Holm, Stef Ann (50 page)

BOOK: Holm, Stef Ann
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"Accident."

"Hardly,"
she said, laughing as she stepped one foot into the warm water.

"Now
if you want to discuss something hard—"

She
cut him off with a kick of her toe, splashing him in the chest. "You are
horrible, Alex."

"And
I'm all yours." Sudsy water dripped down his chest in tiny rivers; bubbles
caught on his sun-browned skin.

The
warm water eased her muscles as she sank down on the opposite end of the tub as
Alex and entwined her legs with his. She settled in and all but purred her
contentment as she stared across at her husband. Stretching out her arm, she
gave him a beer.

"So
now what?" she murmured.

He
gave her a disarming grin. "A gentleman always opens a lady's beer
bottle."

Camille
was certain that wasn't in her deportment book, but she didn't beg to differ.

He
took the amber bottle from her, settled an opener on the crown cap, and popped
the top. A spurt of fizz shot over the rim. He handed the beer back to her. She
lifted it to her mouth and took a sip. The taste was cool and mellow against
her tongue.

"Now,"
he said, sitting taller and reaching over the side of the bathtub, "we
read." He gave her a copy of the December
Good Housekeeping
while
he picked up a different issue for himself. They set their beers aside.

She
took her magazine and opened the pages. Her gaze skimmed over the pictures and
words, but she didn't take a good look at them. She looked over at Alex.
"You never told me why you read
Good Housekeeping."

"I
like to keep a clean house."

She
couldn't help bursting out laughing, a spray of bubbles rising over the tub's
porcelain rim. "I don't believe you."

"You
think because I play baseball I have no other interests?"

"No.
I just don't think a man of your masculinity would find recipes for furniture
polish interesting." She turned the page of her magazine but kept her eyes
on Alex. The water's edge came to his flat nipples.

"I
find anything written about making a woman happy interesting." A trail of
water soaked the corners of his
Good Housekeeping
as he flipped to the next
page. "Even something as simple as the right furniture polish."

Camille
wasn't able to keep her thoughts from straying off the pages. She moved her
foot a little, skimming her toes along Alex's outer thigh. The crisp hairs on
his calf rubbed the side of her arm as he inched his leg inward. She shifted,
her toes sliding between his legs; his foot rose slowly to the side of her
breast. A shiver worked through her. She snuck a slow peek at him. Either he
was engrossed beyond belief, or he was pretending.

She
frowned, gazed back at the article on milkweed cream. Then a big
thwack
sounded
in the tiny room. Looking over the top of her magazine, she saw Alex had thrown
his on the floor. "Something wrong?" she asked, feeling a smile pull
the corners of her mouth.

The
heat in his stare melted her and made warmth pool between her legs. Alex said,
"I'm having a real hard time concentrating on 'How to Arrange an
Attractive Table.' "

"But
maybe an attractive table would make me happy."

"Honey,
I think arranging ourselves on the table would make you happier than a vase of
flowers and the right placement of silverware."

As
he leaned forward, she tossed her magazine with a plop on the floor.
"Alex, you make me happy. No matter where I am."

He
moved his face over hers. Slowly, downward, until she closed her eyes and all
there was to think about was his mouth on her mouth. And the kiss that was in
no hurry at all.

 

 

Dear Readers:

I've
always been a baseball fan. My warmest regards to Sammy Sosa and Mark McGwire
for the 1998 major league season. I haven't had that much excitement as a fan
since 1988 when the Los Angeles Dodgers played the Oakland Athletics for the
World Series title.

It
was October 15, 1988, when Kirk Gibson hobbled to the plate in the bottom of
the ninth. The Dodgers needed to get one run to score and win the game. Gibson
was a major long shot—he could barely walk because of leg injuries. Oakland's
Dennis Eckersley pitched the ball and Gibson hit one of the most dramatic home
runs in the history of the game. I watched in stunned amazement as Gibson
limped around the bases, touching each bag with raw emotion on his face as the
crowd cheered. Gibson's spectacular hit gave the Dodgers a 5-4 victory.

Not
since that day have I witnessed such courage and determination in the game of
baseball. Then came Mark and Sammy, who went at the home run record with
unfailing sportsmanship. You three were my inspiration for Alex Cordova. Thank
you, fellows. You bring baseball home to us, your fans.

Now,
on to
Honey.

In
1901, the American League was formed. The eight teams in this novel actually
existed, as did the ballparks they played in, right down to the descriptions of
the grandstands. The Somersets really had a toolshed in the outfield and would
use rakes during the game. The manager and player salaries mentioned in this
book are also accurate—amazingly low when compared with the figures of today.

Aside
from the Harmony Keystones, the names of players on the other teams and the
positions they played are authentic. Their personalities, however, have been
fictionalized to suit my story. Joe McGill never played for the New York
Giants, nor existed outside of my imagination.

Boomer
Hurley, the manager of the Boston Somersets, is fictitious, as are all the
other team managers. But his attitude was all too real the year Camille took on
the position. Sad to say, she probably wouldn't be given any better reception a
hundred years later.

The
origin of the term
bullpen
is ever being disputed. Some claim it came
about because of the advertising Bull Durham on the outfield fences; the
pitchers warmed up in the shadows of those big, bull-shaped signs. Others say
no manager wanted his pitchers shooting the bull on the bench so he put them in
a kind of pen in the outfield to warm up their arms. The first documented use
of
bullpen
came in 1915. I'd prefer to think that Camille Kennison came
up with the idea some fourteen years prior.

Cy
Young is presented in this novel as a competitive fellow. Between 1890 and
1911, he won 511 games. He's probably the most famous player in baseball. He
was a tough pitcher to beat. But it wasn't until seven years after Alex Cordova
that the Cyclone pitched the first real perfect game—May 5, 1904, Boston versus
Philadelphia. Young shut out Philly 3-0. In other words, not one player
advanced off a pitch he threw. He retired them in order. The Cy Young Award was
first handed out in 1956 and went to the single best pitcher in the major
leagues.

Candy-coated
Chiclets were conceived of around the turn of the twentieth century, but they
were not officially a product of the American Chicle Company until 1914. Still,
I couldn't resist fudging a little.

I'd
like to thank Rachel Gibson and Linda Francis Lee for their critique on this
novel. Rachel keeps my heroes manly men and Linda makes sure the plot pieces
all fit together.

I'm
grateful to Gloria Dale Skinner, who read
Honey
chapter by chapter
through e-mail because of my tight schedule. Her insight was invaluable. I went
from not knowing the answers to the questions she asked me about plot and
characters to knowing more than I ever thought I would about the cast in this
book and the reasons they did the things they did.

I
thank Katharine O'Moore-Klopf, my copy editor, who always takes time out of her
busy schedule to answer my questions on grammar and punctuation. She not only
is right on when she rearranges my sentences but is also married to a swell guy
named Edward, who, as it happens, is a cabinetmaker. Thank you, Edward, for
helping me along with some of my wood shop queries.

Well,
what's next? The last in the Brides for All Seasons books will be
Hearts.
For
generations, the Valentines have married on Valentine's Day—every Valentine
except for Truvy, who doesn't have a prospective groom. Although it's
disappointing to think that the tradition will stop with her, there's a part of
Truvy that's exhilarated and feeling freed. She travels to Harmony to visit her
college friend, Edwina Wolcott. Since Truvy is the tennis and basketball coach
at St. Francis, the all-girl school where she teaches, she's not interested in
big, brawny athletic types. She has her reasons. But who picks her up at the
train station when she arrives in town? Tom Wolcott's friend, Jake Brewster,
owner of the local gymnasium called Bruiser's. Clearly these two aren't meant
for each other. But tell that to Cupid.

I
enjoy hearing from my readers. Drop me a note and be sure to include a
self-addressed stamped envelope. And when surfing the web, visit my site at:

http://
www.paintedrock.com/authors/holm.htm

Best,

Stef
Ann Holm

Stef
Ann Holm

P.O.
Box 5727

Kent,
WA 98064-5727

 

While
on her honeymoon at a resort in Kauai, STEF ANN HOLM watched the World Series
in their hotel room while her husband surfed. After all, the home team, the Los
Angeles Dodgers, were in the thick of things with the New York Yankees. Back in
1981, "Fernandomania" and Tommy Lasorda's boys of October had fans
cheering—with the voice of Vin Scully commentating all the action. Baseball
just couldn't get any better. Unless you were actually sitting in the stadium
watching the game.

On
one particular hot summer evening, Stef Ann and some friends went to Dodger
Stadium. When the game let out, she couldn't remember where she parked her car.
Seeing the endless miles of pavement at Chavez Ravine brings an understanding
of this dilemma. But finding a gold 1974 Plymouth Duster with white competition
racing stripes wasn't all that hard once the parking lot emptied.

Since
then, she's gotten rid of the Duster, but not her passion for the all-American
pastime.

While
Stef Ann is working on her next installment in the Brides for All Seasons
series for Pocket Books, she invites you to write her at P.O. Box 5727, Kent,
WA 98064-S727.

 

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