Holm, Stef Ann (14 page)

"I'll
bet his samples went beyond plain white." This time he repressed his
smile. "Did he kiss you?"

She
nibbled on her bottom hp; there was a brief display of pearly teeth. If she
didn't quit doing that—

"Why
do you want to know?"

"Did
he?"

"Yes."

Her
brazen answer had him swallowing hard. "When was that?"

"A
year ago." She frowned, a pout to her lush bottom lip. It was too damned
much for him to resist. "I don't see why any of this—"

Without
warning, he stopped the buggy. "Then you're long overdue to be kissed
again, honey."

He
slid his hand around the back of her neck and crushed her mouth to his. Her
lips were soft and pliant. She tasted faintly of candy. Strawberry taffy.

She
braced her palms on his chest as he moved to pull her tightly against him. She
made a soft moaning sound that sent a shot of heat below his belly. The fullness
of her breasts branded him. She felt tantalizingly slim. Smelled good. Tasted
good. Every sense he had was heightened. She burned through him.

Kissing
her was like drowning in honeydew.

He
murmured against her mouth, "You never answered me. Do you wear a red
corset?"

She
returned his kiss, her lips light over his. Still touching, tingling. "I'm
tired of you asking all the questions. Why are you called 'the Grizz'?"

The
Grizz.
The
ghost of the big brown bear suddenly loomed over him, large, and with fierce,
teeth and claws. He felt the instant pain in old scars, scars that made him
remember and sucked him back to the reality. Back to baseball and his
manager—not just any woman.

He
drew back and looked at her. "Maybe I'll tell you some day."

"And
maybe some day I'll tell you what color my corset is." Her blue eyes were
half lidded, passion kindled in them. "Until then, we'll just both have to
wonder."

Camille
walked
to Plunkett's mercantile under a sky with dumpling clouds, happy in the fact
that she'd proved her father wrong. Not only had she stayed on as manager of
the Keystones beyond his projected one day, she'd lasted seven—refuting even
Alex's prophecy.

Alex...
the thought of his name disturbed her more than it should.

Too
many
things
about Alex disturbed her. Most notably, her reaction to his kiss. He hadn't
even had to invest any effort in it before she'd surrendered. His mouth over
hers had wiped out every kiss she'd ever had. In the past, the brushing of lips
over hers had been nothing to make her toes curl, make her heartbeat feel as if
it were going to catch in her ribs.

So
much for her doubting fiction. She'd assumed that kisses with heat and fire and
passion enough to make a woman's breath hitch were ones invented by creative
imaginations. All her kisses from men up until now had to have been of the
nonfiction variety—because the real thing was infinitely better.

Obviously,
she'd been kissing the wrong men....

In
regard to the matter at hand, she might have had staying power, but so did the
Keystones' losing streak. There had been no letup in sight, in spite of her
enthusiasm for changing the outcome of games.

To
be fair, she could understand the players' being down in the dumps. But the
injustice was that they didn't look to themselves for the answers. They blamed
her.
As if she should have had a magic tonic to sprinkle on them and all would
be well.

If
she'd had some kind of miracle cure, she would have used it by now. At home,
her father constantly complained. Although his daily outbursts weren't directly
aimed at her, she knew he was miserable. And in turn, he was making her
miserable. He was still angry about Mr. Nops and the bonus.

As
soon as Alex's fan cards were ready, she'd have him autograph the photographs.
Once they were in circulation, that should smooth over some of her father's
upset.

Until
then, Daddy's ranting was something she had to deal with. But she could do
something about having to hear his voice over the breakfast and dinner table.
Earlier in the day, she'd paid a call on Otto Healy of Home and Farm Realty and
inquired about houses for rent or purchase. She had a manager's salary coming
to her. Money was no longer an issue. And she wanted a place of her own.

A
tiny bell sounded above her head as she let herself inside the mercantile. Mr.
Plunkett helped a customer in the grocery department while Hildegarde stood
behind the counter arranging lace collars on a velvet display board. Her mother
tidied items in the case.

"Hello,
Camille," Hildegarde greeted her.

"It's
nice to see you, Hildegarde."

They
had known each other for years, having gone to both primary and finishing
school together. Like Camille, Hildegarde wasn't engaged. Unlike Camille,
Hildegarde wanted to be. She involved herself in various activities in the
hopes of catching that special someone's eye. There had been a man from the
Woolly Buggers, a fly-fishing club in town, who'd called on her for a time. But
a romance never developed, and Hildegarde hadn't gone back to any meetings.

Her
love life wasn't helped by the fact that her mother meddled in it and dictated
Hildegarde's thoughts most of the time. In turn, Hildegarde pretty much did and
said what Mrs. Plunkett told her.

Taking
a glance at Mrs. Plunkett—who eyed Camille with an assessing gaze—Camille felt
obligated to greet the woman. "Good afternoon, Mrs. Plunkett." Camille
rested her handbag on the counter in front of Hildegarde. "I need to buy
thirteen school slates and two boxes of chalk."

Mrs.
Plunkett was a large woman with brown hair who suffered from a mysterious and
sudden pain in her side whenever she overindulged in sweet treats. It was an
unexplainable phenomenon that Camille had witnessed on more than several
occasions, but so far, the ailment hadn't stopped Mrs. Plunkett from accepting
cakes or cookies whenever they were presented.

"Why
do you need slates?" Mrs. Plunkett asked as she counted out the correct
number from a spot on the floor-to-ceiling shelves behind the counter.

Camille
shouldn't have thought she could buy them without question.

"I'm
going to nail them above each ballplayer's cubby."

"What
for?"

What
for?
To
write down special orders, that's what's for.

They
were playing the Chicago White Stockings this afternoon—the last game of a
four-game series. The previous three games had seen the Keystones in the
cellar. Having a rotation of only three utility men didn't give her much room.
One injury would foul up the entire order, so she needed to stay organized— and
that's where the chalkboards came in.

To
tell Specs Ryan his spectacles weren't the right strength—that he needed to get
a new pair. To write a note to Duke Boyle about his fielding. To remind Bones
Davis not to oil his glove so much—that's why he dropped the ball. Things like
that. Things Mrs. Plunkett wouldn't appreciate. Things that were none of Mrs.
Plunkett's business to begin with.

"Hildegarde,
is that a new dress you're wearing?" Camille changed the subject,
disregarding the even stare from the young woman's mother.

Hildegarde
looked down. "No. Does it look new?"

"It
looks lovely on you."

"Really?"

"I
think so," Captain said as he appeared from the storeroom carrying three
large crates that could hold thirty dozen eggs. Though the crates were
extremely heavy, even empty, he gripped the wooden boxes without a struggle. He
took them out the front door, to be placed on the boardwalk for the farmers to
pick up and refill.

Hildegarde
watched him retreat.

Without
preamble, Mrs. Plunkett said, "Mrs. Calhoon is going around spreading
rumors about you, Miss Kennison. I think you ought to know."

Camille
already knew what the local women were saying about her. Nothing good. She was
used to hearing how perfect and pretty she was; a little buzz and hum about her
being a baseball manager didn't scandalize her. The gossip gave her a reason to
be defiant—something she'd never been in her life.

"Now,
Mrs. Calhoon," Mrs. Plunkett continued in a warning tone, "is a born
gossip if there ever was one. I don't know how she can look people in the face,
the things she says behind their backs. But butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.
And she told me not to tell, so don't tell I told you.
But
... she said
that the only reason you're managing the Keystones is to find yourself a
husband. The lengths some women go to."

Camille
wondered if she was referring to the lengths Mrs. Calhoon went to to slander a
good name. Or the lengths desperate women went to to find husbands. Not likely
the first option, as Mrs. Calhoon and Mrs. Plunkett were thick as thieves.

"I'm
afraid I'll have to disappoint Mrs. Calhoon." Camille put a note of
sarcasm in her voice that Mrs. Plunkett failed to notice. "Those baseball
players aren't what I'd call gentlemen. They don't wear proper union
suits." With an exaggerated arch of her brow, she lowered her voice. Mrs.
Plunkett piloted in like a moth flying at a street lamp. "Two-piece underwear,
most of them. There's one who does wear a union suit, but I couldn't say who.
It's a color you'd never guess. That's all I can divulge. It's a good thing I
have no desire to find a husband." She managed to keep a straight face and
sound serious while adding, "I wouldn't marry a man who wore a union suit,
much less drawers with a hole in them. But don't tell Mrs. Calhoon I told you
that."

Mrs.
Plunkett had been glued to every word. The vigorous shaking of her head and her
wide-eyed wonder spoke louder than words: as soon as she had half a second to
escape, she was going to broadcast every syllable to the postmaster's wife.

Mrs.
Plunkett suddenly blurted, "My, my, but I forgot I had to... to meet with
Mrs. Kirby about the selection of the hymns for this Sunday's service."
She untied her apron and rounded the counter so quickly, she knocked into the
velvet tray of collars and sent them sailing. "Hildegarde, write up Miss
Kennison's order. I'll be back later."

She
dashed out the door just as Captain came in. He took a few steps, stopped, then
rubbed his temples. His eyes squeezed closed. A twist of pain caught his mouth.

"Captain,"
Hildegarde said with concern, "do you feel bad?"

"My
head hurts just a little."

Worry
reflected in her eyes. "Maybe you should go home."

He
quickly lowered his hands, smoothing his beard and mustache. "No. I'm not
going home. I'm working." Then he proceeded into the storeroom. "I'm
all right," he called out from the depths of the stock area. "I'm
working. W-o-r-k-i-n-g."

Helping
Hildegarde pick up the lace notions, Camille asked, "Have you stopped
typing for Mr. Stykem?"

"Yes.
He found a permanent secretary. I almost wish he hadn't."

The
collars back on the counter, Hildegarde sighed. "Ruth is busy with a new
beau. I don't see her at all these days. I've been a little beside myself. I
know I should be happy for her... but I can't help... Never mind."

Compassion
worked through Camille. She understood the longing to find a husband. Ruth
Elward was also one of Mrs. Wolcott's finishing school ladies. A woman who
didn't have a man to take care of by the time she was twenty—it was almost a
shameful thing.

Captain
came back, shouldering two eighteen- quart Cooley milk cans. On his way
outside, he said, "Hildegarde can't type worth a whistle."

The
dimples in Hildegarde's cheeks deepened. She laughed, a merry sound that she
rarely indulged in. She'd told Camille she thought her own laugh sounded like a
schoolgirl giggle. Men didn't find giggling appealing. But as Camille watched
Captain, it was apparent that he was one man who did. He was smiling broadly.

Hildegarde's
gaze followed him through the door with more than passing interest. "He
always speaks his mind. I find that..."—she shook her head as if
pleasantly surprised—
"wonderful."

* * * * *

Alex
sat in the dugout, alone, watching jets of water from the sprinklers chug over
the grass. He leaned his back into the bench, legs propped up on the short wall
of dirt in front of him.

He'd
come to the park early.

Before
practice, before the fans came, a ballpark was a place of peace. A place to sit
and think. Mentally get ready for the game. Work through the pitches he was
going to throw.

He'd
told himself that's not why he'd come today. That it had been the heat driving
him out of the wood shop. But the warmth inside the shop had never bothered him
before. He should have been working on the oak rocker he'd been commissioned to
make, instead of letting his legs take him over to Municipal Field. It was a
broadax he should have been holding in his hand instead of a bat.