alex had been waiting for this moment, had told himself he was prepared for it. But now that it had come to pass, it was far harder handle than he could have foreseen.
The memory of a tent revival with a childhood friend was the first to make it out of the storeroom.
Alex almost didn't trust himself to speak. His emotions welded together in a knot that was hard to untie. When he found his voice, it was shakier than he would have liked. "Cap, you shouldn't say ass in front of a lady."
"Oh." Cap reached into his back pocket, took out his tablet and pencil, and said as he wrote, "Don't say ass to ladies. Or Hildegarde." Then he put the tiny notepad away.
"Are we going to start slapping up paint?" Cub shouted toward the porch. "Or are we going to stand around and scratch ourselves all morning?"
Specs added with a croak, "I don't scratch myself. How many times do I have to say it? I do not scratch myself."
"No," Deacon said with a good-humored quirk to his mouth, "you just couldn't catch a bird dropping if the bird crapped in your glove."
And that's how the painting party began.
Chapter 20
Half-naked baseball players painted Camille Kennison's house.
It was a good thing she lived at the end of town. The spectacle going on was nothing short of scandalous.
Jimmy had asked her pardon, but he had had to take his shirt off. This being a hot day, he wore no undershirt, and his chest was as bare as when he'd been born. Soon Duke and Doc followed suit. Then Bones and Yank. And finally the rest—until fourteen shirtless men stood on ladders, porches, the roof, and the loggia, painting her house. To Camille, the lack of clothing didn't much matter. What harm did it do for a man to paint with his shirt off?
Besides, she was already on the outs with the Garden Club for managing the Keystones, so what difference did one more infraction make? None, to her mind. Well, none that she cared to examine. She talked herself into thinking this was just fine—they were working without shirts only because the sun was baking them. And another thing... at least the players were in good shape and they were something to look at.
But Camille had eyes only for Alex.
She watched the way his muscles moved as his arm stroked up and down the side of the house. His tattoo moved fiercely with each rippling muscle as he leaned left or right. He wore nankeen pants, the cotton a faded buff color, with a hint of the ribbed drawers beneath showing where the waistband dipped at his navel. The hat on his head was the same she'd seen him with when he'd come down the boardwalk that first day she'd been with Captain outside the hardware store. She'd thought it looked very appealing on him then, and now was no different.
In fact, everything about him appealed to her.
His body, his face, the way he moved. The outline of his buttocks in his tight pants. Powerfully muscled biceps that glistened bronze beneath the simmering rays of sun. The way that grizzly bear tattoo seemed to come alive with each motion of his arm, his shoulder moving with each stroke of the brush. The shape of his nose and jaw. The way his lips caught condensation from the outside of his lemonade glass. How he would wipe his forehead with a bandanna and eventually tie the red patterned scarf around his brow and fit his hat back on.
"It sure is hot," Hildegarde commented, sipping on a glass of lemonade.
"It's very hot," Camille replied, wishing she could take off her stockings and shoes and cool her feet with water from the garden hose... cool her lips with the taste of Alex's.
Sitting opposite Hildegarde on the horsehair cushion of the lawn swing, she watched the men paint her house. The green-and-white canopy above kept the sun from glaring directly on them. The temperature registered a scorching ninety-six degrees on the storm thermometer nailed to a ledge outside her kitchen window.
"I think this is the hottest August I can remember," Hildegarde went on, her hat brim making an oblong shadow over her eyebrows. "It makes me think of those times Meg and Ruth and I jumped into Evergreen Creek in our shimmies. We'd get mud between our toes, but it was fun. You should have joined us." She lowered her glass. "It was a lot of fun. Then again, I think you were too worried about what the boys would say."
"I wasn't," Camille said in self-defense. But maybe she had been. "I was afraid to get wet." Her admission came from a place that she never thought she'd admit to—fear of doing something unflattering.
"Afraid? Honest? We always thought—" Hildegarde said softly, "and I don't mean this to sound awful because I don't think you're awful, but those of us in Mrs. Wolcott's class who talked—we thought you didn't want to come with us because you were stuck up."
Camille could see now how they'd gotten that idea. "I would have liked to come."
"Well, we asked you once and you said no."
"I remember." She'd always regretted that. "If you ever ask me again, I'll come."
"But now we don't do things like that anymore," Hildegarde said as she lowered her glass. "It isn't ladylike. Meg can get away with it, though. She has a husband who doesn't mind her outlandish ways. I wonder if Captain would... that is..."
Camille watched the young woman's cheeks color. Hildegarde and Captain. The thought of them as a couple came as no surprise. And on the heels of that came approval. They would be perfect together.
After a long pause, Hildegarde continued. "What do you think of Captain without his beard and with his hair cut?" she asked, giving the tall man a sheepish glance.
Camille had been startled by his transformation, but pleasantly so. "I think he's handsome."
A little breathless, Hildegarde blurted, "I think so, too. I never would have imagined... but he makes me..." She blushed and paused. "Well, you know. You have more experience than I do with men. I mean, I was almost engaged to Meg when she was masquerading as Arliss Bascomb. So what do I know about true romance?"
Looking at the other woman, Camille gave her a thoughtful study. She wore the latest in fashion, a full blouse and circular skirt that was pieced out of old gores and flounces. This had recently come in, and not everyone's figure could support it. But with Hildegarde's curves and ample proportions, she wore the new style well.
"I think you don't give yourself enough credit, Hildegarde. I always thought you were pretty."
She squeaked, "Me?" Resting a hand over her heart, she gasped. "I've never had a beau in my life. Men flock to you, but you never go after any of them. Why not? Don't you want to get married?"
Camille shrugged. "Maybe I just haven't found a man who likes me for me." But that wasn't wholly the truth. She'd just been very picky—like her father said. Her reluctance had more to do with men not wanting to know if she had an idea in her head. They liked to make all her choices for her. She didn't want that. She'd given up on a man until...
Well... until Alex.
Her gaze strayed to him where he stood on the loggia and painted the trim around the windows Indian red. He'd told her she wasn't supposed to lift a finger because this was the team's gift to her for managing them. She didn't think it the team's idea—it was Alex's doing. She loved the thought. She loved...
She was afraid to go further with the thought. Love and commitment had never been spoken about between them. She'd feel awkward talking about it. He was everything she'd ever wanted romantically. But to tell him would only put a strain on the relationship. Because they couldn't go public with any feelings while she managed the team. It would be inappropriate.
As the swing slowly rocked, she looked at the men brandishing brushes and swinging paint buckets. She would have painted her house on her own. Her plans had included a full-length cotton duster, gloves, and rubber boots. Neatness. And long, long hours of effort. Thanks to Alex, she would have the entire place done today.
For lunch, she'd set out sandwiches—Hildegarde had brought over the items needed for ham and Swiss cheese—wedges of watermelon, pitchers of lemonade, and a succulent cherry pie that Hildegarde had made that had to be divided in careful slivers so
everyone got a piece.
Camille's gaze followed Hildegarde's to where Captain worked on a section of porch spindle. The young woman said, "He's different now. And I don't mean," she continued in a rush, "that he wasn't fine before to me. I just mean that... I like him. I like him an awful lot." She fanned her face with the flat of her hand. "It is very hot. We should put out the root beer so we don't have to make up more lemonade."
The afternoon wound down. Tomorrow they were catching a morning train to Philadelphia.
The painting sheets were rolled up, paint buckets were thrown in the refuse pile, and brushes were laid out on the grass by the back door to be soaked in turpentine. Camille watched the players go and waved as they filed out the gate, some with a jovial laugh, some with a smile, some sauntering, some striding slowly. She missed seeing Alex leave. She'd hoped... wanted to give him a special word of thanks.
Hildegarde packed up her belongings and empty baskets and said her good-byes to Camille. Just as Hildegarde was going through the front door, Captain came up the porch steps and offered to help her carry some of the hampers.
"I can get that for you." He took everything she held and made it seem like effortless work. He'd put his shirt back on and wore a new hat that was a fine shade of honey.
"Thank you," she said demurely as they took the walkway, side by side.
"I liked your cherry pie, Hildegarde," he said, complimenting her. "It was good. I could have eaten the whole thing. Could you bake another one?"
"Yes."
"You and I could eat it ourselves."
She nervously laughed. "Oh, I shouldn't eat half a pie."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm..."
Captain persisted. "Because why?"
"Well, because my mother says that a lady shouldn't—"
"You know, I've noticed that about your mother," Captain cut in. "She always has something to say about everything. And when you talk, you say 'My mother says' a lot. Don't you ever make up your own mind?"
Hildegarde's face went pale as she faced him.
"I think a mind is something a person needs to keep track of," he said quietly. "Even if he can't always help the way it goes. Sooner or later, if he waits long enough, he'll figure things out. It's time you started figuring out things for yourself, Hildegarde."