Holm, Stef Ann (37 page)

"I
checked with the laundry," she repeated for what seemed to be the dozenth
time. "They said that the uniforms they put in the duffle bags for me to
pick up were our regular worn-out, drab uniforms."

"It
makes no sense," he muttered. "How can a laundry lose thirteen
uniforms? And even more baffling, replace them with ones that are godawful old
gold in color."

"I
don't know."

"Well,
we're going to have to find out and make whoever is responsible pay for new
ones. Until then, the players will have to wear what they have." He
muttered. "The newspapers are having a field day. I'll bet we're news in
all the train terminals. On every street corner. I tell you, it's an outrage.
And Bertram Nops is loving every minute of it. I caught him walking away from
Municipal Field the other day. The sprinklers were on, soaking the outfield. He
denied doing it, but I'm not stupid. I know he's out to ruin me because he
didn't get his way. Camille, you really were thoughtless when you got that bum
involved with my baseball team."

She
fought to get the wrench grip over the wide pipe and turn it loose. "Maybe
he switched the uniforms."

"Interesting
speculation. I'll tell the police." He warned, "You've got to watch
your back with him. He's as slippery as axle grease."

"I'll
be careful. But right now my mind's not on that. I just got back and I came
home to a flood in my kitchen."

"It
could have been worse. Leda told me she saw water running from under your porch
door, so I turned off the main pipe to the house."

"I
appreciate that." And she did; but in his cutting the water supply to the
property, her flower garden didn't get watered and the flowers that had been
flourishing before she'd gone on the road now resembled a wilted salad. She had
assured Leda that it was no great loss, but the housemaid had still felt
terrible about the plants' dying.

That
flowerbed and vegetable garden had been the last link Camille had to the Garden
Club—and now it was gone. Interestingly enough, she wasn't overly despondent
about it.

"My
investigator found that lovestruck pitcher, Will White," her father
barreled on with a fair amount of bristle. "South of the border in the
hoosegow, held on charges unknown. Hogwood says I can't touch him."

"You
don't need to touch him," Camille said, liberally applying oakum to the
end of the pipe joint. An itch caught her nose and she made a face.
"You've got Alex Cordova. He's ten times the man."

And
he was. In every sense.

"He's
been a losing pitcher."

Camille
lost her hold on the pipe fitter and it fell onto the floor with a hard
clunk.
Defending Alex's playing abilities wasn't easy—it was impossible, since she
would never tell her father about the reasons why Alex didn't put his all into
the game. It was a conflict that she grappled with—sympathy for what he'd been
through, versus frustration that the past stood in the way of his talent, a
talent for which she had paid a pretty penny. She felt bad even thinking of the
two together.

Picking
up the wrench, she moved it back in place, twisted, and cut her knuckle in the
process. "Oooooh."

Her
father's head filled the sink opening once more. "Camille sugar, quit this
nonsense and move back home."

She
watched blood seep from a small cut in her skin. "No, Daddy. This isn't a
passing fancy. I'm going," she said while grabbing the tool, "to make
something of the Keystones"—and jamming it in place—"if it
kills"—but the wrench immediately slipped and nearly whacked her on the
head—"me." Leaning her head back and sighing, she closed her eyes.
"And it may very well do that."

A
quiet moment passed, almost as if her father was trying to think of something
encouraging to say in light of her bleak admission. But that couldn't possibly
be true. He had difficulty cheering her on.

"What
happened in Boston..." he began, and Camille tensed, preparing for the
worst, "was nothing short of brilliant."

Her
gaze flew to the drain hole where kitchen light, instead of her father's face,
filled the opening.

"The
Sporting News
called the sweep a seamless victory," he said.
"Scores were high, batting was quality, runs were earned, and the boys
played like the win was only the icing on the cake. It was being out there
together that was the whole hurrah." She heard his footsteps as he went to
the icebox, opened the door, and apparently took a peek inside. "There was
pride in that team. And it didn't come from nowhere." A draft from the ice
block cooled its way across the knit of her exposed stockings. "How did
you do it, Camille?"

Her
first compliment from him, and she was beside herself "Sometimes there are
days when a person just gets it right. They know what they're supposed to do
and how they're supposed to do it. That's what Boston was all about. The
Keystones grabbed onto those four days and made them belong to Harmony."
Her father stood in front of her once again and looked down. Her gaze lifted to
view his face, flanked by a round cast-iron frame. She was touched by his
praise. She shouldn't get her hopes up. And yet, even with years of disappointment,
she couldn't stop herself from asking, "Did you really think they were
brilliant, Daddy?"

"I
did, sugar. I wish I could have been there to watch it pan out." She
couldn't see his mouth, but she knew he was smiling; humor lines fanned at the corners
of his blue eyes, eyes the very color of her own. "That Boomer Hurley is
one hard egg. Not even an anvil could crack his skull."

"He
doesn't scare me."

"I
didn't suppose he would. You've got gumption, I'll give you that." It was
a long moment before he added, "Those Boston games... you did good,
Camille." He left the counter, and from the sounds, he was checking out
the goods in her poorly stocked pantry. "I wish you could bring that
enthusiasm back to Municipal Field. I'm sure you can if you prepare. You always
did do that well—prepare for the day."

Her
breath seemed to solidify in her throat. He was actually talking to her as if
she were the real manager of the team. As if she really was a viable candidate
to permanently oversee the Keystones. "I'll see what I can do."

"You
see what you can do," he said, mirroring her words.

Her
voice betrayed her, wavering and showing far more emotion than she cared to.
The moisture in her eyes threatened to blind her. "Thank you, Daddy."

She
blinked the emotion from her vision. She fumbled for the heavy iron wrench, its
jaw pinching her fingers as she grasped the handles, giving her a new injury.
She winced and dropped it.

Her
father lowered to one knee and looked inside the cupboard where she lay.
"I can fix this for you."

His
sincerity meant the world to her. "That's all right. I have to do it
myself It's become a matter of me versus the pipe, and I can't let this hunk of
iron win."

"Of
course not." Sunlight caught on his watch chain and he glanced at it
without checking the time. "I've got to get back to the store before Nops
sets it on fire."

Camille
tried to hold onto a grin.

Her
father rose and brought his hands down to dust the seams in his trousers.
"I'll have your mama tell Leda to fry you some hushpuppies and bring them
over. Your pantry is nothing but shelves of glassware and gadgets. You don't
have anything in your icebox but a wheel of moldy cheese and a crate of lemons.
What in the deuce do you need so many lemons for?"

"Lemonade."

"I
don't recall you drinking lemonade at home."

One
statement about the Keystones being brilliant didn't change a lifetime of
inattention. So she dared to add softly, "I don't recall you paying any
attention to what I drank at home."

Clearing
his throat, he didn't answer right away. "Then I should work on
that." The soles of his shoes made a crisp noise over her clean
floorboards. "I'll see you later this afternoon for the game."

"All
right."

The
back door opened and closed, leaving the kitchen quiet.

The
persistent itch on Camille's nose grew annoying, but she was loathe to use her
greasy finger to scratch it. She brought the back of her hand to her nostrils
and rubbed. The sleeve seam on her blouse gave a harsh rip. She cringed. At
least the shirtwaist wasn't one of her better ones.

An
hour later, she stood in front of the faucet and fully opened the cold valve.
Leaning sideways, she looked inside the cupboard for signs of leaks. The pipes
were still dry. Jubilation made her give a little hop of delight.

"Success!"
she shouted to the empty kitchen just as she spotted the silhouette of a man
behind the dotted swiss curtains covering her back door window. A knock
sounded. She went to answer it without thought of how she must look.

Opening
the door, she found Alex standing on her stoop.

"Alex."

Suddenly,
she grew concerned over her appearance. Maybe she didn't look all that bad
aside from that rip in her sleeve. But when she took a quick glance at the
plumber's mud stains on her ivory shirtwaist and the tiny tear in her skirt
she'd gotten when she closed the lid on the toolbox and caught the fabric in
the hinge, her outlook dimmed. She did look that bad.

"You
surprised me," she said, refraining from smoothing her hair. She didn't
want to point out the obvious.

He
leaned back, looked up at the eaves, then alongside the mudroom door.
"Your clapboards could use some paint. You should take care of that before
winter."

His
usual easygoing manner was missing. The faded blue of his shirt stretched tight
over his chest. Denim pants defined his legs as he stood rigidly on the porch.
His mouth was grim. Something had happened.

"I
was going to," she replied, knowing from his face that he hadn't come over
to discuss the paint peeling on her house.

"After
that last time, with your lady friends leaving, I didn't know if I should come
to the front door."

She
wasn't quite sure what to say about the courtesy he was presenting her. It
seemed so unlike him. He was a man who didn't usually concern himself with how
others viewed him—with how she might view him. He just was who he was. No
pretenses.

She
stepped aside, then said, "Please, come in."

He
shook his head. "That's all right; I can't stay. I have to get home and
take care of some things before the game." He lifted the brim of his hat
with his finger and angled his chin toward her. "I just wanted to see
you."

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.