Holm, Stef Ann (4 page)

"
'The rope the Keystones have tied around their necks in the three weeks of the
new season is getting tighter. It gripped some more last night when six of
Cleveland's seven walks came in the bottom of the eighth inning as the Blues
scored six runs, sending Harmony's team to a 12-0 defeat before hometown fans
at Municipal Field.' "

He
slammed a tight fist on the table. "And as if that weren't enough, Gage
goes on: 'Kennison's pitchers couldn't hit water if they fell out of a
boat—much less deliver the ball in the strike zone. But that seems to be the
least of James Kennison's problems. The manager of the Keystones, Ned Butler,
is laid up and could be out for the season.' " His face went as red as
strawberry preserves, and he bunched the newspaper into a tight ball before
tossing it to the floor.

"James,
you're not doing your health any good by getting this excited," Camille's
mother reminded him, lightly touching his hand.

"What
would do my health a world of good would be to have a piece of Will White's
hide for running off with Pearl Chaussee." He frowned. "As soon as my
investigator finds him, I'm going to sue White within an inch of his
life."

Pouring
her father more coffee, her mother asked, "Any word from Mr. Hogwood?"

"Not
a one in over a week." His brows rose. "Grayce, I believe that
detective likes spending my money. He's taking his sweet time about looking. I
got a bill from the Excelsior Hotel in Denver. Now I ask you, what would Will
White be doing in a thirty dollar room at the Excelsior Hotel?"

"I
wouldn't care to speculate, James."

Annoyance
marked her father's tone when he said, "It chafes my hide to pay for a
luxury room that I can't enjoy—much less afford."

"Are
we that bad off?" Concern worried the corners of her mother's mouth.
"I could cut back on the household spending and—"

He
bristled "We aren't starving. I have money. Just not as much as we once
had."

"Still
no replies on your advertisement for a manager?"

"None,"
he grumbled.

And
it had been two weeks. Camille didn't think there was a man left in the country
who'd be willing to manage the Keystones. No one was fool enough.

Right
now, the players were fending for themselves, with her father as temporary
manager. But the thirteen games he'd overseen had taken their toll on him.
Considerably more hotheaded than normal, he couldn't run a business and a
baseball team at the same time—not to mention going on road trips without
hiring help for the store. He adamantly refused to let his wife or daughter
behind the counter. Bertram Nops would think he was a powder puff, needing a
woman to help him get along.

"I
don't know why an able-bodied manager hasn't stepped forward," he
continued. "I ask you, what man could turn down a salary of twelve hundred
dollars for the season?" He tossed a cube of sugar into his coffee,
messily splashed in some cream, then stirred the brew with a spoon—over and
over and over.
K-clink, k-clink, k-clink.
"Do I give a man grief?
Do I cause aggravation? Am I a hard person to get along with? Did I not tell
the then Miss Huntington that Tom Wolcott had bought that red paint
himself?"
K-clink, k-clink, k-clink.
"And for my honesty, did
I not forfeit that much desired rubber froggy lure I'd been wanting? I think
that makes me a likable fellow."
K-clink, k-clink, k-clink.
"I
never get under anyone's skin."

"Never
under
my
skin, dear," her mother replied.

"Then
why does Ned Butler think I cause him stress?" he shot back, a slosh of
murky coffee jumping out of the cup. "I've got to get things turned
around. And soon."

Camille
grew pensive. If Alex's skill as a pitcher was even half of what had been
written about him, he could turn things around. Then it popped into her head:
What about his reputation off the playing field? She had heard he was a notorious
womanizer. A lady's man. But she hadn't seen him keeping company with women
since he'd been in Harmony. Maybe he visited them late at night.... Maybe—

"I
don't suppose you could convince Alex Cordova to play for you," her mother
said.

At
the name, Camille jumped. Thank goodness her mother couldn't read her mind.
Even so, her wayward thoughts put guilty heat on her cheeks. She locked her
gaze on her father's face, waiting for his reaction.

The
clinking motion of spoon and cup ceased. "Grayce, now I ask you, how many
times have I tried to get Cordova?"

"I
haven't been counting."

He
exploded. "Well, you should have been!" Her mother didn't flinch a
bit. "I've done everything but grease his palm with pure gold oil. The man
is ironclad. Built of a steely resistance stronger than that of a string of
locomotives. If I could, Grayce, I'd sign him."

Camille
ate her toast in silence.

The
conversation on the boardwalk had been the only one she'd had with Alex since
he'd moved to town. Now, she couldn't quit wondering how she could meet him
again.

The
front bell cranked and her father quickly pushed away from the table, his
coffee untouched. "That'll be Duke and Jimmy. They said they would check
on Ned's condition and report to me. With any luck, his skin has cleared up and
he's all set for tonight's game."

He'd
barely rounded the table when Leda, the housemaid, showed the two players into
the room. Both men removed their hats and nodded to Camille and her mother.

Duke
Boyle had broken his nose in a fight, which had left it angled. Jimmy Shugart
flashed his teeth, the uppers as crooked as an old picket fence.

"Mr.
Kennison," Leda announced, "Mr. Duke and Mr. Jimmy are here to see
you."

"Yes,
yes," he said impatiently.

She
gave him a frown, her currant-black eyes silently chastising him for his
shortness with her. Leda and James Kennison got along about as well as the
Wolcotts' dog and cat.

As
he gazed at the left fielder and first baseman, his expression filled with
optimism. "Well? What's the word?"

Jimmy
held his hat out in front of him and nervously turned the brim in his hands.
"The word is, he's still scratching."

"We
saw for ourselves," Duke added. "As soon as we mentioned your name,
he started itching again. His wife made us leave."

"Thunderation!"
Her father ran his hand through his hair and through the pomade he'd earlier
combed through it. For a moment, he put his palm over his mouth, forefinger on
his nose, tapping in thought. Apparently he didn't come up with anything
brilliant, because he merely said, "All right. We'll play this one on our
own again. We won't give up. We'll get a manager. Eventually." Absently,
he fussed with his tie and let out a long sigh.

"Maybe
Alex Cordova would manage us," Duke suggested.

James's
fingers stilled.

Duke
made an apologetic face and took a step backward. "Never mind."

"I
tell you what, Duke," James countered, "if you can get me Cordova,
I'll make
you
the manager. How's that?" The knot in James's tie was
now crooked, a match for his uneven mood. "In fact, whoever gets me Cordova
can be the manager."

Jimmy
grinned. "No kidding?"

"I
most certainly am not. As you well know, I'm a man of my word," he said,
clearly enunciating his oft-repeated maxim. "All right, boys. I'll see you
later today."

Duke
and Jimmy showed themselves to the door.

Camille's
father bussed her mother on the cheek. "I'm going to the store."

"Daddy,
let me see if I can change Alex Cordova's mind." The words were uttered
before Camille could thoroughly think the idea through.

"What
was that?" He must have been too startled to immediately object.

In
those seconds, she had enough time to gather her wits. As her father didn't
possess the best of temperaments and the situation was desperate, somebody who
kept a level head should approach Alex. And she was the perfect candidate.
"I'd like to try to persuade him to sign on."

"You
most certainly will not," he fired back. "I won't have my daughter
gadding about Elm Street. It isn't respectable." He glared at her with a
critical squint. "And besides, Camille sugar, I've given up on him. Nobody
can persuade Alex Cordova—not even if it were to sign on with the Lord, with
the Devil right there reaching for his passport to hell."

"James!"
her mother admonished.

Camille
opened her mouth, but her father plowed ahead. "Grayce, I won't have you
telling me she's capable of convincing that man. She's too soft. She doesn't
have it in her. He'd chew her up and spit her out before she knew what
happened. Cordova is ironclad.
Ironclad,
I tell you." With a flick
of his thumb next to his watch's face, the case snapped open and he noted the
hour. "I really have to get to the store or I'll be late."

When
he talked about her as if she weren't in the room, Camille wanted to scream.

"Will
you be home for dinner before tonight's game?" her mother asked, trying to
keep the peace and change the subject. "What would you like Leda to fix
for you?"

"A
bicarbonate," he replied glumly, slipping his timepiece into the slash of
his vest pocket. "Game three against the Blues should be a real
lollapalooza. No doubt Gage will be happy to report the grim results in
tomorrow morning's newspaper."

On
that, he quit the dining room with a grimace.

His
bay rum aftershave had barely drifted away when Camille said, "If he
weren't my father, I would have thrown my toast at him."

"If
it's any consolation, you threw up on him when you were a baby."

Camille's
mouth curved into a smile.

Grayce
rested her hand on Camille's. "He's too set in his ways to change his
thinking, Camille. Try not to let him bother you." Then, letting out an
airy sigh, she asked, "Well, what are you going to do today?"

"The
same thing I did yesterday." With a snap of her wrist, she tossed her
napkin onto her plate. "Make mad passionate love to men all
afternoon."

Her
mother laughed.

Camille
and her mother didn't mince words for the sake of "delicacy." Grayce
Kennison had always encouraged her daughter to freely express her emotions and
thoughts, be they in jest or in sincerity.

"I'm
going to meet with the ladies this morning," Grayce announced as she
stood. "We're still just so tickled by Mrs. Wolcott's news that she's
going to have a baby. Mrs. Brooks has suggested we begin planning a cradle
party for her even though the blessed event isn't going to be here for another
seven months."

Camille
politely listened, but her heartbeat still raced.

She's
too soft. She doesn't have it in her.

"Would
you like to come, Camille? We're meeting at Mrs. Wolcott's house."

He'd
chew her up and spit her out before she knew what happened.

"Meg
Gage will be there. So will Crescencia Dufresne and Johannah Teeter."

Focusing
now on her mother, Camille debated seeing her former schoolmates from Mrs.
Wolcott's Finishing School. Meg Brooks, Crescencia Stykem, and Johannah Treber.
Properly tutored and well mannered from their education. All three were now
married.

And
Lucille Calhoon had gotten engaged at last Friday's Elks dance to Julius
Addison, her childhood sweetheart. Her friends were getting married fast and

Camille
was the only one to hold out. But somehow she felt there had to be more. But
what?
Cordova is ironclad.

"No,
Mama. I'm going to stay home." Did her casual tone sound too forced?

"Well,
if you change your mind..."

"I
won't. I'm going to work on my garden plans."

She
lingered a moment after her mother left, then stood and went directly to the
parlor window. Looking out, she watched the bob of plumes on her mother's hat
as Grayce headed toward town.

Camille
really had planned on drafting a layout for her garden. How she sowed the seeds
and bulbs would determine how the next six months would color and blossom. The
apple tree needed pruning and dusting for codling moths as soon as two thirds
of the petals had fallen. And then there was...

Camille
sugar, nobody can persuade Alex Cordova...

...
the snail bait to be spread.

She's
too soft. She doesn't have it in her.

The
Garden Club meeting was Friday night and she wanted to make a good impression.
She had to make preparations and plan.

I
won't have you telling me she's capable of convincing that man.

But
those plans had now changed.

As
soon as her mother disappeared from view, Camille's heart skipped a beat.
Before she could think better of it, she snatched a straw hat she kept hanging
on the hat rack and pinned it over her hair. She buttoned her gloves, exited
the door, and went down the steps.