by Honey
* * * * *
When Camille was a little girl, strawberry taffies had always made her feel better when she was anxious. But she felt no different now than after she'd eaten her first one.
She sat in the clubhouse, at the manager's desk, a bag of the candies in front of her and empty wrappers littering on the desktop. As she chewed the sugary confection, she settled into the brand spanking new chair and looked around the brand-spanking-new clubhouse that her father had spent a lot of money to build.
Even while it was under construction, the building had been off limits to her. It was a man's domain. A player's place. That she was in here now, actually had the key to the door in her purse, would be the manager—
She had to unwrap another taffy before finishing the one in her mouth.
The room smelled of yellow pine and varnish. Behind her, a long row of open cubbies spread across a wall. Inside them, knob hooks held freshly laundered uniforms. In the trunks below, were the players' personal possessions. Athletic shoes rested on the lids. A placard with the name of one of the thirteen Keystones hung above each cubby. Bats forty-two inches in length stood on their ends in a wall rack. A large basket of regulation balls lined the floor, some virgin white, but most tar black or at least a dark gray.
Camille swallowed her taffy. She'd come here after encountering Alex Cordova on the street corner. That he could put her out of sorts was an understatement. One small glance from him in Mr. Stykem's office had set her heartbeat to an uneven rhythm. She'd conversed with good-looking men before, but she'd never asked them their shoe size...
Eleven. Such a personal detail; its only relevance should have been purely professional. And yet, with the information had come a flustering confusion that had tickled her ribs and woven a cocoon of intimacy around her.
She never should have flirted with him like that. She just should have said "Good afternoon" back. Her silence had implied more. She'd had a lapse in common sense. Blame it on his voice, with its hint of an exotic accent from someplace far away. There was a quality to it that made her want to hear how he would say those two words to her. He had a wonderful mouth. She wondered how his lips would feel against hers. How—
She quickly put the new piece of taffy into her mouth.
She couldn't squander valuable time thinking about Alex Cordova or dissecting the feelings he evoked in her. There were far more important issues at hand.
Namely, plotting how to kill Bertram Nops.
Last night, Camille had tossed and turned over the events that had led her into this mess. She blamed Mr. Nops. But every way she thought about his hand in making her the manager, she had to concede the same thing.
It was her fault.
She never should have asked him for the money.
Little did she realize what affect it would have on her life—on her Garden Club plans. When she'd left her father no choice but to take her challenge, the ramifications had sunk in. She'd felt faint. Sick at heart. She'd had to go to her room to lie down or she would have keeled over.
How could she be president of the Garden Club if she had to manage a group of spitting, scratching, and jockstrap-adjusting baseball players? The mere thought had made her woozy.
But today, the problem didn't seem as awful as she'd initially thought. This was a way to show her father she had know-how on a level that he could relate to. Managing might even be fun. Well, as much fun as spitting, scratching, and adjusting could be.
On her off hours, she could plant her garden. She could still run for president. This Friday's meeting was at seven o'clock. Friday's baseball game should be completed by then. Balancing playing schedules and tending flowers and vegetables could be done.
Just thinking about that gave her enough optimism to commit herself to both. That wasn't to say it would be easy. It would be quite difficult. But she could do it. After all, organization was her forte. She'd never met a more organized person than herself. A list for everything. A place for everything. A chart. A box. A notebook.
She moved aside the growing pile of taffy wrappers to lay her hand on the baseball regulations book. She'd have to study it tonight and learn it by heart. She'd been to many games, but she'd never memorized the rules. She didn't want to come across as unprepared. She knew what to look for to call a ball and a strike. Fielding strategies and batting positions. The basic things. There was a lot in between she would have to grapple with.
But she could do it. She had to do it.
She slid the crumpled candy wrappers into the trash, then grabbed the rule book and her purse. Locking the door behind her, she headed for home. The afternoon was sunny and bright; the grass on the field had just been mowed. The baselines had been freshly chalked in white, and the bags in the corners and both the pitcher's mound and home plate had been dusted.
On a satisfied nod, she told herself tomorrow would go just fine.
* * * * *
Camille never fell into a deep sleep that night. At 1:28 in the morning, she woke with a start.
She'd forgotten something.
She tossed the covers aside and quickly went to her wardrobe. Fitting her arms into the sleeves of her kimono and absently stepping into felt slippers, she pushed one of the dangling curl papers from her forehead as she entered her mother's sewing room, a tiny alcove beneath the stairs fitted with a hanging electric light that gave off a bright beam.
She turned the switch and blinked against the flood of light. Cold air skimmed across her skin. She shivered and struck a fire in the small parlor stove so that she could warm her feet. Her mother kept folds of material beside her Singer and Camille riffled through them. For the most part, they were remnants or weren't as long as she needed. Only one would work—the fifteen yards of Paris organdy with lace-on-lace effects and blushing pink rosebuds twined with hunter green leaves. She had been going to sew a summer dress out of it, and now she'd have to use it for... but Paris organdy?
It would have to do. With a snap of her wrists, the silky fabric billowed open, and she set to work.
Hours later, the floor was littered with snippings of threads and dribbles of ashes from the small heating stove. But she deemed her task complete just as the melodic chime of the parlor clock struck four. Yawning, she returned to her bedroom, crawled back into bed, and closed her eyes.
Now, tomorrow would go just fine.
Chapter 5
Rain came down in buckets.
Just after noon, the sidewalks were slippery with mire. Rivers of water spilled over the canvas awnings of businesses, giving the tightly knit storefronts in the town square the look of Niagara Falls.
The torrential downpour was a bad omen, surely one triggered by the shenanigans between Camille's father and Bertram Nops. The fight had begun before business hours, with Daddy squeezing off the first shot, but the return volley was swift and deadly.
Just before nine o'clock, Mr. Nops had begun to pile gallons of willow green paint in front of his store. Spying out his window, her father hadn't missed a move. Minutes later, he'd brought out every last gallon of willow green paint he had in stock and slashed the price to half of what Mr. Nops was selling his for. Nops; seventy cents; Kennison; thirty-five cents. It was an underhanded move on her father's part that infuriated Mr. Nops. No sooner had her father stacked his paint cans in a pyramid with a big sign on the top can advertising the price than Mr. Nops put up an even bolder sign on his top willow green can:
For cheap vermillion paint, look no farther than Kennison's Hardware.
It was a sore spot for Daddy. Last fall, he'd sold Tom Wolcott some of the offensive red paint for the exterior of Wolcott's sporting goods store, just so Mr. Wolcott could aggravate the tenant next door, Edwina Huntington... who later forgave him and became his wife. Mr. Wolcott had eventually repainted his side of the building on Old Oak Road to match the canary yellow paint on her side, but not before the townspeople had gotten a good eyeful of that awful red. And not before the townspeople had heard who sold Mr. Wolcot
t the paint that allowed him to pull a prank on a woman.
Camille didn't have time to keep it all straight in her mind as she shook the rain from her oilskin umbrella and closed it. Even though she wore a jacket and lace-up storm shoes, she was damp. In rain like this, there was no way to keep dry. It was hard enough walking with dignity on dry heels, but wet ones hampered even the best of efforts.
The openly admiring gazes of men had followed her as she'd walked past the opposing team's dugout where the Boston players were gathering to begin practice. The scrutiny had intensified as she bypassed the grandstand. If she hadn't been holding her umbrella, she might have checked to see if her fruited hat had been pinned on straight. She still felt eyes on her now as she reached the Keystones' clubhouse. Taking a quick inhale, she prayed everyone would be decent. She'd purposefully waited a quarter of an hour to return after having been inside this morning to hang—
"Whoa, honey," came a voice behind her. "You can't go in there."
She turned and encountered a man no taller than herself. From the dour expression on his face, he looked like he'd been weaned on an icicle. His eyes were too close together, his nose was on the bulbous side, and his left cheek was packed so full of tobacco, he could hardly talk.
"Who are you?" She rested her palm on her umbrella handle, the point on the step. Without an awning above her, rain fell on her shoulders.
"Boomer Hurley, manager of the Boston Somersets."
Because the Keystones had never played a major-league team before, Camille had never seen this man at prior games. After his introduction, she hastily made her own. "Camille Kennison, manager of the Harmony Keystones. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm getting wet."
He gave off a big roar of laughter that shook his entire body, and for a moment she thought he'd up and choke on his prune-size lump of chewing tobacco. "Manager? No, honey, you're mistaken. You're not the manager of the Keystones. Now you might be a relation to James Kennison—which I don't know for sure or not because he's not, here—but you're no manager."
Camille had wondered where her father was, too. She'd searched the stands for him—which hadn't been hard. The only person sitting in them had been Captain, who'd waved at her. Nobody else had braved the rainy day to watch the batters warm up.
"I am his daughter, Mr. Hurley." Camille dropped her chin to keep the droplets of water from her face. "And I am the manager of the Keystones." She held out the notebook she'd tucked beneath her arm. "I have today's batting order to prove it. But I don't need to show you that, do I? I'll see you on the field."
"Wait a minute. Wait just a damn minute. You're no manager." He projected a stream of brown juice, just missing the hem of her skirt. Whether his aim was intentional or not, she gave him the benefit of the doubt, only because she didn't want to get upset on her first day. "Honey, baseball is a red-blooded sport for red-blooded men. It's not teatime, so ladies such as yourself had better stay the hell out of it."
She got upset.
The blunt point of her umbrella stabbed him in the big toe of his thin leather shoes—an accident, of course—as she turned to go inside. "Pardon me," she said, by way of both apology and departure.
Pleased with herself, she went inside the clubhouse and closed the door on Boomer Hurley, leaving him out on the stoop. But if she thought she'd left a problem outside, she ran headlong into another one. Much bigger. Much barer.
Half-naked baseball players.
Activity in the room froze, as did Camille. She couldn't even swallow, much less blink, while facing men in various stages of undress. Shirts on. Shirts off with bare chests showing. Pants dropped at ankles. Athletic supporters in hand; athletic supporters in place over drawers.
Within seconds, everyone made a mad grab for their white-and-gold uniforms. Pants legs and shirtsleeves flailed while the men shoved arms and legs into them. Everyone moved except Alex Cordova. He remained standing in his underwear as if he didn't care what she saw. As if he wanted her to see him.
His stance emphasized the strength in his thighs and the slimness of his hips. Worn, ribbed cotton clung to every muscle of his body, hugging his chest, expanding over broad shoulders, and molding to his flat belly. The top two buttons of his drawers were unfastened. Camille's gaze lowered to where the cotton cupped a particular area. For a second, she allowed herself a look. Her quickening heartbeat caught in her throat as she looked at the definition of pure man. She swiftly lifted her eyes to his.
She sensed he was angry with her.
And then she saw the animosity written over Cub LaRoque's face as he gave Alex a long stare. Cub was the Keystones' starting pitcher; apparently he didn't like his position being usurped by a new player. The others noticed it, too. Tension gripped the room. Sharp glances made it clear that Alex was out of place.
That she was out of place.
A warning erupted in her head. Moisture formed on her palms. She'd fully expected her father to have been here first, to pave the way. She'd been certain he'd be the one to tell them about her new position, break it to them in a man's terms, straightforward and to the point. There'd have been no arguing about it, because he owned the team.
"Miss Kennison, you gotta get out of here," squeaked Mox Snyder, the third baseman. Never fast on his feet, he'd stepped into his pants backward, the behind part now drooping front and center—an error that pretty much summed up how he played baseball.
Deacon Pfeffer, the right fielder, sat on the trunk in his cubby with his shoes untied. "What's going on?"
"Yeah," Yank Milligan and Charlie Delahanty said at the same time. "What's going on?"
"No women allowed," grumbled Bones Davis, the second baseman.
A chorus of the same sentiment echoed off the walls.
Her misgivings increased by the minute.
"Hey, wait a minute," Specs Ryan said while facing them. "Maybe her father sent her over with a message." With eyes magnified by thick glass lenses, he stared at Camille—rather, he squinted through his lashes, his upper hp extended, as if that could help him see better. His real name was Timothy. She'd gone to school with him, and ever since she could remember, he'd worn spectacles, thus earning him the nickname. "So, did he?"
Everyone waited for her reply. She hadn't been prepared for this. She'd been raised a Southern lady. Genteel. Taught to speak in a buttery tone gentlemen found charming. She was unequipped to confront men in their drawers, a fact it was too late to do anything about now.
So she'd save face if it killed her.
Finding her voice, Camille spoke. "As a matter of fact, my father did send me."
"Did he find a new manager?" asked Noodles Duggleby, the catcher. His hands were nearly as big as the oversize mitt he used to catch with.
"Yes," Camille said, "he has."
Baritone shouts went up through the room, accompanied by a few pats on the back, a nod of a head here and there. Mostly, there were relieved expressions and audible sighs of relief. She wondered just how long that relief would last when she told them the truth.
Cub asked, "So who'd he get?"
"Yeah, who?" Charlie pressed.
"We want to know," Duke Boyle said while trading glances with Jimmy Shugart. "Kennison said whoever got Cordova could be the manager." Duke pointed at Alex. "And there he is."
Jimmy jumped in. "We asked Cordova who talked him into it, but he said it wasn't a who—it was a what."
Speculative gazes fell on Alex. If he was uncomfortable, he didn't show it. Camille waited for any kind of reaction from him. Nothing. His expression was unreadable.
"Why won't he say?" Jimmy wanted to know.
She knew why. Alex's words came back to her. I can be bought, honey, but I can't be had.
Money.
Money had made him change his mind, but at least he wasn't boasting about it to the other team members.
"Because the person who contracted him isn't somebody you'd think of." She moved to the desk, then laid down her velvet purse and notebook. Then she stuck
her umbrella into the trash can so that the rainwater wouldn't drip on the floor. Turning, she held her posture erect. "It's me."
A stunned silence fell like lead, hard and heavy, suffocating the room. She didn't dare meet Alex's gaze. But she felt it on her as sure as if she were looking directly into his eyes.
Cupid Burns, the first baseman, broke through the strain. "You've got to be kidding."
"I'm quite serious. Why else would I be here?"
"To satisfy your womanly curiosity."
The low and rich voice came to her from the right. Exactly where Alex stood. She faced him. He wore his underwear the same way he wore the smile he gave her: sinfully.
"Certainly not," she snapped. "I can assure you, I have the best of intentions and I take my responsibilities quite seriously. I knew there would be some problems, but I've already found a way around one obstacle." She gestured to the corner where her Paris organdy rosebud fabric hung. The drape looked like a woman's parlor curtain, only it was gathered in a single direction, not the way she'd left it—spread out and able to conceal players as they disrobed. "I put up a dressing curtain."
Cupid howled with humor. "That frilly thing?"
Bones smirked. "We thought Kennison was off his nut. No offense, Miss Kennison, since he is your father. But we were laughing so hard over that curtain, that's how come we're late getting dressed for practice."
"Yank even sniffed one of them bee-you-tee-ful roses to see if it smelled like toilet water," Doc Nash commented with a chuckle.
Yank cried, "Did not!"
Specs seconded Yank. "Saw you myself, Doc."
"You couldn't see a pile of shit in a cow pasture, Specs." Yank pushed on his cap, the brim falling low on his brow. "For a change of pace, why don't you get the right prescription for your goddamn glasses when you play ball? Maybe we might just win a game."
"Not only my fault we stink," he shot back.
"If we had a manager who was worth his salt, we wouldn't," Noodles complained.
"But we don't," Cub shot back. "We've got her."
