Holm, Stef Ann (19 page)

"Thank
you for getting us out," she said in a rush. "The door swung closed
on me and I was trapped. The only reason I was knocking on it in the first
place was to make sure that nobody else stops this train." She gazed at
the players in turn; then, because she was so overwrought with the aftereffects
of Alex's kiss, she grew angry. "The next man who
dares
to use that
water closet and stop this train by inappropriate actions will be fined—not the
fifty dollars I previously stated, but
one hundred
dollars." She
lifted her hand to her hat, feeling it slipping sideways from her ordeal.
Righting the stiff crown, she added, "And don't think I don't mean it. I
do."

Then
she resumed her seat and tried to still the frantic beating of her heart. She
never once looked back.

* * * * *

By
midnight, the passengers in the train car slept. All of them except for Alex.
He looked at the woman who had changed seats so that she could occupy the last
one in the train. To keep a close eye on them, he assumed—although with her
eyes closed, that would be hard. But nobody crossed her. Not even in a small
way. Maybe she had gained some ground.

Rising
to his feet, he walked to the end of the car and gazed at the sleeping woman
before making his way to the vestibule for another smoke. Her ankles weren't
crossed in that delicate way. Actually, one tan Oxford shoe had come untied.
And where her hands rested on her lap, a jelly stain marred the pristine white
of her right glove. A half-eaten sandwich lay on an embroidered handkerchief
that had been spread over her skirt.

He
smiled. Miss Honey had come a little undone. The sight took his heart someplace
he didn't want to go.

He
slipped out of the car to smoke his cigarette and contemplate why this woman
did the things she did to him.

And
that also was someplace he didn't want to go just yet.

But
he would. Because he'd really meant it about taking her hat oft It was only a
matter of time.

The
Keystones
were trampled in their first two games against the Philadelphia Athletics.
Camille had written off Monday's loss to fatigue. Their train arrived at the
station an hour before the start of the game. There'd been no time to go to
their hotel first. They'd ridden directly to the ballpark in a four horse-drawn
tallyho. Once at Columbia Park, the players barely had a chance to change in a
small office, then take the field without the benefit of batting practice.

On
the coach ride, Camille had taken in the scenery, wishing she'd had a moment to
really enjoy it. She liked to travel. She'd taken trains before to Shreveport
with her parents to see family. But the big-city sights were so different from
the town she'd grown up in and from the streets of Harmony. Here, buildings
soared skyward to the clouds. She'd wondered where the Museum of Art was
located, if it was close to their hotel. She'd never been to Philadelphia
before. If she'd had the chance, she would have liked to tour it. See
Independence Hall. The Liberty Bell.

The
grandstands in Columbia Park seemed mammoth compared to Municipal Field. Just
opened this year, the entire park smelled new, of fresh paint on the fences and
fresh varnish on the oak seats. The fan area was almost ten times larger than
at home. And the people filled the stadium in a way they didn't in Harmony. The
dirt connecting the infield was red clay; the field was covered with tightly
clipped grass. A pole with two flags flew above the seats behind home plate. A
riser high over the grandstand must have been reserved for the press. Looking
at it all, she'd felt intimidated. Then to lose two in a row.

For
today's game, their last third, the park had been sold out.

At
practice, Camille had had Alex throw soft, underhanded pitches so that the
players could get the feel of hitting the ball. And they did. They connected
with each pitch, one right after the other. Her reasoning for doing such a
thing was more emotional than physical. She wanted them to
want
to hit
the ball, to want to bit home runs. If pitching easy to them would make them
excited to chase after hard ones, then her plan would prove successful. At
times, though, she wondered why she'd bothered trying to get them motivated.

The
men had been testing her patience to its limits. When they finally had checked
into the Euclid Avenue Hotel late Monday, they'd stopped the lift between
floors, rung for maid service then said they hadn't, and had a false telegram
sent to her from a "Mr. Cupcake." Their behavior had been so unruly,
they'd been banned from eating in the dining room— not that they'd been
welcomed in the first place. Ballplayers were usually frowned on in eating
establishments. Meals—as far as she knew, breakfast, lunch,
and
dinner—were
bought at the frankfurter stand outside the hotel's front doors. At least
that's where the players ate. Camille had food brought up to her from the hotel
kitchen and ate alone in her room.

She
hated to admit it, but they were getting to her. She hadn't slept decently
since leaving Harmony. She felt on the verge of crying at the slightest thing,
but she vowed never to let one of them see her in such an emotional state. What
hurt the most was that she really tried to do right by them, by building them
into a successful baseball club. She'd rearranged her goals for the Garden Club
to help the team. The fact that they were now going out of their way to make
her miserable added insult to injury. She resented it and had half a mind to
tell them they could just manage themselves from now on. But if she did, she'd
have to tell her father she quit. And she just couldn't bear to see that look
of "I told you so" in his eyes. Worse yet, Mr. Nops would demand his
money back, money that had been partially spent on fan cards.

"Dummy
Leitner is pitching today," Camille told the players as they huddled in
the dugout. The day was gray and foggy, exceptionally cool for this time of
year. Camille had bundled herself into a wool jacket and thick kid gloves.
"He's good. But we can be better."

Duke
chewed an uncommonly large wad of tobacco and spit from the side of his mouth.
The brown juice dribbled down his chin and he wiped it with the back of his
shirtsleeve. It was all Camille could do to stand quietly and not reprimand
him. She had to chose her battles, and right now, tobacco wasn't one of them.
But she did make a mental note to write down the infraction in her notebook and
come up with an alternative to spitting.

The
players took the field, and the game started amid cheers. A home run by
Philadelphia late in the first inning brought three runs in. Alex held back
every time he pitched, and she was at her wit's end about it. When the
Keystones came up to bat, she concentrated on the efforts being put forth by
Dummy Leitner, trying to figure out a way for Alex to emulate him.

Leitner
never gave off a hint of nervousness, even though he could neither hear or
speak. Watching the catcher, Morgan Murphy, give Dummy the deaf-and-dumb signs
for pitches, Camille followed along through the booklet she had on hand
gestures. She'd been studying the many finger and thumb positions, trying to
make sense out of the signals.

In
the sixth inning, two walks killed Alex and she took him out of the game. By
the seventh, however, her spirits were renewed. Bones hit a triple and brought
in two runs to even the score. As he rounded the bases, she saw that he ran
like he had flat feet. Camille made a notation in her notebook.

"Hey,
Alex," came Captain's voice from above the dugout where the first row of
seats began. "Why aren't you playing anymore?"

She
arched her brow at Alex. She'd grown tired of having to pull him from his
starting position. But with a pitching staff of two, it left her little choice.
"Why don't you tell him it's because you can't throw the ball?"

His
dark brown eyes appeared sarcastic. "I can throw it."

"Not
in the strike zone," she shot back. "I used to think that it was
because you weren't trying. Now I think you're trying too hard and that's why
you're ineffective."

His
jaw stiffened.

"I've
been watching you, and you go through the windup just fine. But when you have
to release the ball, you stop halfway. Like you hit a glass wall. And then your
body goes tense. I can almost see the muscles in your neck popping."

He
swore. And it wasn't a "damn."

She'd
struck a nerve. She wasn't all that happy she'd figured him out—or at least
figured out as much as she could. She went back and forth in her mind over whether
she should tell her father to just fire him, to some way get Mr. Nops's money
back and call the whole thing off. But whenever she thought about letting Alex
go, she visualized the power he did have. That point in his pitch where he
stopped. What preceded that moment was greatness. She wished he'd see that, get
past it.

She
tried to focus on the players. She knew she was being snappish with Alex, but
she didn't care. His kissing her on the train still upset her. Not upset in a way
that she felt taken advantage of, but upset in a way that turned her upside
down. She still thought about his lips on hers. Still thought about his hard
body next to hers. Still thought about what it would be like to touch his bare
skin. She had no business thinking like this, and that upset her, too—in a
different way.

Alex
stood and looked over the dugout's rooftop. "I'm just taking a rest,
Cap."

"When
are we going back to Harmony, Alex? I have to go to work."

"In
a couple of days." Alex's calm tone sounded forced.

"I
want to go back now."

"In
a couple of days." This time the words were tightly spoken.

The
exchange had been going on between the two of them the entire game. Every few
minutes, Captain would ask the same question and Alex would give the same
answer. In the beginning, he'd been pleasant with his reply. Now Camille
detected a rigidness to it, as if his patience had gone beyond being tested but
he was doing everything he could not to give way to anger.

Leitner
threw a medium fastball, letter-high, where K-E-Y-S-T-O-N-E-S was emblazoned on
Deacon's chest. The crowd booed and hissed when Deacon hit it clear over the
right field fence.

The
rest of the inning played out with fervor, the Keystones gaining five runs. The
bottom of the ninth could bring the second win of the season to them. But
first, they had to get three outs against the Athletics. Camille worried the
inside of her hp, hardly aware she was doing it. She stood, paced, and even
recited a quiet prayer. The outfielder, Bob Lindemann, had come up to bat; bases
were loaded.

Inhaling
and resting her hand on the post of the dugout, she closed her eyes a moment.
She almost couldn't watch the pitch. Behind her, the players on the bench, Cub
LaRoque, Cupid Burns, and Mox Synder, jousted with one another, counting their
chickens before they were hatched. But she knew that things could change in the
blink of an eye. That's why she didn't want to open hers.

"When
are we going back to Harmony, Alex?"

"Cap,
I told you. Now quit asking me."

"But
I have to go to work!"

"Goddammit,
Cap—you don't have to be at work today."

The
noise of the fans rose to excited heights, Camille tried to blot it all out.
Then a voice spoke close to her ear.

"Lindemann
grits his teeth when he's going to bunt."

Her
eyes shot open, and she turned her head to Alex. "How do you know
that?"

"I've
played against him before. Tell Yank to move in."

Dismayed,
Camille said in a rush, "But I can't go out there while the ball's in
play."

"Then
get his attention. Whistle."

"I
don't know how." Frustration made her voice lift in volume.

Alex
brought his forefinger and thumb to his lips and loudly whistled. Once.
Watching the gesture seared her skin like a hot whisper—just like when his
mouth had consumed hers.

He
whistled a second time. The third one caught Yank's attention, and Yank faced
their direction.

"Give
him the signal." Alex left the rest to her.

She
pinpointed her concentration on getting the signals right. With slow hand
movements, she spelled out the letters: "Move in. Bunt."

Yank
reluctantly took the message. Nodding, he resumed his stance. As soon as the
Philly pitcher released the ball, Yank sprang up to catch it as it dribbled up
the grassy field. Gulping the ball with his glove, he took one step and threw
it to first and got Lindemann out.

Shooting
his gaze at Camille, Yank was almost as surprised as she was. The tactic had
worked. They'd gotten the out.

The
fog had lifted. Literally. The Keystones won the game.

"Take
me home, Mama," Cub cried, "and put me to bed!"

Camille
eased the stress from her shoulders and was astonished at the sense of
fulfillment she felt. But it had less to do with her and more to do with Alex.
He'd given her sound advice, aided her. He'd made her look like she knew what
she was doing. She found him in the crowd. He stood alone. As usual. Cub,
Cupid, and Mox ran out to congratulate the other players with hoots and slaps
on the behind.