Holm, Stef Ann (40 page)

"No,"
Deacon said with a good-humored quirk to his mouth, "you just couldn't
catch a bird dropping if the bird crapped in your glove."

And
that's how the painting party began.

Half
-naked baseball
players painted Camille Kennison's house.

It
was a good thing she lived at the end of town. The spectacle going on was
nothing short of scandalous.

Jimmy
had asked her pardon, but he had had to take his shirt off. This being a hot
day, he wore no undershirt, and his chest was as bare as when he'd been born.
Soon Duke and Doc followed suit. Then Bones and Yank. And finally the
rest—until fourteen shirtless men stood on ladders, porches, the roof, and the
loggia, painting her house. To Camille, the lack of clothing didn't much
matter. What harm did it do for a man to paint with his shirt off?

Besides,
she was already on the outs with the Garden Club for managing the Keystones, so
what difference did one more infraction make? None, to her mind. Well, none
that she cared to examine. She talked herself into thinking this was just
fine—they were working without shirts only because the sun was baking them. And
another thing... at least the players were in good shape and they were
something to look at.

But
Camille had eyes only for Alex.

She
watched the way his muscles moved as his arm stroked up and down the side of
the house. His tattoo moved fiercely with each rippling muscle as he leaned
left or right. He wore nankeen pants, the cotton a faded buff color, with a
hint of the ribbed drawers beneath showing where the waistband dipped at his
navel. The hat on his head was the same she'd seen him with when he'd come down
the boardwalk that first day she'd been with Captain outside the hardware
store. She'd thought it looked very appealing on him then, and now was no
different.

In
fact, everything about him appealed to her.

His
body, his face, the way he moved. The outline of his buttocks in his tight
pants. Powerfully muscled biceps that glistened bronze beneath the simmering
rays of sun. The way that grizzly bear tattoo seemed to come alive with each
motion of his arm, his shoulder moving with each stroke of the brush. The shape
of his nose and jaw. The way his lips caught condensation from the outside of
his lemonade glass. How he would wipe his forehead with a bandanna and
eventually tie the red patterned scarf around his brow and fit his hat back on.

"It
sure is hot," Hildegarde commented, sipping on a glass of lemonade.

"It's
very hot," Camille replied, wishing she could take off her stockings and
shoes and cool her feet with water from the garden hose... cool her lips with
the taste of Alex's.

Sitting
opposite Hildegarde on the horsehair cushion of the lawn swing, she watched the
men paint her house. The green-and-white canopy above kept the sun from glaring
directly on them. The temperature registered a scorching ninety-six degrees on
the storm thermometer nailed to a ledge outside her kitchen window.

"I
think this is the hottest August I can remember," Hildegarde went on, her
hat brim making an oblong shadow over her eyebrows. "It makes me think of
those times Meg and Ruth and I jumped into Evergreen Creek in our shimmies.
We'd get mud between our toes, but it was fun. You should have joined us."
She lowered her glass. "It was a lot of fun. Then again, I think you were
too worried about what the boys would say."

"I
wasn't," Camille said in self-defense. But maybe she had been. "I was
afraid to get wet." Her admission came from a place that she never thought
she'd admit to—fear of doing something unflattering.

"Afraid?
Honest? We always thought—" Hildegarde said softly, "and I don't mean
this to sound awful because I don't think you're awful, but those of us in Mrs.
Wolcott's class who talked—we thought you didn't want to come with us because
you were stuck up."

Camille
could see now how they'd gotten that idea. "I would have liked to
come."

"Well,
we asked you once and you said no."

"I
remember." She'd always regretted that. "If you ever ask me again,
I'll come."

"But
now we don't do things like that anymore," Hildegarde said as she lowered
her glass. "It isn't ladylike. Meg can get away with it, though. She has a
husband who doesn't mind her outlandish ways. I wonder if Captain would... that
is..."

Camille
watched the young woman's cheeks color.
Hildegarde and Captain.
The
thought of them as a couple came as no surprise. And on the heels of that came
approval. They would be perfect together.

After
a long pause, Hildegarde continued. "What do you think of Captain without
his beard and with his hair cut?" she asked, giving the tall man a
sheepish glance.

Camille
had been startled by his transformation, but pleasantly so. "I think he's
handsome."

A
little breathless, Hildegarde blurted, "I think so, too. I never would
have imagined... but he makes me..." She blushed and paused. "Well,
you know. You have more experience than I do with men. I mean, I was almost
engaged to Meg when she was masquerading as Arliss Bascomb. So what do I know
about true romance?"

Looking
at the other woman, Camille gave her a thoughtful study. She wore the latest in
fashion, a full blouse and circular skirt that was pieced out of old gores and
flounces. This had recently come in, and not everyone's figure could support
it. But with Hildegarde's curves and ample proportions, she wore the new style
well.

"I
think you don't give yourself enough credit, Hildegarde. I always thought you
were pretty."

She
squeaked, "Me?" Resting a hand over her heart, she gasped. "I've
never had a beau in my life. Men flock to you, but you never go after any of
them. Why not? Don't you want to get married?"

Camille
shrugged. "Maybe I just haven't found a man who likes me for me." But
that wasn't wholly the truth. She'd just been very picky—like her father said.
Her reluctance had more to do with men not wanting to know if she had an idea
in her head. They liked to make all her choices for her. She didn't want that.
She'd given up on a man until...

Well...
until Alex.

Her
gaze strayed to him where he stood on the loggia and painted the trim around
the windows Indian red. He'd told her she wasn't supposed to lift a finger
because this was the team's gift to her for managing them. She didn't think it
the team's idea—it was Alex's doing. She loved the thought. She loved...

She
was afraid to go further with the thought. Love and commitment had never been
spoken about between them. She'd feel awkward talking about it. He was
everything she'd ever wanted romantically. But to tell him would only put a
strain on the relationship. Because they couldn't go public with any feelings
while she managed the team. It would be inappropriate.

As
the swing slowly rocked, she looked at the men brandishing brushes and swinging
paint buckets. She would have painted her house on her own. Her plans had
included a full-length cotton duster, gloves, and rubber boots. Neatness. And
long, long hours of effort. Thanks to Alex, she would have the entire place done
today.

For
lunch, she'd set out sandwiches—Hildegarde had brought over the items needed
for ham and Swiss cheese—wedges of watermelon, pitchers of lemonade, and a
succulent cherry pie that Hildegarde had made that had to be divided in careful
slivers so everyone got a piece.

Camille's
gaze followed Hildegarde's to where Captain worked on a section of porch
spindle. The young woman said, "He's different now. And I don't
mean," she continued in a rush, "that he wasn't fine before to me. I
just mean that... I like him. I like him an awful lot." She fanned her
face with the flat of her hand. "It is very hot. We should put out the
root beer so we don't have to make up more lemonade."

The
afternoon wound down. Tomorrow they were catching a morning train to Philadelphia.

The
painting sheets were rolled up, paint buckets were thrown in the refuse pile,
and brushes were laid out on the grass by the back door to be soaked in
turpentine. Camille watched the players go and waved as they filed out the
gate, some with a jovial laugh, some with a smile, some sauntering, some
striding slowly. She missed seeing Alex leave. She'd hoped... wanted to give
him a special word of thanks.

Hildegarde
packed up her belongings and empty baskets and said her good-byes to Camille.
Just as Hildegarde was going through the front door, Captain came up the porch
steps and offered to help her carry some of the hampers.

"I
can get that for you." He took everything she held and made it seem like
effortless work. He'd put his shirt back on and wore a new hat that was a fine
shade of honey.

"Thank
you," she said demurely as they took the walkway, side by side.

"I
liked your cherry pie, Hildegarde," he said, complimenting her. "It
was good. I could have eaten the whole thing. Could you bake another one?"

"Yes."

"You
and I could eat it ourselves."

She
nervously laughed. "Oh, I shouldn't eat half a pie."

"Why
not?"

"Because
I'm..."

Captain
persisted. "Because why?"

"Well,
because my mother says that a lady shouldn't—"

"You
know, I've noticed that about your mother," Captain cut in. "She
always has something to say about everything. And when you talk, you say 'My
mother says' a lot. Don't you ever make up your own mind?"

Hildegarde's
face went pale as she faced him.

"I
think a mind is something a person needs to keep track of," he said
quietly. "Even if he can't always help the way it goes. Sooner or later,
if he waits long enough, he'll figure things out. It's time you started
figuring out things for yourself, Hildegarde."

As
Camille listened to them, she wondered if Captain knew how poignant—and
true—his words were.

They
approached the gate and Cap said, "So let's eat a whole cherry pie
together."

They
strolled down the street, their voices fading just after Hildegarde said,
"All right, Captain. Let's eat a whole cherry pie together. I'll make one
tomorrow."

Their
shoulders met and a pang of envy held Camille in the doorway, where she looked
out the screen mesh, watching the couple disappear around the corner. She
wished she could be so open with her affections, could have that feeling of
pure bliss. She wanted to know the discovery of love and its promises, of being
courted and returning shy glances and gentle touches. If only she and Alex had
met under different circumstances. If only they could openly be sweethearts.

If
only...

Closing
the door, she moved through the house and into the kitchen to clean up. She
checked the temperature in the hope that it had gone down a few degrees. It had
actually gone up three. An oscillating fan rested on the countertop and she
turned up the speed with the intention of staying cool while doing the dishes.
But the only breeze that reached her was warm, dry air.

As
she looked out the window into the backyard, a figure caught her gaze.

Alex
hadn't left.

He
crouched by the paintbrushes and was soaking several in a can of thinner. His
wrist moved as he worked the paint out of them. Camille took two Virgil's root
beers from the icebox, then went through the back door and outside. She watched
him for a moment from the porch. The color of his skin had deepened to a rich
brown from having been without his shirt all day. He still hadn't put it back
on, and a tiny circle of light gleamed from the chain around his neck. The St.
Christopher medal.

His
head was down, spilling black hair over the bridge of his nose as he worked the
bristles between his fingers Well-defined forearms and biceps moved with a
quiet strength that came from hitting baseballs out of the park.

"I
thought you'd gone home," she said, walking over the grass to meet him.

He
lifted his chin and looked through the wet hair that had fallen in his eyes.
When he saw her, he raked it back, muscles rippling, showing a flash of dark
underarm hair. He'd removed his hat and red bandana and it appeared as if he'd
drenched his head with water from the garden hose. A burning cigarette was
clamped between his lips and he talked around it. "Did you want to get rid
of me?"

"I—no.
I brought root beer." She wanted him to stay.

With
his chin, he motioned to the pile of brushes closest to her. Then he gazed back
down and continued working on the few he had in the thinner can. "Hand me
those, would you, honey?"

When
he called her that...
honey...
the word evoked a rush of heat through
her body. Nobody said it like he did. Nobody meant it like he did.

Camille
gave Alex his root beer, then set her own bottle down on an iron garden table.
She got the brushes and came back.

"Put
them in."