Holm, Stef Ann (22 page)

But
it would take time to get things in order. First, she had to move her bedroom
furniture and buy a few things—divan, chairs, tables, fireplace tools. There
was a nice plot of dirt in the back of the house that wasn't overrun with
weeds. Which was a good thing. Because secondly, she had to dig up her garden
and move it to her new home. Just how, exactly, she wasn't sure.

* * * * *

If
Alex didn't know any better, he'd say Captain was perfectly normal. That he
didn't need the daily bromide the State Orthopaedic Hospital and Infirmary
insisted he take. Didn't need the Dover's Powder for his headaches. And didn't
need Silas Denton in Buffalo.

Since
returning to Harmony, Cap had been fine.

But
what happened in Philadelphia reaffirmed to Alex that going to New York in the
fall was the right thing to do. So he continued to make plans. In the meantime,
he put himself into his woodworking.

He
had lots of orders to fill and fewer hours in which to work on the projects
these days.

He'd
come into town to pick up his mail; he was waiting for a letter of confirmation
from Silas Denton's hospital. But no correspondence had come yet. So he was
headed back to his wood shop.

Nearing
Elm, he spotted Camille. She pushed a wheelbarrow and had to struggle to keep
it steady. The unbalanced load wobbled from left to right, then at one point
nearly tipped over. She set the legs of the barrow down, adjusted her grip on
the handles, and proceeded. She'd overloaded the bed. With what looked to be
dirt.

Moving
dirt down Elm Street didn't seem like a normal activity for a lady.

She
wore gardening gloves and a simple straw hat. It reminded him of the one she'd
lost on the streets of Philadelphia. This one was simpler in comparison. Not a
single fruit or bird decorated it. Plain straw with a wide ivory ribbon that
caught beneath her chin in a bow. She wore an apron over a plain gray dress.

Even
without her flowing pale skirts and lightweight shirtwaists, she looked ethereal
to him. Camille always exemplified the femininity that some women tried hard at
capturing but never quite had. Looking soft and stunning was simply a part of
her, like the refined way she walked. He liked the entire package—far too much.

He
stopped directly in her path. She clunked the wheelbarrow on its feet and
glared at him. A smudge of dirt marked the bridge of her nose.

"Mr.
Cordova."

"Miss
Kennison."

Looking
at him through the thickness of her lashes, she asked, "Did you have a
baseball question?"

"No."

"Well,
then, can you move out of the way? I'm in somewhat of a hurry." She raised
the wheelbarrow handles once more and grappled for a solid hold on the wood.

"You've
got too much dirt in the bed," he replied, bumping her out of the way as
he took hold of each handle and began walking in the direction she'd been
going. Behind him, he heard her give a little gasp as she caught up.

"What
do you think you're doing?"

"Where're
we going with this load of dirt?" he inquired, ignoring her question.

A
slight skip caught her steps as she kept up with his pace. "It's not dirt.
Can't you see there are seedlings in there?"

He
gave the dirt a quick glance. Tiny green shoots erupted from the earth in
various places, as if they'd been dug up.

"Those
are cucumbers, muskmelon, sweet peppers, and tomatoes."

Shrugging,
he took her word for it. "Okay."

"I'll
be going back for my gladioli, ranunculuses, and anemones, as well as some
hedges." She practically cut directly in front of him as she turned up
Elm. "This way," she said, directed him toward a run-down cottage
that needed its lawn clipped and porch cleared of leftover fall leaves.
"Around the back."

The
wheels of the barrow jumped and bumped over the uneven grass. Alex didn't know
much about flowers, but there were a lot of them coming into bloom along the
serrated bricks that edged the path to the porch. Bricks also circled the tree
trunks and beds of some kind of lily-looking flower.

He
walked around the side of the house where a large plot of dirt had been recently
raked and little plants had been dug into the freshly tilled ground.

Stopping
the wheelbarrow, he reangled the brim of his Stetson. "Why are you putting
plants in this yard?"

She
snatched up a trowel and began to make long furrows in the dirt. "This is my
yard."

A
contemplative silence held him as he stared at the surroundings.

"I
bought this house, Mr. Cordova. I'm moving in. Lock, stock, and plants."

Before
Alex could comment, Betram Nops entered the yard with a frown on his mouth as
wide as the hairpiece that covered his forehead.

"If
it isn't the Regal man without a regalness to his name—or shall I say
feet?" Dressed in a neatly tailored suit, Nops wore a plaid necktie that
Alex would have liked to choke him with because of the crack he made. "I
should have let Regal Shoes have you, Cordova. I'm sure not getting my
thirty-five hundred dollars' worth."

Alex's
thoughts jammed on the monetary amount—the exact sum he'd been offered by
Kennison as a bonus. "What are you talking about?"

Nops
looked at him, then at Camille, who looked at Alex.

"Cordova
doesn't know?" Nops suddenly laughed. "It surely isn't a secret.
What's the matter with Kennison? Didn't want to look like he didn't have the
ol' greenbacks?" Then to Alex. "I'm paying your bonus. Therefore, I should
have been the manager of the Keystones instead of her."

Camille
paled. "I didn't want the job in the first place, Mr. Nops. You
insisted."

"Only
after your father reneged on his word about the manager's job. Enticing Cordova
out of retirement had everything to do with my money and nothing to do with the
way you handle yourself—aside from the fact that you are nice to look at, and
who could say no to a pretty face? But the scores tell everyone what they need
to know about your baseball smarts or lack thereof."

Alex
was on Nops before he could take another breath. Tightening the man's plaid
necktie, he slid the knot up a fraction.

Nops's
eyes widened in stunned horror. "Take it easy, Cordova. I was only stating
facts."

"Then
here's another one for you. You may think you own a piece of me, but you're not
entitled to insult the lady."

With
a shove, Alex let him go.

Nops
put on a display of exaggerated sputtering as he smoothed out the wrinkles in
his tie. "Cordova, you aren't worth a plugged nickel, much less thousands.
The Keystones are in the same place they were weeks ago. Last in the league.
The only bright side is I get to see Kennison's public humiliation."

On
that, he turned and walked from the yard in a disgruntled huff.

Alex
held his gaze on Camille. She didn't readily look at him. "Is it true? Did
Nops put up the bonus money?"

"Yes."

He
didn't know why it should make a difference, but it did. Not only did Kennison
own him, but so did Nops. He felt manipulated. He smiled. Grimly. "I must
be the golden apple to you. You get me, you get the manager's job."

"I'm
managing the team because Bertram Nops was going to pull out his thirty-five
hundred if I didn't. He had designs on the manager's position and that's why he
agreed to invest in you. When I came to see you that day, I honestly didn't
know things would work out this way."

"Lucky
for you they did."

"Lucky?"
she said, astonished. "I wouldn't say I'm lucky at all. My life's been
turned upside down because of this. And when you play bad baseball, you make me
look bad in front of my father, the players, and the town." She tugged off
her gardening gloves and slapped them into her palm.

It
struck him that this was the first time he'd ever seen her hands without
gloves. Her fingers were slender. She wore a ring on her right hand. A tiny
sapphire with diamonds around it. The ring looked delicately romantic. He
momentarily wondered who'd given it to her.

He
had no defense for her statement. At least none that he'd care to explain. He
did make her look bad. But not for reasons that could be fixed by a pep talk
and a steak over at the restaurant.

Camille
sighed. "I have your photographs in the house. I'm sure you have more
pressing things to do at the moment than think about baseball, but maybe you
could take a quick second to sign some of them now."

"I
could do that."

"Good."
She untied her apron as she started for the house.

Alex
followed.

The
rear entrance led directly into an attached shed where partially unpacked boxes
lined the walls. Camille went into the kitchen, the sideboards covered with
wrapped dishes and other cooking items. He noted the red gingham curtain that
covered the sink plumbing was open. A slow, steady drip from one of the pipes
fell into a galvanized bucket.

"I
have them in here. The photographer sent them over this morning," she
said, entering a dining room where a very small, and very well-used, table was
made smaller by the large room. "I can have the autographed ones given out
at tonight's game."

He
drew up behind her, standing close enough to smell the lavender of her perfume
and the sweet earthiness of garden dirt. The backside brim of her hat nearly
hit him on the cheek as she turned her head toward him.

In
a low voice he whispered, "So what kind of pressing engagement do you
think I have?"

Her
breath practically tickled the side of his mouth before she backed away a few
inches. "I could pick anything and it probably would apply."

He
wanted to take her in his arms. Take her into another room in the house. He
looked into her extraordinary blue eyes and imagined how it would be lying
beside her on her bed. Naked. Caressing. Touching her body—everywhere.

"I
can't pick one," he said, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her nose to
wipe the dirt smudge off. Her breathed sucked in at his touch. "There
aren't any reasons why I have to leave."

That
was a lie. There were many. He had to finish sanding a chair. He had to size
lumber for a cradle he'd been commissioned to build for the Wolcotts. He had to
fix the handle on his adze eye hammer. He had to look over his orders. He had
to mix up glue for his broken wood clamps. But none of that seemed important to
him right now.

"Get
me a pen." Alex pulled out a mismatched chair from the table.

"Here."
She slid the pile of photographs in front of him. "Can I get you a glass
of water? I was going to make some lemonade, but I haven't had time."

"Yeah.
Water's good."

She
went through the doorway to the kitchen. He could see her at the sink. She
turned sideways to look beneath it, then put her hands on her hips as if
wondering what to do. He was no plumber, but he figured a few twists and a
little putty would fix the problem. It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to
fix it for her, but he refrained. He couldn't afford to get personal with her.
And yet, because of Nops, here he sat at her dining room table as if he
belonged in her house.

He
couldn't take his eyes off her. The way she moved. The way she searched for
just the right glass for him. She discarded a rose one; then an amber. She
settled on a cut crystal.

He
liked the line of her back, the way her spine was straight and tall. The way
she paused, as if she suddenly remembering she'd left her hat on. She lifted
her arm, and gave the ribbon a tug. He wanted to see her profile. The slant of
her nose, her forehead, the fullness of her lips, the shape of her breasts. She
set the straw hat on the counter.

The
rusty sound of the faucet handle turning shrieked through the kitchen as she
poured water into the glass. He hadn't watched a woman so intensely since he'd been
a boy and he'd peeped across the alleyway into the sixth-story neighbor's
window with Sean O'Brien and several others from the sand-lot gang. The woman
had been in her chemise and in the arms of her lover.

This
was different. Camille was fully dressed, yet he felt the same sensations
pulling at his body.

She
turned. He didn't look away.

From
the expression on her face, she knew he'd been watching her.

"You
haven't signed anything."

He
returned to the photographs. He cursed himself for letting his thoughts and
emotions get the better of him.

"Well,"
she said, putting her hands on her hips once more. "While you do that, I'm
going to unpack some other boxes."

Alex
took up the pen. "All right."

As
she moved about in the room, he signed his name. Alex Cordova. It seemed so
meaningless to do this.

From
the corner of his eye, he followed her movements. A lift of a vase here; a
setting down of a knick-knack there. He didn't have to try hard to come up with
the illusion that this could be something more.