Holm, Stef Ann (21 page)

In
the past, she'd flirted with men; she'd been coy. They, in turn, had come to
her with flowers and candy. It had been a ritual of sorts. Neither she nor her
suitor had taken things all that seriously.

But
now, the men that had been in her life seemed so insignificant. So trifling.
She felt a stirring deep within her heart, a place that had never been touched.
She feared and yearned for the feeling at the same time.

Alex
moved away first, bringing himself back to the aloofness she was used to. But
she could see the shudder of his chest as he drank the night air to his lungs.

She
dared to broach a topic that she thought she now understood. "You can't
pitch because you worry about Captain's illness."

She
didn't know what she expected from him, but laughter hadn't been it.

Humor
lacing his words, he replied, "That's not why."

"Then
tell me what's wrong."

He
faced her, an easy grin on his mouth—a grin she wanted to erase. "There's
nothing wrong."

"There
is." She went as far as speaking what she'd been thinking for the past
hour—even though it would probably come back to haunt her. And she'd never hear
the end of it from her father. "If you need me to let you out of your
contract, I can do that."

Before
she knew it, he'd laid a hand on her shoulder. He didn't hurt her, but his
displeasure was clear. "Don't even
think
of letting me out of my
contract. We have an agreement."

"I
just thought that if you're so distracted—"

"You
distract me." Then he brought his mouth over hers, in a quick but
effective kiss that left her reaching for the window casement when he moved
away from her. "G'night, honey."

Then
he left her there, reeling from the warm touch of his lips.

"Is
there any way you can get back issues of a Baltimore newspaper for me, Mr.
Gage?" Camille asked.

The
clunk and whoosh of the press echoed through the tiny shop as the latest
edition of the
Harmony Advocate
was printed. Strong odors of ink and wet
pulp filled the air.

Matthew
Gage, the editor, reclined behind a desk, fingers meshed against his neck and
his feet kicked up. He was quite attractive. He wore his black hair clipped
short and fashionable; he'd grown a mustache in the past month. A dark blue
silk vest covered a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Curls of a smoke
from his cigar swirled toward the ceiling.

Meg
Brooks had done very well when she married this man. He was ambitious and yet
fit into the slowness of small-town life. Camille did, however, have one small
bone to pick with him. But she wouldn't bring that up until after he answered
her question about the newspapers.

"It's
possible, Miss Kennison." Standing, he said, "But it may take some
time." He went to the press to check the long sheets of paper running
through the machinery. He raised his voice above the loud clackety-clack.
"How soon do you need them?"

"As
soon as you can get them." She reached into her pocketbook and withdrew a
piece of paper. "This is the year I'd like you to find."

Mr.
Gage took the sheet and gazed at it. "1898." His brows furrowed.
"Any specific month? A search like this is going to take just about as
long as 1898 did."

She
snapped the clasp closed on her purse. "April to June—I think. Go to July,
just in case."

"I
can tell them to look, but what exactly," he said, lowering the paper,
"are they looking for? Do you want copies of the dailies from those
months? Going to be expensive to get them and have them mailed."

"How
expensive?"

"Really
expensive." He leaned a knee into the low spindled railing that separated
the pressroom from the office. "If you told me what, specifically, you
want to find, I could save you a lot of money. And time."

She
didn't want to have to come out and say it, but she was left with no choice.
"Could you have them look for any articles written about Alex
Cordova?"

Mr.
Gage didn't ask her why. In fact, he didn't seem all that interested. "All
right. Give me a couple of weeks. I can have the telegraph request sent today.
I know one of the editors on the
Sun.
He may be able to pull some
strings. It's still going to take somebody a lot of hours reading over those
back issues, Miss Kennison."

"I
understand." She fussed with a row of buttons on her gloves. "Do I
pay you a deposit for your services now?"

"You
can pay me when the newspapers come in."

"Thank
you."

As
he began to turn to the press once more, she blurted, "Mr. Gage, I enjoy
reading the
Advocate.
Harmony needed a newspaper. I do, however, have to
take issue with the fact that you keep printing unflattering headlines about
the Keystones."

When
she had his full attention, she continued. "Take for example, last
Friday's edition when you reported on our game with the Detroit Tigers. I
wasn't here, but my father saved a copy for me." And with great huff and
bluster, he'd handed it over to her. "Headlines like the keystones go down
in a boatload of mistakes is bad for morale."

His
eyes, a mixture of gold and green, leveled on her. "Pardon my saying so,
Miss Kennison, but I didn't think the Keystones had any morale."

She
drew herself taller, quietly bristling. "We might have lost eight on the
road in the past sixteen days, but we did win three."

He
brought his cigar to his mouth. On a puff, he said, "Next time you win,
I'll make a special banner."

"You
do that." She smoothed down the front of her skirt. "Good day."

She
exited the newspaper office and headed toward the restaurant. Now that that
piece of business was taken care of, she could move onto the next. Which would
be about as pleasant as having Dr. Teeter drill out a cavity.

* * * * *

"I'm
buying the cottage on Elm and Hackberry Way," Camille announced, taking a
fortifying sip of water. "Mr. Healy is handling the transaction. I've put
a down payment on it."

"What?"
Her
father's reaction was precisely what she had thought it would be. He threw his
napkin on the table. At least he couldn't break anything.

She'd
invited her parents to lunch at a public place: Nannie's Home-Style
Restaurant—safe ground on which to announce her plans.

She'd
stalled for a while. They'd placed their meal orders, talked briefly about how
the team was coming along. Vehemently, she'd had to deny there was any trouble
on the road. But her father had heard about the train incident and hotel
pranks. Most likely, the players had told him in an effort to get her canned.
She'd assured her father that she could handle the situations as they arose.

Choking,
her father stared at her. Her mother leaned forward a little over the table,
eyes wide with surprise.

Camille
proceeded in a rush. "I have that small amount of money in the bank from
Granddaddy Kennison that I used for the deposit, but the majority of my living
expenses are corning from my salary of twelve hundred dollars." She didn't
pause for a breath. "Of which I'm owed one hundred and fifty dollars as of
today, Daddy. I haven't pursued the financial aspect of my position because I
wasn't sure how things would work out. But now that I'm certain I'll be in the
manager's position for the season, I have an income that can support me."

"How
much is this house?" her father asked.

"Nine
hundred dollars."

"Nine
hundred dollars," her mother repeated. "Camille, that's so much
money."

"I
know, but I'll have the mortgage paid off by October." She fingered the
handles of her clean utensils. "After that, I'll rethink my options. If
Daddy doesn't find anyone else for the manager's job, maybe I could keep it for
another year."

"I
can't believe you'd make such a decision and not talk it over with us
first," her mother said, worry lines marring her forehead.

"A
woman doesn't buy her own home," her father bellowed, then, on her
mother's warning—sent with just a look—lowered his voice. "She waits for
her husband to buy one for her."

"I
don't have a husband," Camille reminded him.

"And
whose fault is that?"

"I'm
not interested in marriage at the moment," she replied, refusing to let
him interfere with her resolve. "I bought the house because I felt like it
was time I became independent. The cottage is in some disrepair, but the
location is very respectable."

"I
know how much
disrepair
it's in—I've seen it." Replacing his thrown
napkin on his lap, her father said, "Healy hasn't been able to unload it
for over a year."

"But
it is in a nice part of town." Her mother grew thoughtful. "Oh,
Camille, you'll be alone. I'll worry."

"I'll
be fine."

"A
woman doesn't buy her own home," her father reiterated.

"And
a woman doesn't manage a baseball team either. But I am."

"Don't
get me fired up about that again."

The
debate went on for nearly half an hour, the conversation quite rocky at times.
Their lunches came but were barely touched. After her father paid the bill,
he'd stood and frowned. He hadn't revised his opinion an inch, calling her
actions irrational. He did, however, relent on paying her a salary. She'd have
the money in her bank account this afternoon.

"The
thinking of modern women baffles me," he exclaimed, pushing in his chair.
"The next thing you'll be telling me is you want to take over my hardware
store."

Her
mother placed a hand on Camille's arm. "Are you quite certain this is what
you want to do?"

She
was quite certain. The decision wasn't a rash one. And it had to do with the
players. The fact that they'd played tricks and practical jokes on her while in
Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., was a determining factor. Men couldn't
respect a manager—female or male—who still lived with parents. It wasn't
independent. In the players' eyes, her being their manager probably looked to
be a whim. An indulgence by a father. She'd come across differently if she had
to depend on the baseball team for her livelihood. And now she would.

If
she was going to be a spinster, she'd better be one in the truest sense of the
word.

"I'm
very certain, Mama," Camille said at length. "I'll be happy living
alone. I'll come visit you often, and you and Daddy can come visit me."

And
that's how things had been left between them.

An
hour later, Camille stood in the empty parlor of the cottage, glad she was
daring enough to buy it. The cottage was charming. Empty, but charming. In need
of tender care, but perfect for her.

The
first floor had a piazza that ran around two sides of the building. Callers
entered directly inside the living room. There was no foyer. A corner fireplace
drew the eye with its floor-to-ceiling brickwork; the cobwebs and ashes needed
to be swept out. Two pocket doors led to the dining room, which had four
windows; from there was the kitchen with a pantry and porch. A shed had been
attached by the last owner. It housed a water closet and small shower bath with
tub.

The
upstairs had ultimately drawn Camille to the cottage. At the top of the stairs
was a loggia with latticework. From the position of the house, she would
receive just the right amount of sunlight for her ferns and other delicate
plants. The area was protected against the wind but would heat up nicely on a
warm summer day. Perhaps she'd try her hand at orchids.

Aside
from the loggia, the second floor had two large bedrooms, and one smaller one,
which she wasn't sure yet what she'd use for. A long hall ran between them, and
the bedroom she'd picked for herself had a balcony that connected to the other
bedroom of the same side. Inside, a large closet shared space between them.

The
exterior needed paint. The drab colors had faded and were peeling in places.
She wanted to go with Indian red for the accents, medium olive for the trim,
and fawn for the body. The leafy green foliage of her plants would look
wonderful against that kind of scheme. When the Garden Club came by for teas,
she would have a beautiful setting in which its members could view her garden.

She
had sent out invitations for this Friday's meeting to be held at her new
residence. They'd be taking the vote for the next president. Her name was on
the ballot, along with Mrs. Calhoon's and Mrs. Treber's. She had no illusions
that by inviting them over, she'd gain votes. She'd already missed two meetings
because she'd been out of town. When she allowed herself to, she doubted her
ability to manage both team and club. But she didn't want to think about that.
She wanted to be able to juggle the two positions.

It
was important for her to maintain a good impression. These women's lives were
steeped in tradition. To be president meant you had the fortitude to lead such
a group. To display a garden worthy of renown, which she would have because while
she'd been away, Leda had watered her plants. They were coming along nicely.