by Honey
Her jaw dropped in horror, that he could say such a thing to her. In front of her mother. In front of Mr. Nops. And in front of Leda. Hot tears filled her eyes.
"If anybody is stupid, Kennison, it's you," Mr. Nops said. "For spouting off at the mouth, and as usual, without thinking. But then, one man's stupidity is another man's gain." Laughter shook his chest. "I ran into Duke and Jimmy before your daughter came to see me. They said that you told them whoever got Alex Cordova to play for the Keystones could be the manager." Grinning wide, Mr. Nops showed his cards. "It was my thirty-five hundred that turned Cordova around. So I'm the new manager of the Keystones."
After a long moment, her father barreled back, "I wasn't serious about that!"
Camille was too stunned to say anything.
"It's time to put your words into action, Kennison. I am the new manager."
In an attempt to save himself her father sputtered, "Duke and Jimmy misunderstood me."
"But I heard you myself," Leda said.
Turning to her, he snapped, "You were in the kitchen. How could you hear a thing?"
"With an ear to the door, Mr. Kennison. Like I always do in case you're after me to refill that pot of coffee on the breakfast table. You did tell those two boys, plain as day."
Mr. Nops's guffaw rumbled through the parlor. "I've got you up a tree, Kennison. Allow me to tell the gopher to move over on that limb."
"Leda, you're fired!"
"Humph. That's the second time this month, and I haven't packed a stitch of clothing yet."
"Listen, Nops, if anyone in this room is entitled to be the manager, it's my Camille."
Her stomach lurched; her heart pumped double time.
"She did the talking!" her father exclaimed. "She convinced Cordova, not you. This was her effort, and it's going to stay in the family. She gets the credit."
Squaring off, the two men drew verbal weapons. They blasted each other in a shoot-out of accusations, although neither could hear the other above his own voice.
"Gentlemen, if you please." Her mother's tone was coolly disapproving, yet did not lose its silken quality. She needed to voice the plea only once.
In the cease-fire, the spent powder of their anger almost made a visible cloud of gray smoke.
Then Mr. Nops folded his arms over his chest and flared his nostrils. "All right, Kennison, I agree."
"That's more like it."
"You've got yourself a manager." He aimed a finger at Camille. "A female manager."
Under his glare, Camille's stomach felt as if it had fallen to her knees and her legs tingled to the point she had to sit down on the divan or lose her footing.
"That's absurd!" her father shouted. "My daughter could never give orders to thirteen men and be taken seriously. She wouldn't know the first thing to do."
Camille had absolutely no designs on the job, but her father touched a sore spot with his lack of faith in her abilities. Especially in light of what she'd accomplished.
"What do you mean I couldn't be taken seriously?" she asked. "There's no doubt one Alex Cordova is a lot harder to talk into something than twelve of your Keystones. Managing the others would be like handling a prickly pear without the prickly."
With his mustache twitching, he said, "Baseball players aren't like your little flower garden. You can't prune and water them and expect to see results. A firm hand, a hard voice, an iron will. That's what gets results. Camille sugar, you wouldn't last a day." He clenched his fists by his sides. "But none of that matters because I'm not taking a penny of your money, Nops. The deal is off."
The simmering argument, about to erupt into full boil again, had to be stopped by Camille's mother once more. "James, really. You're not thinking clearly."
"Grayce, you don't know anything about this."
Not put off, she observed, "You may own the Keystones, but they're the town's team. They've stood by you through all the losing seasons. And now you can give them a winning pitcher. You'd let Mr. Cordova go just to keep your pride?"
Her father could be a grouchy old bear, but he did listen to her mother, more than from time to time. His face grew somber. It took him a while to weigh things out. At length, he said, "All right. Nops has a share of the Keystones. But Camille's not going to be the manager. Watching the game and being in the thick of things are entirely different. She's too much of a lady to be subjected to the rowdiness of athletes."
"Be that as it may," Nops responded with a lift of his forefinger. "I'm going to have to hold you to your word. If she's not the manager, then you don't get a plugged nickel."
"Thunderation!" Her father pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a blinding headache. "She's not manager material. Look at her. She's soft. She's feminine. She's pretty."
Camille's nerves were at a breaking point. Years of her father telling her that frayed what was left of her composure. Why did he constantly misjudge her? The unfairness of it all filled her with a crushing disappointment. "I am manager material, Daddy." She couldn't explain exactly why. She knew only that it was true. "And if you don't give me the job, then you really aren't a man of your word."
Chapter 4
Alastair Stykem's second floor office was located on Birch Avenue in an upper-rent building. The lobby had a granite floor and two private mailboxes on the wall. As Alex climbed the stairs, Captain followed.
The hunt-and-peck tap of typewriter keys sounded in the hallway.
"That would be Hildegarde." Cap made the observation. "She told me she can't type worth a whistle."
"Then how come she's Stykem's secretary?"
"She said it's only temporary. She'll be coming back to the mercantile as soon as Mr. Stykem finds somebody who knows how to file the A files in the A drawer, and the B files in the B drawer—all the way to Z. What's so hard about that? I know the alphabet. Do you think I ought to tell Mr. Stykem?"
"Not unless you want to learn how to type."
"Hell no."
Alex came to a glass door that had ALASTAIR STYKEM, ATTORNEY AT LAW spelled out in gold lettering. The typewriter sounds grew clearer as he and Cap went inside.
Hildegarde Plunkett sat at the reception desk, her brown hair piled high on her head. When she looked up, she smiled. Her face was round and she had a full figure, but she was no less attractive for it.
"Hello," she said. The pencil she'd tucked behind her ear fell onto the desk as she tilted her head.
Captain removed his hat and crushed the brim in his large hands. "I wanted to come with Alex so I could ask you when you'll be coming back into your father's mercantile. When will you?"
She shuffled the papers in front of her. "I don't know. Mr. Stykem has had five secretaries since his daughter Crescencia got married." She moved one folder, then another, and then she reached for a pile of mail. "I'm the only one who's lasted—I mean stayed—this long." More paper went from one spot on the desk to the other. Then her hands stilled. She frowned at what she'd done. The stack of papers had looked more organized before she'd rearranged them. She sighed. "My mother says secretarial work isn't my calling."
"I think your calling is being at the mercantile when I sweep." Captain reached down beside the desk and grabbed a trash can. "Your father doesn't talk much. Your mother talks too much. But you talk to me just enough." With a sweeping motion, he cleaned the desk of papers. The documents landed in the waste can. "There. Now you can get fired."
"Cap, you shouldn't have done that." Alex took the receptacle from him and began to take the papers out.
"It's all right, Mr. Cordova." Hildegarde propped her chin in her hand. "I've thought about doing it myself. But the Remington won't fit."
"Who's Remington?" Cap asked.
The young woman had dimples. "The typewriter."
"I could bust it for you. I'm a big guy." He gave her a demonstration, lifting his arms and pumping up his biceps. The defined muscles bulged the sleeves of his cotton shirt.
Hildegarde blushed, her full cheeks turning pi
nk. "That's all right."
Alex shifted his weight, eager to sign what he had to and get on with it. All he'd had time for was thinking about his decision, and for every minute that passed, he'd searched for a plausible excuse to back out. "I've got an appointment to meet Kennison."
"Yes. She's waiting for you with Mr. Stykem."
She?
Hildegarde led them to an inner office. "They told me to have you go right in as soon as you got here." She opened the door and let him pass through, closing it behind him.
In a chair directly to his right sat Camille Kennison. She wore an ivory dress that was softly molded to the curves of her figure. A large hat covered her golden hair; her profile was barely discernable to him beneath the wide brim. A hint of natural rose color brushed her cheek; her lips looked soft and pink. Jesus, she was a beautiful woman. She could make a man forget himself just by looking at her.
Stykem rose from behind a massive oak desk and extended his hand. "Alastair Stykem," he said by way of an introduction.
"Alex Cordova," Alex replied while shaking the man's hand.
"Have a seat, Mr. Cordova, and we'll get right to business."
Alex took the chair next to Camille's. "Where's your father?"
A trace of worry caught in her eyes, but her voice was steady as she replied, "He's put me in charge of this transaction."
Transaction. The word shouldn't have sounded so demeaning, but it prickled the back of his neck. In baseball, players were bought and sold. This wasn't like he'd been thrown on a waiver list and the Keystones were claiming him for the eighteen hundred-dollar waiver price. The offer was more than satisfactory. He just wished that he didn't need to take it. And that a woman hadn't presented it.
Why would Kennison leave this kind of business up to his daughter?
Sitting this close to her, he could almost feel the softness of her skin; the fine fabric of her dress. Everything about her was sophisticated. The way she sat, the way she smelled, the way she looked. Next to her, he felt too big. Too coarse. Too raw.
Alex set his jaw and focused on the man before him.
"Now then," Stykem said while opening a portfolio. "Miss Plunkett has typed everything up, and all that's required is your signature. I'm sure you're familiar with a league contract, Mr. Cordova."
Leaning back into his chair, Alex rested his hands on the worn denim encasing his thighs. "Enlighten me on the details just the same."
Stykem picked up the document and began to read. "The American League contract states that players are forbidden to drink, on the field or off. No staging games to suit gamblers. Suppression of obscene, indecent, and vulgar language will be in effect while the player is on the ball field. No use of fists, bats, or spikes in confrontations. Your uniform, bats, and balls are to be supplied by the Keystones franchise."
The lawyer cleared his throat, then lifted another paper and scanned it. Light from the window caused the gold signet ring on his finger to flash. "This page lists the terms of monies. Two thousand five hundred dollars for the season with no deductions for the three weeks you haven't played, to be paid in monthly installments. Three thousand five hundred dollars for the exclusive use of your photograph and signature, which the Keystones will use at their discretion."
After defining the rest of the clauses, Stykem handed him a pen and showed him the various places that required his signature.
The gold fountain pen felt heavy in his grasp. Alex needed to believe he was doing the right thing. That he had considered every option available to him. But this was the only way to get a large amount of money. And on that conviction, he signed himself over to the Harmony Keystones.
When everything was neat and tidy, the lawyer stood and shook Alex's hand once more. Camille rose as well and extended her hand to him. Her attempt at being straightforward had a slight hesitancy to it. As if she'd been the one to sign herself away instead of him. "Congratulations, Mr. Cordova, and welcome to the Keystones organization."
The fine white of her glove warmed his fingers. Made his blood pump fast and surge to his groin.
Alex released her hand and left the private office. He had to get out of there.
"Cap, I'm leaving." He spoke as he walked.
Once on the street, Alex shoved his hands in his pockets and felt for a matchstick and cigarette. He came up empty. Seven months ago, he'd quit smoking. But the urge to light up hadn't fully gone away.
Captain caught up to him. "How come you're in such a hurry?"
"Do you understand what happened in the lawyer's office?"
"Yes. You explained it to me yesterday. You're going to play baseball. Just like you used to." Captain stuck his fingers inside his shirt pocket and took out a small photograph, its edges worn, yet not a single tear or tatter marred the paper. The image was of the Baltimore Orioles team. The players in the front row held up a banner that read 1897 pennant winners. Pointing to a spot on the picture, Cap said, "That's you."
Alex gave his likeness a cursory glance, a flood of memories coming at him.
"I'm going to ask Mr. Plunkett if I can leave work early tomorrow so I can watch you play."
There had been a time when Alex had given Cap the photograph, that he'd wanted him to see more in it than a group of ballplayers. Now he lived with the paralyzing fear Cap would find the hidden meaning. And that fact made him ashamed.
When Alex turned, he saw Camille Kennison walking toward him and Cap, moving with that fluid stride of hers. Head held high. Tiny pearl-and-gold earrings dangling from her earlobes. Earlobes that looked sweet. Too damn sweet. Very kissable.
Hell
"Hello." Her greeting was directed more to Captain than to Alex.
"Hello," Cap replied, recognition lighting his eyes. "I know who you are. Kennison's Hardware."
"Yes." She held the handle of her pocketbook. "How are you feeling today?"
Confused, he looked over his beard to the tips of his shoes. He gave his chest a pat, felt his cheeks and the wiry hair on his chin, then said, "I feel the same as I always do. Do you want to feel me to make sure?"
A delicate crease formed on her forehead. "Oh. Well, you do look nice."
Alex knew Captain didn't remember what had happened. At least not all of it. He didn't forget his headaches, but after most episodes, he couldn't recall what had set him off. On days like today when he appeared to be well, it made it harder for Alex to accept he wasn't improving.
A man walking toward where the three of them stood tipped his hat to Camille. "Good afternoon, Miss Kennison."
"Good afternoon," she replied as he strode by.
Alex watched the man retreat. She'd barely glanced at him.
"Mr. Cordova." Her voice pulled his attention back to her. "There are a few things I neglected to mention." She seemed less anxious now that she was free of the book-lined walls in the lawyer's office. "The Keystones are playing the Boston Somersets tomorrow at four o'clock. Cy Young is starting for them."
Another "Good afternoon, Miss Kennison" came when a businessman in a dapper coat headed for the doors of the building.
"Good afternoon."
Alex's mind momentarily focused on the brief exchange, then returned to the conversation at hand. He hadn't figured on facing Cy so soon. He wasn't in the best physical shape he could be in after having sat out several seasons. The prospect of going against the Cyclone when he hadn't used his pitching arm in so long increased his misgivings. Then there were other things. He'd known that by signing on, he'd meet up with players he knew. He wondered how many of his former teammates were in the American League.
What had happened to make him quit was something Alex lived with every day. He wasn't ready to talk about it. Most people could move forward, but the other players didn't get that. They'd been uncomfortable around him, frequently not saying anything at all for fear of saying the wrong thing. At least in Harmony, nobody knew the details. His old manager had paid off the newspapers to bury the speculation surrounding his departur
e.
"Practice begins at three," Camille continued. "There'll be a uniform for you in the clubhouse at Municipal Field. What size shoe do you wear?"
"Eleven."
"Good afternoon, Miss Kennison." The doffer of the hat this time was a young man whose broad smile took up half his face.
"Good afternoon," she replied. Without a breath, she added, "I'll make sure you have a pair. I don't believe there's anything else. Uniform, shoes, equipment." She inhaled, standing taller. "All right, then. Everything will be fine," she said, as if more to convince herself than him.
The braided brim of her ivory hat kept her face in partial shade. The rest of her reminded Alex of a statue of a Greek goddess. Pure marble; smooth, soft, and desirable.
The barber stepped out of his shop with a broom. Seeing her, he called across the street, "Good afternoon, Miss Kennison."
"Good afternoon."
The overabundance of male greetings got on Alex's nerves for reasons he didn't care to examine. A woman like her had to be used to the attention and probably enjoyed it. Even so, he couldn't curb the exaggerated grin that curved his mouth. "Do you ever get tired of hearing that?"
To his surprise, she didn't blush. "Why don't you say it to me, and I'll let you know." She began to walk away.
He took the bait. "Good afternoon, Miss Kennison."
Without interrupting her stride, she glanced at him over her shoulder. She hit him with a smile that was so beautifully candid, so captivating, he had to fight himself from going after her. From sliding his hand around the back of her neck and kissing her fully on the mouth.
The muscles in his body tightened. He wanted to take her straight to paradise. Run his hands over every inch of her body. Hold her breasts in his palms. Trace the nipples with his—
Her wave cut short his fantasies; then she went on her way. She didn't say "Good afternoon" in return.
She'd made a mackerel out of him.
"I think she likes you, Alex," Cap mused aloud.
"No, Cap," he said, watching her until she was out of his view. "It just seems that way."
