Holm, Stef Ann (29 page)

He'd
hit a home run.

The
voices of the red-hot Somersets fans were abruptly silenced. On the Keystones
bench, a wild cheer rose, along with the players who ran out to home plate to
wait for their unlikely hero.

When
Noodles came in, cheeks ruddy and jaw working on all that chewing gum, he
doffed his cap to Camille and said, "You were right, Miss Kennison. Those
Chiclets are the ticket."

She
laughed, unable to keep the smile from her lips as Cupid went up to bat in the
hopes of adding to the 1-0 score.

Alex
resumed his position beside her, leaning against the dugout wall, one ankle
lifted over his knee. The sound of gum popping as he snapped it between his
teeth made her turn toward him. His smile was as intimate as any kiss.

"You're
responsible for the gum, I'd bet."

He
shrugged. "I might have brought it to their attention." He twirled a
finger through the ivory flower petals on her hat, then trailed it lower down
to the piece of lace that it brushed her jaw. "But it was your idea."

Her
heart skittering, she brought her attention back to the game, heat and pleasure
dusting her cheeks.

The
game progressed with startling effort on the Keystones' part. Camille could
only hope it would keep up. In the top of the third, Charlie swooped low after
a brilliant going-away grab. Into the fifth, Duke shot the ball out to the
mound after an inning-ending strikeout. The Somersets' first baseman made a
hand-pop over to second after his line drive into the right field corner. And
after each play, the Keystones did a round-the-horn toss of the ball. In
two-step ragtime.

Jimmy
Shugart, who along with Cub and Yank, were the only players not in today's
game, grinned at the unexpected plays. His prominent teeth gleamed and
glistened. "We're showing them, Miss Kennison."

Yes,
they were.

Midday
heat made Camille's chemise stick to her skin; perspiration rolled between her
breasts. She felt sticky and in need of a cool bath. She took out her
handkerchief to dab her forehead. Then she did the unthinkable: She removed her
gloves, pulling on each damp finger and setting the gloves on top of her
pocketbook. It was just too hot to stand on ceremony.

She
chanced looking at the players as she lightly patted her face. They stared at
her, but quickly looked away when she caught them.

The
bottom of the seventh began, and not five minutes into it, Alex pitched a
breaking ball that the Somersets' batter got a piece of. He ran to first as the
ball shot to Bones. He gulped it, throwing so hard to Cupid, he'd scooped up
pebbles that sailed with the leather to first base. The runner slid and a
substantial amount of dust and confusion arose at the first base bag as the
Somerset runner's left foot crashed into Cupid's ankles and threw him off
kilter. He fell, but the ball was in his glove.

Mr.
Carpio didn't immediately make the call. Camille didn't take anything for
granted. It was obvious to her the Somersets' player was out. But from the look
in Boomer Hurley's heavily lidded eyes as he stormed the field, he thought
otherwise.

Camille
dashed out to meet him at first base.

"He's
out," she stated, not giving Boomer the opportunity to speak first.

"He's
not out," Boomer countered.

Thus
ensued an argument that had Camille gathering every single detail she knew
about the game—and then some. In the end, Mr. Carpio ruled that the Somerset
player was indeed out. That the umpire had found in her favor gave her
bottomless satisfaction.

But
her excitement evaporated when Boomer blared, "You've been a pain in the
ass since the day you set foot in a ballpark. You aren't manager material and
you never will be. Skirts or no skirts."

She'd
always been taught to treat her elders kindly. To respect their views, even
when disagreeing—but her mother had also taught her never to let a fool make a
fool of her. "Going by the criteria you set for yourself," she said
in an even tone that masked the tremor in her voice, "then you're right.
I'm not manager material."

The
nostrils of his overly large nose flared. He stammered and flapped his gums,
but no words came out. Then he blathered, "Just look at those players of
yours. They look like a hive of honeybees in those uniforms, and you're the
queen bee herself,
honey.
You aren't the Harmony Keystones. You're the
Harmony Honeybees!"

The
barb shouldn't have stung, but it did. The uniforms were a sore subject.
"A uniform doesn't make the player. The player makes himself. And if he's
good, the fans will know it. We're going to beat the pants off you today, Mr.
Hurley."

Boomer's
face seethed in anger. "Carpio doesn't allow cursing on his field. But if
he did, I'd like to
really
give you a piece of my mind."

"Oh,"
she said, frowning in feigned sympathy, "I couldn't
possibly
take
the last piece."

Then
she turned and sat back down—to the supportive laughter of the Keystones, who'd
heard every word. It was a long time before her heart quit its racing, but she
was proud she'd stood up to Hurley.

The
ball went back into play and a late-inning rally by the Somersets threatened
the ninth. The bases were loaded with two outs. The game was Alex's to hold or
lose. Cy Young came up to bat.

Camille
held her breath. Alex raised both hands until they were level with his left
eye. Striking a pose with attitude, he gazed at the ball for a long moment. He
stood like a tower of iron. Like a man who could make the baseball in his hand
do whatever he wanted it to.

He
turned the baseball around once or twice to get the best grip, his biceps hard
and tight. After a scowl at Specs and a glance at home plate, he nodded. Then
he delivered the ball with the precision and rapid fire of a cannon. It was a
pitch Cy clearly hadn't been expecting. All he could offer was a feeble,
off-balance slash at the ball and bloop it. It rolled to Cupid for the last
out.

The
game was over: 7-6, Keystones. They'd won.

The
players whooped and hollered, racing to the mound and jumping on Alex, knocking
him over. The display was juvenile and silly, but Camille couldn't help wanting
to jump right in, too. She stayed in the dugout, an immense feeling of
satisfaction putting a smile on her lips.

Alex
had had terrific fire and unbelievable drive today. He'd brought them out of
the dungeon and into the light. And each player had been a part of it. This win
wasn't a fluke. It had come to them because they'd played hard and worked
together.

The
players came into the dugout, animated and full of laughter. She tried to keep
her professional composure, but it was difficult not to get caught up in all
the merrymaking. Cradling her notebook in her arms, she told them in turn what
a great job they'd done.

"And
to show your appreciation," Charlie said with a wide grin on his face,
"you can let us indulge in a round of beers tonight!"

She
gave him a small smile. "If we win the next three games against the
Somersets, then you can buy yourselves beer on our last night in Boston. How's
that for incentive?"

Good-natured
grumbles came her way.

Duke
threw a towel around his neck. "Since we can't celebrate with suds, how
about we buy you a steak for dinner, Miss Kennison?"

"Yeah.
Show those St. James dining room folks we've got class," Doc added.

Camille
glanced at Alex, who'd removed his cap, wiped the sweat off his forehead, and
replaced the yellow hat to sit backward over his hair. "That would be
nice. I'll wait for you while you change and then—"

"Egads,
girls! Here they are!" The sudden excited screams of women filled the
field as the other Boston fans were released from the ropes that kept them in
the grandstands.

The
group of glamorous ladies came straight to the

Keystones
dugout, much to the delight of the players, who suddenly stood straighter,
groomed their hair back with their hands, and shoved their chewing gum in their
cheeks.

Female
fans.

The
Keystones hadn't been accosted thus far during their away games, as they hadn't
done a whole lot to impress the crowd. Camille knew that there were women who
followed baseball—more specifically, who followed the baseball players... and
wanted more from them than just their autographs.

"Could
you sign my hankie?" one woman asked Alex while shoving a lace-edged
handkerchief and a fountain pen at him. "I thought you were so
wahn-da-ful
out there, Mr. Cordova."

Camille
disregarded the niggling little tingle of jealousy she felt.

Alex
obliged the lady. Impeccably dressed in a gray day suit, the titian-haired
woman wore cosmetics, but it was apparent she wasn't a floozy—just a very
modern dresser. Camille looked at her lips that were soft and colored quite
artfully. Rose Delish. She'd seen the lip rouge this morning when she'd walked
into Jordan, Marsh & Co. to gaze at the department store's lavish displays.

No
doubt Alex liked the attention. He smiled, his teeth flashing white. He talked
with the women, as did the other players. The ladies went on complimenting and
flirting, some giggling and tittering behind their hands and some staring
boldly at the players.

Camille
stood back, her notebook in her arms. Miss Rose Delish was quite interested in
Alex. She wouldn't let him get away—not that he was showing any signs of
wanting to get away. He let her go on about how
wahn-da-ful
he was. How
he was so strong and such a great pitcher and it was a crying shame that he
didn't wear a Somersets uniform. Camille heard her go so far as to offer to
show him Boston. With the other ladies trying to talk over each other to vie
for his attention, Camille couldn't make out his reply. Not that it was any
business of hers.

How
could women not naturally flock to Alex? How could he not like it? He was a man
who appreciated a pretty woman. Just because he'd taken a few seasons off
didn't mean he'd changed his opinion of the women who congregated on the field
after the game.

She
found it hard to stand and watch as the women showered Alex with accolades in
their coquettish voices. She didn't care to explain why the scene bothered her.
It just did.

So
instead, she thought about what she would wear to dinner.

Not
that she'd be trying to impress Alex...

Alex
didn't
show up for dinner.

Dressed
in her finest mauve batiste, Camille ate, pretending the three tiers of
flounces on her embroidered skirt were nothing special. That the blouse with
its puff sleeves and tight wrists was just everyday attire. As was the
crushed-velvet belt and the tease of underblouse that showed through the deep
yoke of her waist.

She
dabbed her mouth, and the thought of the lady with rose-colored lips popped
into her head. She could just imagine what Alex was doing to those lips.

She
made small talk with the players and tried her best to cover her
disappointment. Every so often, she'd discreetly glance at the dining room
doorway to see if Alex had arrived.

But
he never appeared.

True
to their word, the players had generously followed through and bought her a
thick T-bone steak. The trouble was, she hadn't felt like eating it. She tried
to enjoy her meal but was grateful when the waiter cleared her plate. This
time, they hadn't had the trouble they'd had the night before in the dining
room. The waiters gave them excellent service.

She
declined dessert, thanked the players for her meal, then excused herself, but
she didn't want to return to her room. Just as the sun began to slip behind the
tall buildings, she left the hotel to run an errand. It didn't take long, and
she soon returned with a tissue-wrapped parcel, small enough to fit inside her
pocketbook.

Once
in her room, she stood in front of the low dresser and its silver-backed mirror
and withdrew the pins from her hair. Her blond tresses fell in loose spirals to
her hips. Absently, she unbuttoned her cuffs.

She
hadn't turned the wall sconce light up all the way, so the corners of her room
were gray. With nimble fingers, she unfastened the belt from behind and draped
it over her chair, then slid her arms out of her sleeves and hung the blouse in
the wardrobe.

Wearing
her skirt and the thin-strapped taffeta chemisette, she opened her pocketbook
and took out her package. She unwrapped the pretty colored paper. Inside lay
the small oval of cosmetic lip rouge she'd bought at Jordan, Marsh & Co.
The color: Rose Delish.

Using
a fine brush, she carefully applied the lip rouge. Leaning back, she viewed
herself with a critical gaze. She didn't look overdone, did she? She did look
different. Her lips seemed fuller, the bottom one broader. She moved this way
and that to get a better look. She had never before realized she had a cupid's
bow at the top of her lip. Now she did. Not overly exaggerated, but defined.