Holm, Stef Ann (9 page)

Rain
came
down in buckets.

Just
after noon, the sidewalks were slippery with mire. Rivers of water spilled over
the canvas awnings of businesses, giving the tightly knit storefronts in the
town square the look of Niagara Falls.

The
torrential downpour was a bad omen, surely one triggered by the shenanigans
between Camille's father and Bertram Nops. The fight had begun before business
hours, with Daddy squeezing off the first shot, but the return volley was swift
and deadly.

Just
before nine o'clock, Mr. Nops had begun to pile gallons of willow green paint
in front of his store. Spying out his window, her father hadn't missed a move.
Minutes later, he'd brought out every last gallon of willow green paint he had
in stock and slashed the price to half of what Mr. Nops was selling his for.
Nops; seventy cents; Kennison; thirty-five cents. It was an underhanded move on
her father's part that infuriated Mr. Nops. No sooner had her father stacked
his paint cans in a pyramid with a big sign on the top can advertising the
price than Mr. Nops put up an even bolder sign on his top willow green can:

For
cheap vermillion paint, look no farther than Kennison's Hardware.

It
was a sore spot for Daddy. Last fall, he'd sold Tom Wolcott some of the
offensive red paint for the exterior of Wolcott's sporting goods store, just so
Mr. Wolcott could aggravate the tenant next door, Edwina Huntington... who
later forgave him and became his wife. Mr. Wolcott had eventually repainted his
side of the building on Old Oak Road to match the canary yellow paint on her
side, but not before the townspeople had gotten a good eyeful of that awful
red. And not before the townspeople had heard who sold Mr. Wolcott the paint
that allowed him to pull a prank on a woman.

Camille
didn't have time to keep it all straight in her mind as she shook the rain from
her oilskin umbrella and closed it. Even though she wore a jacket and lace-up
storm shoes, she was damp. In rain like this, there was no way to keep dry. It
was hard enough walking with dignity on dry heels, but wet ones hampered even
the best of efforts.

The
openly admiring gazes of men had followed her as she'd walked past the opposing
team's dugout where the Boston players were gathering to begin practice. The
scrutiny had intensified as she bypassed the grandstand. If she hadn't been
holding her umbrella, she might have checked to see if her fruited hat had been
pinned on straight. She still felt eyes on her now as she reached the
Keystones' clubhouse. Taking a quick inhale, she prayed everyone would be
decent. She'd purposefully waited a quarter of an hour to return after having
been inside this morning to hang—

"Whoa,
honey," came a voice behind her. "You can't go in there."

She
turned and encountered a man no taller than herself. From the dour expression
on his face, he looked like he'd been weaned on an icicle. His eyes were too
close together, his nose was on the bulbous side, and his left cheek was packed
so full of tobacco, he could hardly talk.

"Who
are you?" She rested her palm on her umbrella handle, the point on the
step. Without an awning above her, rain fell on her shoulders.

"Boomer
Hurley, manager of the Boston Somersets."

Because
the Keystones had never played a major-league team before, Camille had never
seen this man at prior games. After his introduction, she hastily made her own.
"Camille Kennison, manager of the Harmony Keystones. Now if you'll excuse
me, I'm getting wet."

He
gave off a big roar of laughter that shook his entire body, and for a moment
she thought he'd up and choke on his prune-size lump of chewing tobacco.
"Manager? No, honey, you're mistaken. You're not the manager of the
Keystones. Now you might be a relation to James Kennison—which I don't know for
sure or not because he's not, here—but you're no manager."

Camille
had wondered where her father was, too. She'd searched the stands for him—which
hadn't been hard. The only person sitting in them had been Captain, who'd waved
at her. Nobody else had braved the rainy day to watch the batters warm up.

"I
am his daughter, Mr. Hurley." Camille dropped her chin to keep the
droplets of water from her face. "And I
am
the manager of the
Keystones." She held out the notebook she'd tucked beneath her arm.
"I have today's batting order to prove it. But I don't need to show you
that, do I? I'll see you on the field."

"Wait
a minute. Wait just a damn minute. You're no manager." He projected a
stream of brown juice, just missing the hem of her skirt. Whether his aim was
intentional or not, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, only because she
didn't want to get upset on her first day. "Honey, baseball is a
red-blooded sport for red-blooded men. It's not teatime, so ladies such as
yourself had better stay the hell out of it."

She
got upset.

The
blunt point of her umbrella stabbed him in the big toe of his thin leather
shoes—an accident, of course—as she turned to go inside. "Pardon me,"
she said, by way of both apology and departure.

Pleased
with herself, she went inside the clubhouse and closed the door on Boomer
Hurley, leaving him out on the stoop. But if she thought she'd left a problem
outside, she ran headlong into another one. Much bigger. Much
barer.

Half-naked
baseball players.

Activity
in the room froze, as did Camille. She couldn't even swallow, much less blink,
while facing men in various stages of undress. Shirts on. Shirts off with bare
chests showing. Pants dropped at ankles. Athletic supporters in hand; athletic
supporters in place over drawers.

Within
seconds, everyone made a mad grab for their white-and-gold uniforms. Pants legs
and shirtsleeves flailed while the men shoved arms and legs into them. Everyone
moved except Alex Cordova. He remained standing in his underwear as if he
didn't care what she saw. As if he
wanted
her to see him.

His
stance emphasized the strength in his thighs and the slimness of his hips.
Worn, ribbed cotton clung to every muscle of his body, hugging his chest, expanding
over broad shoulders, and molding to his flat belly. The top two buttons of his
drawers were unfastened. Camille's gaze lowered to where the cotton cupped a
particular area. For a second, she allowed herself a look. Her quickening
heartbeat caught in her throat as she looked at the definition of pure man. She
swiftly lifted her eyes to his.

She
sensed he was angry with her.

And
then she saw the animosity written over Cub LaRoque's face as he gave Alex a
long stare. Cub was the Keystones' starting pitcher; apparently he didn't like
his position being usurped by a new player. The others noticed it, too. Tension
gripped the room. Sharp glances made it clear that Alex was out of place.

That
she
was out of place.

A
warning erupted in her head. Moisture formed on her palms. She'd fully expected
her father to have been here first, to pave the way. She'd been certain he'd be
the one to tell them about her new position, break it to them in a man's terms,
straightforward and to the point. There'd have been no arguing about it,
because he owned the team.

"Miss
Kennison, you gotta get out of here," squeaked Mox Snyder, the third
baseman. Never fast on his feet, he'd stepped into his pants backward, the behind
part now drooping front and center—an error that pretty much summed up how he
played baseball.

Deacon
Pfeffer, the right fielder, sat on the trunk in his cubby with his shoes
untied. "What's going on?"

"Yeah,"
Yank Milligan and Charlie Delahanty said at the same time. "What's going
on?"

"No
women allowed," grumbled Bones Davis, the second baseman.

A
chorus of the same sentiment echoed off the walls.

Her
misgivings increased by the minute.

"Hey,
wait a minute," Specs Ryan said while facing them. "Maybe her father
sent her over with a message." With eyes magnified by thick glass lenses,
he stared at Camille—rather, he squinted through his lashes, his upper hp
extended, as if that could help him see better. His real name was Timothy.
She'd gone to school with him, and ever since she could remember, he'd worn
spectacles, thus earning him the nickname. "So, did he?"

Everyone
waited for her reply. She hadn't been prepared for this. She'd been raised a
Southern lady. Genteel. Taught to speak in a buttery tone gentlemen found
charming. She was unequipped to confront men in their drawers, a fact it was
too late to do anything about now.

So
she'd save face if it killed her.

Finding
her voice, Camille spoke. "As a matter of fact, my father did send
me."

"Did
he find a new manager?" asked Noodles Duggleby, the catcher. His hands
were nearly as big as the oversize mitt he used to catch with.

"Yes,"
Camille said, "he has."

Baritone
shouts went up through the room, accompanied by a few pats on the back, a nod
of a head here and there. Mostly, there were relieved expressions and audible
sighs of relief. She wondered just how long that relief would last when she
told them the truth.

Cub
asked, "So who'd he get?"

"Yeah,
who?" Charlie pressed.

"We
want to know," Duke Boyle said while trading glances with Jimmy Shugart.
"Kennison said whoever got Cordova could be the manager." Duke
pointed at Alex. "And there he is."

Jimmy
jumped in. "We asked Cordova who talked him into it, but he said it wasn't
a who—it was a
what."

Speculative
gazes fell on Alex. If he was uncomfortable, he didn't show it. Camille waited
for any kind of reaction from him. Nothing. His expression was unreadable.

"Why
won't he say?" Jimmy wanted to know.

She
knew why. Alex's words came back to her.
I can be bought, honey, but I can't
be had.

Money.

Money
had made him change his mind, but at least he wasn't boasting about it to the
other team members.

"Because
the person who contracted him isn't somebody you'd think of." She moved to
the desk, then laid down her velvet purse and notebook. Then she stuck her
umbrella into the trash can so that the rainwater wouldn't drip on the floor.
Turning, she held her posture erect. "It's me."

A
stunned silence fell like lead, hard and heavy, suffocating the room. She
didn't dare meet Alex's gaze. But she felt it on her as sure as if she were
looking directly into his eyes.

Cupid
Burns, the first baseman, broke through the strain. "You've got to be
kidding."

"I'm
quite serious. Why else would I be here?"

"To
satisfy your womanly curiosity."

The
low and rich voice came to her from the right. Exactly where Alex stood. She
faced him. He wore his underwear the same way he wore the smile he gave her:
sinfully.

"Certainly
not," she snapped. "I can assure you, I have the best of intentions
and I take my responsibilities quite seriously. I knew there would be some
problems, but I've already found a way around one obstacle." She gestured
to the corner where her Paris organdy rosebud fabric hung. The drape looked
like a woman's parlor curtain, only it was gathered in a single direction, not
the way she'd left it—spread out and able to conceal players as they disrobed.
"I put up a dressing curtain."

Cupid
howled with humor. "That frilly thing?"

Bones
smirked. "We thought Kennison was off his nut. No offense, Miss Kennison,
since he is your father. But we were laughing so hard over that curtain, that's
how come we're late getting dressed for practice."

"Yank
even sniffed one of them bee-you-tee-ful roses to see if it smelled like toilet
water," Doc Nash commented with a chuckle.

Yank
cried, "Did not!"

Specs
seconded Yank. "Saw you myself, Doc."

"You
couldn't see a pile of shit in a cow pasture, Specs." Yank pushed on his
cap, the brim falling low on his brow. "For a change of pace, why don't you
get the right prescription for your goddamn glasses when you play ball? Maybe
we might just win a game."

"Not
only
my
fault we stink," he shot back.

"If
we had a manager who was worth his salt, we wouldn't," Noodles complained.

"But
we don't," Cub shot back. "We've got
her."

"I
quit." Mox threw his glove on his trunk.

"Me,
too."

"I
second that."

"Make
that three."

Calls
came from all over the room. "Five."

"Make
that seven."

"Eleven."

"Count
me in as twelve."

Then
came silence. The disapproval that had echoed through the clubhouse made
Camille's bones feel brittle. If she had had any kind of sense, then she would
have turned tail and left right then. But she refused, to do it. She couldn't
quit—because of one fact.