Holm, Stef Ann (7 page)

Her
jaw dropped in horror, that he could say such a thing to her. In front of her
mother. In front of Mr. Nops. And in front of Leda. Hot tears filled her eyes.

"If
anybody is stupid, Kennison, it's
you,"
Mr. Nops said. "For
spouting off at the mouth, and as usual, without thinking. But then, one man's
stupidity is another man's gain." Laughter shook his chest. "I ran
into Duke and Jimmy before your daughter came to see me. They said that you
told them whoever got Alex Cordova to play for the Keystones could be the
manager." Grinning wide, Mr. Nops showed his cards. "It was my
thirty-five hundred that turned Cordova around. So I'm the new manager of the Keystones."

After
a long moment, her father barreled back, "I wasn't serious about
that!"

Camille
was too stunned to say anything.

"It's
time to put your words into action, Kennison.
I
am the new
manager."

In
an attempt to save himself her father sputtered, "Duke and Jimmy
misunderstood me."

"But
I heard you myself," Leda said.

Turning
to her, he snapped, "You were in the kitchen. How could you hear a
thing?"

"With
an ear to the door, Mr. Kennison. Like I always do in case you're after me to
refill that pot of coffee on the breakfast table. You did tell those two boys,
plain as day."

Mr.
Nops's guffaw rumbled through the parlor. "I've got you up a tree,
Kennison. Allow me to tell the gopher to move over on that limb."

"Leda,
you're fired!"

"Humph.
That's the second time this month, and I haven't packed a stitch of clothing
yet."

"Listen,
Nops, if anyone in this room is entitled to be the manager, it's my
Camille."

Her
stomach lurched; her heart pumped double time.

"She
did the talking!" her father exclaimed.
"She
convinced
Cordova, not you. This was her effort, and it's going to stay in the family.
She gets the credit."

Squaring
off, the two men drew verbal weapons. They blasted each other in a shoot-out of
accusations, although neither could hear the other above his own voice.

"Gentlemen,
if you please." Her mother's tone was coolly disapproving, yet did not
lose its silken quality. She needed to voice the plea only once.

In
the cease-fire, the spent powder of their anger almost made a visible cloud of
gray smoke.

Then
Mr. Nops folded his arms over his chest and flared his nostrils. "All
right, Kennison, I agree."

"That's
more like it."

"You've
got yourself a manager." He aimed a finger at Camille. "A
female
manager."

Under
his glare, Camille's stomach felt as if it had fallen to her knees and her legs
tingled to the point she had to sit down on the divan or lose her footing.

"That's
absurd!" her father shouted. "My daughter could never give orders to
thirteen men and be taken seriously. She wouldn't know the first thing to do."

Camille
had absolutely no designs on the job, but her father touched a sore spot with
his lack of faith in her abilities. Especially in light of what she'd
accomplished.

"What
do you mean I couldn't be taken seriously?" she asked. "There's no
doubt one Alex Cordova is a lot harder to talk into something than twelve of
your Keystones. Managing the others would be like handling a prickly pear
without the prickly."

With
his mustache twitching, he said, "Baseball players aren't like your little
flower garden. You can't prune and water them and expect to see results. A firm
hand, a hard voice, an iron will. That's what gets results. Camille sugar, you
wouldn't last a day." He clenched his fists by his sides. "But none
of that matters because I'm not taking a penny of your money, Nops. The deal is
off."

The
simmering argument, about to erupt into full boil again, had to be stopped by
Camille's mother once more. "James, really. You're not thinking
clearly."

"Grayce,
you don't know anything about this."

Not
put off, she observed, "You may own the Keystones, but they're the town's
team. They've stood by you through all the losing seasons. And now you can give
them a winning pitcher. You'd let Mr. Cordova go just to keep your pride?"

Her
father could be a grouchy old bear, but he did listen to her mother, more than
from time to time. His face grew somber. It took him a while to weigh things
out. At length, he said, "All right. Nops has a share of the Keystones.
But Camille's not going to be the manager. Watching the game and being in the
thick of things are entirely different. She's too much of a lady to be
subjected to the rowdiness of athletes."

"Be
that as it may," Nops responded with a lift of his forefinger. "I'm
going to have to hold you to your word. If she's not the manager, then you
don't get a plugged nickel."

"Thunderation!"
Her father pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a blinding headache.
"She's not manager material. Look at her. She's soft. She's feminine.
She's pretty."

Camille's
nerves were at a breaking point. Years of her father telling her that frayed
what was left of her composure. Why did he constantly misjudge her? The
unfairness of it all filled her with a crushing disappointment. "I
am
manager
material, Daddy." She couldn't explain exactly why. She knew only that it
was true. "And if you don't give me the job, then you really
aren't
a
man of your word."

Alastair
Stykem's
second floor office was located on Birch Avenue in an upper-rent building. The
lobby had a granite floor and two private mailboxes on the wall. As Alex
climbed the stairs, Captain followed.

The
hunt-and-peck tap of typewriter keys sounded in the hallway.

"That
would be Hildegarde." Cap made the observation. "She told me she
can't type worth a whistle."

"Then
how come she's Stykem's secretary?"

"She
said it's only temporary. She'll be coming back to the mercantile as soon as Mr.
Stykem finds somebody who knows how to file the
A
files in the
A
drawer,
and the
B
files in the
B
drawer—all the way to Z. What's so hard
about that? I know the alphabet. Do you think I ought to tell Mr. Stykem?"

"Not
unless you want to learn how to type."

"Hell
no."

Alex
came to a glass door that had ALASTAIR STYKEM, ATTORNEY AT LAW spelled out in gold
lettering. The typewriter sounds grew clearer as he and Cap went inside.

Hildegarde
Plunkett sat at the reception desk, her brown hair piled high on her head. When
she looked up, she smiled. Her face was round and she had a full figure, but
she was no less attractive for it.

"Hello,"
she said. The pencil she'd tucked behind her ear fell onto the desk as she
tilted her head.

Captain
removed his hat and crushed the brim in his large hands. "I wanted to come
with Alex so I could ask you when you'll be coming back into your father's
mercantile. When will you?"

She
shuffled the papers in front of her. "I don't know. Mr. Stykem has had
five secretaries since his daughter Crescencia got married." She moved one
folder, then another, and then she reached for a pile of mail. "I'm the
only one who's lasted—I mean stayed—this long." More paper went from one
spot on the desk to the other. Then her hands stilled. She frowned at what
she'd done. The stack of papers had looked more organized before she'd
rearranged them. She sighed. "My mother says secretarial work isn't my
calling."

"I
think your calling is being at the mercantile when I sweep." Captain
reached down beside the desk and grabbed a trash can. "Your father doesn't
talk much. Your mother talks too much. But you talk to me just enough."
With a sweeping motion, he cleaned the desk of papers. The documents landed in
the waste can. "There. Now you can get fired."

"Cap,
you shouldn't have done that." Alex took the receptacle from him and began
to take the papers out.

"It's
all right, Mr. Cordova." Hildegarde propped her chin in her hand.
"I've thought about doing it myself. But the Remington won't fit."

"Who's
Remington?" Cap asked.

The
young woman had dimples. "The typewriter."

"I
could bust it for you. I'm a big guy." He gave her a demonstration,
lifting his arms and pumping up his biceps. The defined muscles bulged the
sleeves of his cotton shirt.

Hildegarde
blushed, her full cheeks turning pink. "That's all right."

Alex
shifted his weight, eager to sign what he had to and get on with it. All he'd
had time for was thinking about his decision, and for every minute that passed,
he'd searched for a plausible excuse to back out. "I've got an appointment
to meet Kennison."

"Yes.
She's waiting for you with Mr. Stykem."

She?

Hildegarde
led them to an inner office. "They told me to have you go right in as soon
as you got here." She opened the door and let him pass through, closing it
behind him.

In
a chair directly to his right sat Camille Kennison. She wore an ivory dress
that was softly molded to the curves of her figure. A large hat covered her
golden hair; her profile was barely discernable to him beneath the wide brim. A
hint of natural rose color brushed her cheek; her lips looked soft and pink.
Jesus, she was a beautiful woman. She could make a man forget himself just by
looking at her.

Stykem
rose from behind a massive oak desk and extended his hand. "Alastair
Stykem," he said by way of an introduction.

"Alex
Cordova," Alex replied while shaking the man's hand.

"Have
a seat, Mr. Cordova, and we'll get right to business."

Alex
took the chair next to Camille's. "Where's your father?"

A
trace of worry caught in her eyes, but her voice was steady as she replied,
"He's put me in charge of this transaction."

Transaction.
The
word shouldn't have sounded so demeaning, but it prickled the back of his neck.
In baseball, players were bought and sold. This wasn't like he'd been thrown on
a waiver list and the Keystones were claiming him for the eighteen
hundred-dollar waiver price. The offer was more than satisfactory. He just
wished that he didn't need to take it. And that a woman hadn't presented it.

Why
would Kennison leave this kind of business up to his daughter?

Sitting
this close to her, he could almost feel the softness of her skin; the fine
fabric of her dress. Everything about her was sophisticated. The way she sat,
the way she smelled, the way she looked. Next to her, he felt too big. Too
coarse. Too raw.

Alex
set his jaw and focused on the man before him.

"Now
then," Stykem said while opening a portfolio. "Miss Plunkett has
typed everything up, and all that's required is your signature. I'm sure you're
familiar with a league contract, Mr. Cordova."

Leaning
back into his chair, Alex rested his hands on the worn denim encasing his
thighs. "Enlighten me on the details just the same."

Stykem
picked up the document and began to read. "The American League contract
states that players are forbidden to drink, on the field or off. No staging
games to suit gamblers. Suppression of obscene, indecent, and vulgar language
will be in effect while the player is on the ball field. No use of fists, bats,
or spikes in confrontations. Your uniform, bats, and balls are to be supplied
by the Keystones franchise."

The
lawyer cleared his throat, then lifted another paper and scanned it. Light from
the window caused the gold signet ring on his finger to flash. "This page
lists the terms of monies. Two thousand five hundred dollars for the season
with no deductions for the three weeks you haven't played, to be paid in
monthly installments. Three thousand five hundred dollars for the exclusive use
of your photograph and signature, which the Keystones will use at their
discretion."

After
defining the rest of the clauses, Stykem handed him a pen and showed him the
various places that required his signature.

The
gold fountain pen felt heavy in his grasp. Alex needed to believe he was doing
the right thing. That he had considered every option available to him. But this
was the only way to get a large amount of money. And on that conviction, he signed
himself over to the Harmony Keystones.

When
everything was neat and tidy, the lawyer stood and shook Alex's hand once more.
Camille rose as well and extended her hand to him. Her attempt at being
straightforward had a slight hesitancy to it. As if she'd been the one to sign
herself away instead of him. "Congratulations, Mr. Cordova, and welcome to
the Keystones organization."

The
fine white of her glove warmed his fingers. Made his blood pump fast and surge
to his groin.

Alex
released her hand and left the private office. He had to get out of there.