Holm, Stef Ann (24 page)

In
'96 and '97, they'd won the pennant. In 1898, George assembled the best players
ever for the Orioles. If not for that day in June, who knows what would have
been. But all that had been covered over. Just like dust choking up home plate.
George had seen to it Alex's early retirement was nothing all that notable,
playing it down to the press. Accidents happened in the game. Players were
injured.

Ah,
hell.

"I
can't, George," Alex said again. "I just can't."

Over
beers, Alex rehashed old times with George and the others. They talked about
games they'd played, won and lost. Talked about other teams. About women, the
American League, the National, Pop Foster, Zaza Harvey, Roscoe Miller, Pink
Haw-ley, Snake Wiltse.

"Hell,
Alex," Harry Howell said with a grin, "it's damn great to see
you."

The
others from the team of '98 smiled in agreement.

Steve
Brodie gave Alex a fond shove on the shoulder. "Just like old times. We haven't
seen you since we played—"

Steve
cut himself short, his brows furrowing and his eyes growing dark.

Alex
felt his own mood darkening because he knew without having to be told what
Steve remembered. The shock of it all. The devastation. At first, the
disbelief, then suddenly no denying. It had to have been a dream—but the
trouble was, Alex never woke up.

Because
Joe McGill never got up.

Alex
softly finished Steve's sentence. "Since the day we played the
Giants."

A
stillness fell over the bar. Alex thought back to that June afternoon. Joe's
powerful presence at the plate was something that stayed with a person. He'd
been tall and strong, a slugger if there'd ever been one. It went without
saying that Joe was missed in the league, and many wondered what would have
happened if he'd stayed in the game. But nobody had ever spoken about it in
front of Alex.

After
all these years, he was finally able to add, "Since Joe McGill. You can't
talk great ballplayers and not mention Joe."

Then
Alex headed out of the saloon soon after, his hands slipping inside his pockets
as he walked.

Night
had fallen, the buzz of incests droning in the darkness. Crickets sang while
winged bugs danced on window screens. Breathing the warm air into his lungs,
Alex tried to clear his head of smoke and beer and talk about things that had
once been. And would never be again.

His
mind wandered to Camille and he found himself headed toward her house instead
of his own.

She
was even. Balanced. She knew what she wanted and went after it. She had
confidence in herself. Her abilities. God help him, he needed that tonight.
Needed to be with her. Hear her voice. See her face.

He
raised his arm to knock on her door just as it opened. A group of ladies stood
in the living room staring at him on the other side of the porch screen.

The
half dozen or so ladies inspected him. He saw a few glares, some curiosity,
some brows raised and some lowered.

Camille
stood to the side of the other women, holding open the wooden frame door.

"Mr.
Cordova," she said through the screen, hand on the wooden frame. "Has
something happened?"

"No.
Ah, yeah. It's work related." Holy Christ. He'd never been in a situation
like this.

Shifting
his weight from one foot to the other, Alex looked down, then up. He had a
legitimate excuse to be here, but it wasn't one he was going to broadcast to a
host of gussied up ladies. So he made something up. "The boys were
discussing a play that could improve fielding and I thought you should know
about it."

That
was a lie. Bald as a baby.

"Oh,
well." She straightened importantly. "Yes, that is of interest to
me."

"We
were just leaving," came a voice from the vestibule.

A
tall woman made her way out the door, the others following behind. He counted
eight big trimmed hats, each accompanied by gloves, smart dresses, and tidy
appearances. He recognized a couple of the faces.

"Good
evening, Miss Kennison," Mrs. Plunkett called.

"It's
been pleasant," Mrs. Calhoon said, a cat-in-the-creamery smile on her
face.

Although
their tones were cordial, Camille's smile was forced. As if she were merely
going through the motions of being polite.

Alex
watched the ladies march down the walkway and onto the sidewalk, where they
turned to Elm Street and dispersed at the corner. Camille remained in the
doorway, the screen propped open by her hip. Light spilled across her back,
outlining her in golden hues, yet keeping her face in partial shadow. Her hair
looked blonder, softer, piled high in curls and twists with beaded combs on
either side of her head to keep the style in place. Tiny gold earrings dangled
from her earlobes; the jewelry looked delicate—much like the contours of her
face.

"What
kind of play?" she asked.

It
took him a moment to recall what she was talking about.

"Can
I come in?"

"All
right." She stepped aside. When he entered the living room, she closed the
door behind them.

The
house had shaped up since he'd last been here. Pictures hung on the walls;
furniture made the room homey. The divan and chairs were just enough to make a
person feel comfortable without being closed in with the junk that some women
liked to keep in their parlors. In the bay window, dozens of plants filled the
tiny area, some blooming, some in different shades of green, some in colored
pots, and some in glass pots. Some kind of fragrant flower scented the room.

He
noted the teacups and cake plates placed on tiny trays and the side table, the
folded napkins, the teacart. Books on gardening were placed on a center table
where they couldn't be missed.

Walking
to one of the tray tables, Camille began to gather up the teacups and saucers.
"What is it, Mr. Cordova, that you felt couldn't wait until tomorrow's
game?"

There
was a quiver in her usually no-nonsense voice. It wasn't like her to be
unsteady.

He
didn't immediately answer her. Instead, he watched as she flitted from one
station to the next in the room, gathering, collecting, never once looking at
him.

"Did
you get a hat delivered to you today?"

"Yes.
How did you know?"

She
wore yellow, pale and creamy like summer butter. Her breasts were molded by the
long panel in the front that went to the floor, buttons on either side. They
were tiny white pearl buttons. A collar came to her throat, white lace with two
embroidered points on either side.

"Because
it was me who sent the hat."

"Oh.
I haven't opened it yet," she said, carrying the tray as she went into the
dining room and directly through to the kitchen.

He
remained still, trying to decide what to do. He could hear the clatter of china
in the kitchen from the living room. Alex followed her.

Once
in the doorway, he paused. Camille stood at the sink with her back to him. He
could have sworn her shoulders trembled. She was definitely upset.

A
mason jar full of fresh cut flowers rested on a doily to her right. The counter
was clean and neat with a soap shelf that had a tiny flower-shaped piece of
soap on it. Glasses were stored on the shelves with tiny paper cutout borders.
The stove gleamed in its metal enamel glory. A
drip-drip
sounded through
the space, the gingham curtain hiding the leaky pipe.

He
knew that she needed comforting. But for the life of him, he didn't know how to
approach her. He'd never once held a woman in such a way.

"Ah,
Camille—"

She
visibly pulled herself together. "If you want to tell me about that play,
I'll get my notebook and write it down."

She
started to move, but he stopped her. "No. I didn't come for that."
His eyes landed on the bright red and gold-striped hatbox with its wide red
ribbon. It rested on one of the kitchen chairs, partially covered by the
tablecloth as if it were hiding. "I just wondered if you liked the
hat."

"I'm
sorry I haven't opened it yet." She reached for the hatbox and set the
gift on the counter. "It came when I was busy, and then I had guests over
tonight and..." Her composure seemed to be hanging on by a thread.

Slowly,
she lifted the lid. He stood taller to peer inside with her, as if seeing it
for the first time himself.

"I
felt like I owed you this," he explained. "You know. Captain and
Philly and all that."

Her
eyes drank in the hat. He'd had the milliner, Miss Taylor, make it up special.
He'd told her to put a little of everything on it. Feathers, beads, sprig of
green stuff, stiff lace, and even a rhinestone buckle with a velvet tie.

The
hat itself was some kind of deep-braided straw with a really wide brim that
curved sideways. He remembered that tilt of Camille's hat when she'd sat in
Stykem's office. He'd liked that and wanted to buy a hat for her that would
always look like she was tilting her head. He'd been pretty specific about his
wants to Miss Taylor, and he'd been damn self-conscious about it. But the end
result was a hat he thought looked pretty good. At least in the box it did.

"To
make up for the one that got lost," Alex felt compelled to say when
Camille hadn't spoken a single word. "In Philadelphia," he added,
even though he'd already said that.

The
drip of the faucet seemed to get louder the longer she didn't speak.

"Those
big hats you wear look good on you," he added, feeling like an imbecile,
"so I had her make a big one for you."

Camille
reached out and traced a length of feather. The blue of her eyes was wistful.
Then she began to cry—cry so hard, her shoulders shook.

Well,
hell... maybe the hat didn't look good in the box after all.

Alex
went to her as she turned away from him and looked down into the sink with its
soiled china cups and saucers and cake plates with their little rosebud
patterns on them.

Hesitantly,
he put his hand on her arm. She cried harder. Jesus.

Alex
took her in his arms, cradling her head with his hand so that her cheek rested
on his shirtfront. "What's the matter, honey?"

She
didn't answer. The sound of her crying cut into his heart. He held her closer,
running his hand softly up and down her back. Soothing. Trying to coax her to
talk to him. Her shoulders gently quaked as she cried. Tears wet the front of
his shirt; her hands were two fists pressed against his chest, as if she were
afraid to get closer to him.

"What
happened?" he asked once more.

On
a shuddering breath, "My life's not going so well," she replied in a
muffle next to the oxford of his shirt.

Instead
of dwelling on what might have been wrong, he opted to point out the plus side
of things. Maybe that would get her to stop crying. "It might seem that
way, but you're the manager of the Keystones. And doing a damn good job."
The latter was a slight stretch, but women needed to be told they did good in
times of crises. He'd learned that much from his mother.

"It
has nothing to do with baseball," she cried, then loosened her fists so
her breasts crushed against him, burning an imprint of femininity.

Trying
to keep his mind focused, he listened. "Actually, it does have something
to do with baseball. And yet it doesn't. It's just...
everything."

Then
she broke into another round of sobbing.

Alex
felt a tick spring to life along his jaw; his teeth clenched to quell it. He
did the only thing he could do. He let her cry it all out. Between the gasps
for air and the shuddering of breaths, she began to talk— babble was more like
it. He just kept quiet and let her go on.

"I've
wanted this for a l-long time. It j-just isn't fair." She moved her arms
higher; her palms lay on his shoulders, her cheek still against his chest.

He
could feel her uneven breathing—and feel himself catch fire.

"She's
had her turn as p-president. So has Mrs. P-Plunkett. I thought the ladies would
see it's time for a n-new voice." The tips of her slim fingers absently
touched the sides of his collar, toying, teasing. She was completely unaware of
it as she rambled on—or he knew she wouldn't be doing it. "New ideas. I
don't know the exact v-vote outcome. It could have been close. We take a
c-closed ballot vote. I'm certain that two of them voted for me. They confided
when I was s-serving the lady Prussia. It's the older ladies. They just can't
accept change. People who're different. And I'm apparently too
d-different."

Alex
drew in his breath as her hands brushed at his hair, very gently. Lightly. And
without thought. "I've always prided myself on my impeccable deportment. I
like
being neat and orderly. It's never been a problem for me. And yet,
as soon as I do something different—like manage my father's ball team, suddenly
my deportment is questioned. Do I carry myself differently because I tell men
to throw a baseball? That's the b-bottom line. That's..." —she gulped in a
mouthful of air—"that's what's b-behind all of this. I know it. Nobody
dared speak the words to my face, but that's the p-problem. I never should have
made that jest about the players' drawers." She buried her face against
his collarbone. "That's the
real
reason I wasn't elected as the
Garden Club president. It has nothing to do with my g-garden."