Holm, Stef Ann (3 page)

Camille
sighed in frustration. "I just think electric lights would improve things,
is all."

"You
leave the thinking to me, Camille sugar. All you need to worry about is what
hat to wear and who you're going to marry."

How
could he not see she had interests other than hats? She was twenty-one. She
did
have a brain in her head, and she used it quite a lot—only he never gave
her a chance to use it on things that mattered. She would have liked to push up
her sleeves and reorganize his store, but he'd scoffed when she'd asked him. If
he hadn't, she could have brought Kennison's Hardware into the new century. She
didn't need a hat or a husband to figure out that washtubs displayed near wash
soap would sell more of both.

But
he wouldn't take her seriously. Not once had he told her she'd done a good job
on anything. Even when she'd won an essay-writing contest on why education was
important when she was nine, composed a poem about the Mississippi River that
was printed in
American
magazine when she was eleven, and came up with
the winning entry in the Armour's Beef recipe-writing competition when she was
twelve. None of those accomplishments had bowled him over, so she gave up
entering contests.

Because
she could never please him, she'd spent her whole life trying to be perfect at
what she did. With her bid for the Garden Club presidency, she'd prove to him
she could accomplish something. And in the process, prove to herself how
successful
she
could be. She'd make such a splash with her gardening
innovations, her father would have to take notice and be... proud.

At
the idea, tears burned her eyes. Her throat tightened. She dashed away the
sudden, foolish tears.

Her
attention was diverted when the door opened and a tall, dark-haired man
entered. She doubted he was older than thirty, his body solid and strong, yet
he had a simple mind. She'd spoken to him a few times. He worked doing odd jobs
at Plunkett's mercantile. A relative newcomer to Harmony, he was named Captain.
Alex Cordova fiercely looked after him. Talk in the small community said they
were related somehow.

James
Kennison saw Captain, and his face lit up over the prospect that Alex wasn't
far behind.

"Alex
sent me in for something," Captain said with a good-natured smile.
"He's making a chesty bride."

Both
Camille's and her father's eyes went wide.

Captain
frowned deeply in thought. "Or was that a bride's chest?"

"Ah.
A wedding chest," her father said in clarification.

Alex
Cordova owned a modest woodworker's shop at the end of Elm Street, where he
kept mostly to himself. On several occasions, Camille had seen some of his
pieces displayed in the homes of her friends. He favored soft colors in his
woods and finishes, and to say he had talent was a gross understatement. He was
a classic craftsman.

"So..."—her
father looked beyond Captain's wide shoulders—"where
is
Cordova?"

"He's
not coming in."

Her
father's hopeful expression fell. "Why not?"

"He
says he's tired of you pestering him to play baseball."

For
seven months, James Kennison had tried every persuasive tactic he'd known to
lure and snare Alex "the Grizz" Cordova into playing baseball for the
Harmony Keystones—to no avail.

"Then
tell him to say yes and I'll stop," her father proposed.

Camille
held on to a smile. Inasmuch as she wanted the Keystones to win this year, she
thought it admirable that Alex had such staying power.

When
he'd come to Harmony, he hadn't made any attempt at hiding his identity. But
neither had he boasted of the fact that he'd been the one to bring the Orioles
the pennant in '96 and '97. And because of that, he'd been the most sought
after player in the National League before he quit the game and dropped out of
sight in 1898.

Captain
only shrugged at her father's suggestion, then drew up next to the counter. He
was a head taller than her daddy and had a black beard. "Now what was it
that Alex said he wanted?" He slipped his hand into his pants pocket and
produced a penny. Staring at it, he grew contemplative.

Camille
watched him struggling with his thoughts, a fierce look of concentration on his
face. She could feel his discouragement. What he was trying to recollect wasn't
coming to him. Her sympathy went out to him, but from the pride set in his
shoulders, she doubted he wanted it.

"I
didn't get a headache today." Captain put the penny back in his pocket.

"Headaches
aren't pleasant," Camille said.

"One
time, I had a headache and I didn't know how much medicine to pour in the glass
and I slept for a really long time. Now Alex keeps it locked up. I have to take
medicine every day. I don't like it, but Alex says it's good for me."

Her
father's handlebar mustache wilted at the constant mention of Alex and the
apparentness that he wouldn't be making a visit. "Is Cordova all out of
finish nails?"

Captain
shook his head. "I don't think that was it. If I had asked Alex to spell
what it was, I would have remembered. When I have the spelling of a word, it
sticks with me."

"Does
he need something for his wood shop?" Camille questioned. It would help if
she knew what tools a woodworker used. As it was, her query wasn't much help.
There were too many possible answers.

"Could
be that." Troublesome lines settled on his forehead as he apparently
weighed out his choices. "I hate when I can't remember things."

Her
father began to put the knives back in their glass case. "Maybe he needs a
new saw blade?" He held up a knife; the blade shimmered under the
flickering lamp light. "Something like this?"

Camille
could literally hear the breath sucked into Captain's chest as he paled.
"That's not a razor, is it?"

"No—"
Her father was cut off

"R-a-z-o-r.
Razor. No shave."

"It's
not a razor," Camille quickly assured him.

She
watched in growing concern as Captain's gaze fixed on the knife, panic rioting
in his eyes. "A-A-Alex," he stammered, raising a hand to his temple.
"Where's Alex? My head's starting to hurt."

He
began stepping backward, as if he were afraid to turn his back on the knife.

"My
father isn't going to harm you," Camille said in a rush.

Captain
bumped into the stack of small washtubs and they tipped over with a loud crash
onto the floor. In spite of the noise, he didn't look down. "A-Alex!
Where's Alex? N-no shave today. No shave. No shave. No shave." His hand
fumbled with the doorknob.

"Captain,"
she called after him, but he'd already stumbled outside onto the boardwalk.

She
quickly followed and found him slumped on the bench in front of the store. He
was trembling so badly, he couldn't keep his knees from knocking into one
another.

"No
shave," he pleaded. "No shave."

Hesitantly,
she laid her hand on his arm and tried to calm him. "You don't have to
shave if you don't want to."

"No
shave. R-a-z-o-r."

He
needed help, but she was unsure what to do for him. Her eyes met her father's.
James Kennison stood in the doorway with an anxious look. "I'll get Dr.
Porter," he said, then took off across the town square and headed for the
physician's office.

Alone
with Captain, she tried to console him. "Everything will be fine."

He
looked at her, but she could tell he didn't see her. His brown eyes glittered.
"No shave."

Distraught,
she looked across the town square, searching for a glimpse of her father and
the doctor, and found Alex Cordova instead.

He
stopped at the end of the boardwalk, then quickened to a sprint. Black hair
blew from under his worn Stetson. Each boot heel that landed hard on the planks
sent reverberations to where she knelt. A determined hardness set the features
of his face, defined the flare of his nostrils and his well-cut mouth. His dark
eyes never left Captain. If he saw her at all, it had been for only a brief
moment.

Reaching
them, Alex dropped down beside Captain. "Cap, what is it?"

Captain
wouldn't speak. His cheeks had turned the color of ash as he stared blankly
ahead.

A
lock of hair fell over Alex's brow as he lowered his chin. He didn't turn
toward her when he asked in a tight and composed voice, "What did you do
to him?"

If
only she had a tangible explanation. "Nothing."

Slowly,
he lifted his head and looked directly into her eyes. Her focus fluttered.
"It was the knife," she heard herself saying. "My father was
putting them away and the light caught on a blade. That's when he got
upset—"

"A
knife?"

Alex
turned his attention to Captain, gripped his shoulders, and gave him a soft
shake. A quiet tenderness filled Alex's expression. There was an almost
imperceptible note of pleading in his voice when next he spoke—as if he willed
Captain to come around, he would. "Cap, it's
all right"

"Alex?
Is that you?"

"Yes,
Cap. It's me."

"No
shave." The despair in Captain's voice squeezed Camille's heart.

And
yet, with those two words, the situation changed. Comprehension fell across
Alex's face. His eyes welled with understanding; he clenched his jaw to keep
himself under control. Visible sorrow bent his broad shoulders as his hand
grazed Captain's with a compassion Camille could feel through her bones.

"Ah,
Cap," Alex whispered on a soft exhale. "You don't have to take a
shave. Never again."

Hope
lit Captain's eyes. "Really?"

"Really."

Silent
understanding passed between the two of them. Camille felt like an outsider. An
intruder who had no business witnessing something understood only by those
involved.

So,
quietly, she slipped back into the store unnoticed.

"I
thought
Matthew Gage had quit his muckraking!" James Kennison bellowed his
indignance from behind the black-and-white pages of the
Harmony Advocate.
His
huff and bluster had become a regular part of breakfast. "And he says he's
a journalist!" The china practically rattled in the sunny dining room, but
neither Camille or her mother batted an eye. "What in the blue blazes do
you call this jaded journalism Gage has printed in this morning's edition of
the
Advocate?"

Her
mother, Grayce, took it all in stride as she sipped her coffee. "The same
jaded journalism you said Mr. Gage printed about your baseball team in
yesterday morning's edition, dear." With her blond hair stylishly high on
top of her head and her filigreed earrings dangling delicately from her lobes,
she was the epitome of refinement. Even in the most extreme of circumstances,
Camille had never seen her mother use less than perfect judgment. She was, after
all, one of the Jeffries from Vidalia.

Placing
a napkin on her lap, Camille suggested, "I think you should quit reading
the newspaper, Daddy. All it does is upset you."

He
lowered the crisp sheet and stared over its headline to address his wife and
daughter. "I'll tell you what upsets me. Opinionated reporting. Now
that
upsets me!"

If
he didn't have the newspaper, he wouldn't have to read the reporter's opinions.
But Camille made no further comment. There was no reasoning with him when he
was hot and bothered. Besides, her attention wasn't fully on his diatribe
anyway. The thoughts that took up her mind were of Alex Cordova.

Yesterday
had been the first time she'd seen him up close. The sight of him from a
distance hadn't prepared her for the effect he would have on her. With just
that brief meeting of their eyes, she'd felt strangely aware of herself as a
woman. The dainty batiste of her corset had suddenly seemed too tight to allow
her to breathe.

And
when he'd looked at her, for the first time ever, she'd been glad she was
thought of as pretty.

His
eyes were a deep brown; the color of richly tilled earth, and were framed by
thick black lashes that weren't too long. She'd unconsciously fought against
leaning toward him, his face, his eyes... his mouth.

Her
father's raised voice broke into her daydreams. The next thing she knew, she'd
be imagining what it would be like to be kissed by the famous ballplayer.

"Just
because Gage owns the paper doesn't give him license to print nonsense."
He snorted his displeasure. "Listen to this: 'In this first year of the
American League's history, Harmony's Keystones have created their own record
book by losing their thirteenth consecutive game in their first thirteen games
of the season, the worst start ever for any team since baseball's
inception.'"

Camille
and her mother exchanged a glance, then Camille sighed and buttered her toast
as her father continued to read the newspaper in a tone that made Camille think
of Mrs. Kirby's hymn singing at the General Assembly Church from last week as
soothing to the ears.