Holm, Stef Ann (2 page)

A
chill gripped him. He was superstitious. Most every ballplayer was. A white
butterfly meant calamity. A yellow or red one would have been a lot friendlier
sight.

"Boo."
Heavy sarcasm weighted Alex's voice.

The
ribbing drove Joe's fury, making him ride Alex. He pushed in close, too close,
but he wanted to make Cordova sweat. Needed the umpire to call him out. Then
Joe was going to tackle Alex and ram his knuckles into his smug jaw. He didn't
give a good night if he got bounced out of the game.

Joe
gave Rusie the signal to throw another spitball, down and out.

Rusie
nodded, but the ball that came Joe's way was hard and fast.

He
began to straighten his legs, shoving his shoulder against Alex to glove the
ball. It was an outside pitch Alex shouldn't have gone after. But he did,
putting his body into the motion of the bat as he swung.

Then
Joe's world went black.

Three
years later

Harmony,
Montana

Men
were
drawn to Camille Kennison like bees were to honeysuckle blossoms.

While
she walked to her father's hardware store, gentlemen doffed their hats and
wished her a pleasant day. She always gave them a smile. But where most women
would be flattered by the attention, for Camille it became a chore to say
"Good afternoon" so often.

She
liked men, of course. But she noticed the way they looked at her. They were
more interested in her appearance than in what she had to say. As her father so
often reminded her, pretty women were never thought of as smart
conversationalists. And throughout her life, Camille had been told she was a
regal beauty.

Men
saw only that she was a statuesque woman with honey-blond hair, had a
gracefully curved figure, and an oval face with skin like fine ivory. Dozens of
times, she'd been told her mouth was lush and kiss-able, its color a deep blush
like that of dew-washed roses. And if she were honest with herself, she'd have
to admit that she'd been kissed by dozens of men. Chastely. Demurely. Certainly
not passionately. No man had ever ignited that in her, so she didn't believe
sexual delirium existed except in fiction tomes and poetry.

However...
Alex Cordova sorely tested her theory. With his shoulder-length black hair and
full, sensual lips, he could look at her as if she were brainless and she
probably wouldn't care.

Alex
Cordova was deliriously appealing.

The
man was an enigma. Nobody knew much of anything about him now that he didn't
play baseball, and that made people curious. Women couldn't keep their eyes off
him when he came into town. Herself included.

Shifting
a lunch pail from one hand to the other, she opened the store's door and walked
across the sawdust floor. A smoky kerosene odor hovered in the air. The
interior was poorly lit, but James Kennison kept things neat and tidy. She
skirted three stacks of zinc washtubs. Piled on big tables were slop jars,
cuspidors, dishpans, sadirons, washbasins, coffee grinders, and household
necessities.

Camille's
father stood at the counter in conversation with Dr. Teeter, who could talk up
a week's worth of Sundays all in one day. The dentist had an ingrained need to
show off his mouthful of white teeth. He never missed an opportunity to talk
and grin and laugh. She didn't know why he felt he had to use himself as an
advertisement. Being the only drill-and-fill man in town, he wouldn't have
lacked for customers even if his teeth had been less than perfect.

Her
father interjected "Is that so?" in the appropriate places while Dr.
Teeter droned on, but Camille suspected he listened only out of obligation to
his customer. Wearing a cashmere suit, and with string apron tied around his
slim waist, her father dressed the part of a successful businessman. And he
was. He worked hard to turn a profit while establishing his good name in the
community.

"I
brought you lunch, Daddy." A trace of Camille's Louisiana accent always
came out when she addressed her father. The slight emphasis she put on the last
syllable of
da-Dee
made it sound faintly Southern.

He
barely noticed her, saying without a word of thanks, "Put it over there,
Camille."

She
slipped behind the counter and set the lunch pail next to the cash register.
The clasp of her pocket-book easily opened beneath her gloved fingers. She took
out the tiny notepad and flipped the cover over. On the pristine paper, she'd
written everything she needed to get her garden started this year.

Early
May had been unseasonably wet, so she hadn't been able to plant her beds. But
she could console herself with the fact that everyone else would have a late
start, too. She'd still have the opportunity to cultivate the best flower and
vegetable beds in Harmony. It was imperative that she did so, because this was
the year she planned to run for president of the Harmony Garden Club.

She
had a fairly good shot at it, too. Last year, Mrs. Calhoon held the esteemed
position. The year before, Mrs. Plunkett—for a record three terms. Both ladies
had made competent leaders, but they weren't willing to try new things. During
the past few years, younger women had started to join the club, and it was time
for a younger woman to run it. Camille had a host of ideas that were a bit
unconventional. Modern fertilizers and up-to-date pruning methods. She planned
to show the club ladies exactly what open-minded thinking could do for one's
garden.

Camille
had barely taken a step toward the Burpee seed display when Dr. Teeter's
comment stopped her short.

"It's
a shame about yesterday's game," he said, lounging next to the counter's
edge. "If it weren't for bad fielding, we could have won."

Her
gaze darted to her father, and she held her breath. These days, there were two
subjects you didn't bring up with him: baseball and Ned Butler.

Daddy's
hardware store owned and had sponsored the local baseball team for ten years.
Kennison's Keystones had never caused any fanfare on the field. But since
they'd been accepted for membership into the American League this year, her
father had high hopes for the officially renamed Harmony Keystones.

Only
those hopes had been diagnosed with a bad case of eczema. Dr. Porter said that
Ned Butler, the manager of the Keystones, had a condition brought about by
exhaustion of the nervous system. It had gone haywire dealing with James
Kennison day in and day out.

Ned
had begun to itch during spring training. Then, three weeks ago on opening day
after the Keystones had been trounced by the Detroit Tigers 9-0, he collapsed
with a skin rash the likes of which the townspeople of Harmony had never seen.
Per doctor's orders, Ned wasn't supposed to become excited, be exposed to undue
or sudden transitions from heat to cold, exercise excessively, breathe impure
air, or wear improper clothing.

In
short, he was confined indefinitely to a sickroom while Mrs. Butler painted
glycerine on him to alleviate his itching.

Ned
Butler was the tenth manager the Keystones had had in as many years. Her father
had been in Ned's way from the moment Ned stepped off the train to the moment
he dropped flat on his keister after that Detroit game. Daddy could be a tad
anxious when things didn't go well. And they weren't. The Keystones had lost
twelve of the last twelve games they'd played this season.

Her
father existed in a constant state of irritation that was getting harder and
harder to live with. Camille had considered growing and selling potted plants,
decorating flower containers to go with them. She would earn only a modest
amount, but it would be enough to allow her to pay for a room at the
boardinghouse and to gain a bit of independence. Not to mention distance from
her father's volatile moods.

"Bad
fielding!" Contempt sparked her father's words as he wielded a feather
duster. "It was a lot more than bad fielding. Charlie Delahanty and Specs
Ryan slammed into each other chasing a fly ball in the fifth inning." He
vigorously brushed off the case beside him, then took out the dangerous-looking
knives it housed and swished the duster over the shelves. "Doc Nash
overthrowing to first base in the seventh." White feathers scattered in
the air as if chickens were taking a dust bath. "And that bonehead play at
home plate with Cub LaRoque and the wild pitch in the ninth."

Camille
had watched the game from the stands. And no matter her father's reasoning, all
the fielding in the world wouldn't have allowed the Keystones to catch up to
the Cleveland Blue's six
un
earned runs. Because the Keystones couldn't
hit worth a darn, either.

"Well,
the season's still young," Dr. Teeter remarked, teeth filling his
optimistic grin. "The Keystones could be in the pennant race."

Her
father continued to dust an area that hadn't needed dusting in the first place.
"I promised Harmony a winning team this year. And I'm a man of my word.
We'll get there if I have to manage the team for the entire season
myself."

Camille
fervently hoped that wasn't going to happen. She'd brought him his lunch today
because he had to close the store an hour early to get to Municipal Field on
time for this afternoon's game. There, she knew he would alternately stand and
sit and pace and yell and throw down his hat and pick it up, only to throw it
down again. On a good day, her father had a short fuse. On a bad day—which had
been all the days since Ned had been confined to his bed—he was as sour as a
crabapple.

Thinking
the touchy subject had been dropped, she took another step. She hadn't put her
shoe heel down when Dr. Teeter added, "Although it would have been a lot
surer bet"—she froze and braced herself for what would come—"if we'd
been able to keep Will White."

"Will
White!" Her father's temper exploded like a blast from the lumbermill's
lunch whistle. The feather duster came to an abrupt halt and his face grew
ruddy. "When I find that young no-account, he'll be sorry he ever ran out
on his contract."

Between
paying Will White a bonus—just before the man skipped town, paying Ned Butler a
partial salary the manager hadn't earned, and building a new clubhouse this
year, James Kennison couldn't invest much more money into his team without its
becoming a financial burden.

The
Keystones had had a chance of seeing a pennant when her father signed the
quick-delivery pitcher this past February. He'd cost a handsome price, but Will
brought the most hope to Harmony's baseball fans they'd had in years. But he
left in the middle of spring training, taking off with his contract pay before
ever pitching a scheduled game.

If
Will hadn't gone to the Elm Street theater to watch a performance of
Antony
and Cleopatra,
he wouldn't have seen Pearl Chaussee. Or her legs in a pair
of opaque tights and her ample bosom in a low-necked silk tunic. The Women's
League had drawn the curtain on the "scandalous" production after two
nights. If they'd shut it down after the first performance, Will wouldn't have
become lovesick over Pearl and left the Keystones high and dry.

Dr.
Teeter, realizing he'd struck a nerve—which didn't bode well for his dental
skills, focused on Camille. "How's that third molar of yours you had me
check in January?"

"It's
still rooted to the spot," she replied.

The
dentist guffawed, all teeth. "That's a good one. I'll bet next to my wife,
you were the smartest girl in your finishing-school class."

Johannah
Treber Teeter and Camille had both graduated from Mrs. Wolcott's Finishing
School this spring.

"She
doesn't need to be smart," her father informed the dentist, laying the
duster back on the shelf. "She's pretty. With her looks, she could have
any man for a husband." He scowled at her. "She's just picky."

Camille
did her best to hide her embarrassment. Her father had been saying things like
that since she turned thirteen. She only wished he wouldn't say them in public.
It made people look at her differently. As if she were stuck up. She had never
considered her appearance an attribute. In fact, she thought it a nuisance.

"I
suppose I should be on my way," Dr. Teeter said, adjusting the angle of
his hat. "Nice talking with you, James."

"See
you again," her father said in farewell as the dentist retreated out the
door. As soon as the man was gone, her father whined, "Doesn't he have any
patients to occupy his time? Make another appointment with him, Camille."

"I
don't need to." She squinted in an effort to read the items on her list,
then glanced at the light flickering above her head. "When are you going
to tap into the city's electrical lighting instead of using kerosene lamps?"

"Never.
I don't want my store so bright that anyone standing clear over on Hackberry
Way can see inside. If the place were lit up like a Roman candle, I couldn't
see what Bertram Nops was up to without him knowing I was watching him."

James
Kennison and Bertram Nops had been having a hardware feud since back in '89
when Camille's family arrived in town. Nops Hardware Emporium was located
directly opposite of Kennison's. Hack-berry Way and Sycamore Drive separated
the two businesses, the town square sandwiched in the middle. If the two men
spent less energy trying to outdo each other with sale prices, giveaways, and
dastardly tricks, they'd have more time to actually enjoy doing business.