Holm, Stef Ann (27 page)

They
were shoved into the back corner of the hotel restaurant. Fifteen minutes
later, and still every waiter in sight avoided them like the plague. The twelve
ballplayers grew more disgruntled. There would have been thirteen, but Mox had
stayed behind in Harmony, unable to play because of his broken thumb.
Kennison's Hardware couldn't afford to bring the second baseman along just to
sit on the bench.

"What's
the holdup?" Cub grumbled. "Just because we're ballplayers doesn't
mean we're a bunch of pigs. "Red Vanderguest used to take care of stuff
like this. He'd holler over at the guy so loud his head would spin."

"Yeah,"
the others agreed.

Camille
gazed at Cub, then the rest of them.

For
the first time, she had to confront a situation where ladylike manners weren't
adequate to handle the problem. When she'd had to deal with facing scantily
clad men in a clubhouse, she'd come up with the idea of a screen to shield her
modesty. But suddenly, she realized her father had always been in charge when
they'd sat in a restaurant. And his way would have been Red Vanderguest's way.
She searched her mind for a solution because she absolutely wouldn't holler for
service.

With
a gentle smile, she turned and summoned a waiter by raising her hand. To no
avail. When she swiveled back, her gaze connected with Alex's. He relaxed in
his chair, his maddening eyebrows arched as he toyed with his knife. Parted in
the middle, his hair fell into his brows and his eyes. The chandelier light
above him gave the inky black strands a slight russet hue. When he looked at
her, he gave her a slight shrug as if to say:
Do you need my help?

No.
Absolutely not.

Camille
determinedly conducted a visual search for a waiter. Finally, one in dress
black walked toward them, and she sighed her relief. But it was short-lived as
he continued on to a party that had been seated after them.

Smoothing
her napkin with pronounced strokes, she averted her gaze from the players who
stared at her, waiting for her to yell. The best solution would be to leave the
restaurant. But where else could they go? Nothing was open at eleven o'clock at
night. In the end, she said, "I'm sure he'll be right back."

Cub
lifted his coffee cup and held it over the floor. "I'm sure he won't. But
this'll get him back."

Horror
made her heartbeat skip. "You'll do no such thing. I'll handle this."

The
waiter walked past them once more.

Ire
began to tick like a clock in her chest, and it took considerable effort not to
do as Cub threatened herself. Her fingers itched to drop a coffee cup on the
floor. But that would only prove the hotel management right—they were baseball
players and as such, had a reputation for being destructive and obnoxious.
That's why in Philadelphia the Keystones had had to live on frankfurters bought
from a vendor's stand.

She
looked at the maître d' who was conversing with a couple. She waited for him to
come their way. When he did, she kept her composure in place while saying,
"Excuse me, sir, but we've been waiting twenty minutes for service. Is
there a problem?"

The
man had the nerve to smile, as if he didn't know what was going on. "No,
ma'am." His eyes leveled on her as if he thought she were a minor
inconvenience. "I was going to send a waiter to your table."

"When?"

"When
I had one available." He gave a long, slow perusal to each man at the
table. His nose wrinkled in disapproval.

Her
thoughts raced dangerously to images of hurling her coffee cup at him, but she
maintained her curt composure when censuring him, "Many people violate
some of the observances of etiquette, whether from ignorance, thoughtlessness,
or carelessness. The Keystones have never been thrown out of a hotel or charged
with any kind of public disruption. For you to assume our manners are lacking
because we are from a baseball organization is prejudice and beyond appalling."

Although
she made an excellent point, one that her finishing-school teacher would have
applauded, Camille had to admit she sounded like a deportment textbook. And
worse—ineffective.

The
maître d' grew flustered. "Let me assure you, ma'am, we don't base our
level of service on the occupations of our customers."

"Oh?"

"Certainly
not."

"Then
you don't dislike baseball players."

"As
a matter of fact, I like the Somersets. Nobody plays better than Cy
Young."

"Then
it's just the matter of our being the rival team."

His
face turned red. "I wouldn't say—"

"But
you already have by not giving us service."

"Ma'am,
you are putting words in my mouth."

"I
would rather put an order in your hand, sir."

Mottled
from annoyance over the quick exchange, his cheeks grew redder. "I will
have a waiter here in a moment."

"That
won't do." The thumping of her pulse pounded the inside of her wrists.
"You
may write down our selections."

"I
couldn't possibly. It's not my station to write orders."

This
was getting her nowhere. She had to think fast and outwit him. Drawing in a
breath, she snapped, "Then I'm quite certain it isn't your station to
accept a gratuity."

His
brows peaked. "Ma'am, I don't take tips."

"Of
course not. And if you don't, you couldn't possibly take tickets to tomorrow's
game. It's a shame, because Cy Young is pitching."

He
stood there, wide-eyed. "The game is sold out."

"Yes,
I know. But I have several complimentary seats. I suppose I'll have to give
them to that nice gentleman at the front desk who checked us in."

All
but stammering, the maître d' said, "I could make an exception in this
case and—"

"I
wouldn't want you to compromise yourself. We'll wait for a waiter."

"No
need." The red on his cheeks faded to a shade of pink. Delighted pink.

Within
seconds, the maître d' had taken their orders and scurried off to the kitchen
to submit them. She lifted her eyes to Alex, who saluted her with his water
glass.

He
spoke across the table. "That's one way to handle it."

"And
I didn't have to yell to get my point across," she reasoned.

"No,"
Cub said, then chuckled. "You just had to resort to bribery."

"Yes...
well."

But
then the most unexpected thing happened. Cub winked at her and said, "It
worked, didn't it?"

Shortly
thereafter, five waiters appeared at their table bearing trays of hot food, and
they were served with quick efficiency. Succulent roast beef, whipped potatoes,
glazed carrots, bread and butter. For dessert, there were thick wedges of
triple-layer chocolate cake.

As
they ate, jovial laughter went around the table. Camille heard her name
mentioned over and over, in a way that she'd never thought she'd hear.

"I
have to admit, listening to her was better than watching Red throw his dinner
plate."

Laughter
and smiles.

"She
put words in his mouth he didn't know he had."

More
smiles.

"That
fellow didn't know what hit him."

Nods
of agreement.

"When
she mentioned the tickets, he sure changed his tune."

Then
from Specs, "You got him to do something without yelling, Miss Kennison.
You stuck up for us."

Fork
in hand, Camille paused. "Of course I did. Because we've got a right to
the same service as anybody else. Just like," she added softly, "I've
got the right to have the same chance as any other manager in charge of the
Keystones. I know I don't do things the way Red Vanderguest or my father did.
Just because I don't swear or spit or yell doesn't mean that I don't care about
what happens to this team."

The
players looked at her, solemnly and thoughtfully, and for a long moment,
nothing else was said. The seconds passed. Silent understanding measured out
the time. Camille felt rekindled hope that she could be taken seriously.

Then
the smiling came back and the men resumed eating. Talk began anew. They traded
jokes, laughing and expressing their enjoyment.

The
men included her in their conversation.

It
was a rapport she'd never experienced before in her life—most certainly not
with the Garden Club women.

She
lowered her head, a full smile on her lips that she couldn't contain. She was a
part of something and it felt wonderful.

When
she looked up, she found Alex staring at her and her excitement slowed to
something else— deeper, more intense. She had the fleeting feeling that he
thought her... worthy.

And
that meant a lot to her.

They
looked
like bumblebees.

The
uniforms the Keystones had brought with them to the St. James hotel weren't the
same ones that had gone to the laundry in Harmony. Alex looked at the putrid
color of the fabric encasing his arms and legs, then glared at Camille.

"I
can't imagine what could have happened," she gasped, giving them all a
glance. "I took the dirty uniforms to the laundry, the same way as I
always do—in the canvas bags. Then I picked these up the next day. How could
something like this have happened? It's not as if the colors have faded. These
are
new
uniforms."

"These
are puke-i-forms," Noodles whined.

They'd
left the hotel for the Huntington Avenue Grounds without checking the uniforms.
There'd been no reason to. But now the Keystones had no choice but to suit up
in the bumblebee gear.

Camille
was perplexed. "The colors may be a little... bright, but it will be
easier for you to spot one another on the field. Old gold with dark slate for
the lettering."

"This
isn't any Old Gold and Dark Slate," Yank commented, scowling at the clash
of colors on his chest.

Noodles
broke in. "This is squash yellow and black plum."

Cupid
frowned. "Put the two together—"

"—and
you've got a bumblebee," Bones finished.

Grumbles
circulated in the small room.

"I
honestly don't know how such a mistake could have been made," Camille
said, standing before them, her peach dress falling in a light swirl of fabric
over her long legs. "But mark my words, I'll get to the bottom of it when
I get back to Harmony. In the meantime," she said encouragingly, "are
they
that
bad? The Tigers and the Senators wear bright colors."

No
comment.

Dressed
as she was, she reminded Alex of an Italian ice—enticing on a hot day. He
wanted to put his mouth over hers to see if she tasted as cool and sweet as she
looked.

She
wore a simple braided hat that on closer inspection looked vaguely familiar.
Damned if it wasn't the hat he'd given her—minus most of the gewgaws the
milliner had put on it. Just a sprig of lace here and there remained, and one
ivory flower.

"Well,"
she went on, her eyes resting on Alex a moment. "We'll just have to make
the best of things. There isn't anything else you can wear."

"Our
birthday suits," Jimmy suggested with a grin.

"Yes,"
Camille replied, "that would go over very well. Why don't you?"

It
took the players a few seconds to realize she was teasing them. Afterward, they
laughed along with her and shook their heads at Jimmy.

Alex
sat down on the bench and began to lace up his shoes. Uniforms were the least
of his worries. It was all he could do to keep his mind clear and his thoughts
from being pulled down a dark path. But hard as he tried to keep away visions
of Joe, Joe McGill filled his head. Alex saw Joe at the plate, catcher's mitt
in his grasp. As the years had melted away, so had some of the words he'd once
traded with the Giants' catcher. He couldn't remember exactly everything they'd
said to each other that day. He knew they weren't pretty. It was part of the
game, of the way they were toward one another.

Laces
knotted, Alex sat back and inhaled deep lungfuls of air. He'd get through the
day, just like he had on the two previous Junes. Only today, he had to get
through it with a bat in his hand. He had to fight the personal battle raging
in him. He had to stay uncaring, remain unfeeling.

If
Joe were here, he'd probably say to spare him no mercy. To knock him right out
of the batter's box because he was going to hit the ball out of the park. The
admission was dredged from a place Alex didn't like to go—memories of the old
days, the glory days.

His
glory days.

To
get out on the mound, to pitch like he meant business, to see the batters take
a powder, one right after the other, strike, strike, strike—He was capable of
doing it. Just like he'd done that afternoon Camille had caught him hurling
balls at the dirt.