by Honey
"Have you seen a tall man with a full beard come this way in the last half hour?" Alex asked the man, who was uniformed in dark blue from his gold-emblemed hat to his crisply creased trousers.
White-gloved hand resting on the butt of his billy club, the officer gave Alex a quick study. "As a matter of fact, I did."
"Which way did he go?"
The officer pointed to the street bordering Columbia Park. "Up toward Broad Street. Say, are you one of the ballplayers?"
Alex didn't answer. Automatically, he took Camille by the hand, and he propelled them down the block.
"Look for him while we run," he said. "He could be anywhere."
"All right."
He was glad she kept up with his pace. If she hadn't, he would have dropped her off at the nearest shop and told her he'd come back for her later.
"Do you think he could have found the train station on his own?" she asked from his side, her steps light over the sidewalk.
"I don't know. It's on Broad and Glenwood. We'll look there first."
Alex didn't want to think about the possibility of not finding Cap at the Broad Street station. Enough time had gone by that Captain could be anywhere— disoriented, wandering, scared.
Dammit.
He never should have been short with him. Alex didn't think Captain would leave Columbia Park to find the train station in an unfamiliar city. The possibility had never entered his mind. It should have. He'd failed Cap.
Alex barely glanced at the street signs, the building numbers. The sights were familiar to him, yet they'd changed in the years he'd been gone. He saw 26th Street and veered through the intersection, cutting between carriages and coaches. The cobblestones beneath his feet felt slippery because of the spikes on his shoe soles.
"You okay?" he called across his shoulder.
"Yes." But she'd lost her hat and her hair was falling free of its pins.
The musty smells of the Delaware and Schuylkill Rivers pressed in on the evening air.
"I don't see him," Alex said, and in seconds, he was flagging a hackney. "We'll get there faster this way." Within fifteen minutes, they were inside the train station, combing separate ends of the terminal, the ticket booths, the baggage collection areas, the arrival and departure platforms.
There was no sign of Captain.
When they met back at the central clock tower, Alex looked at Camille. "I don't know. I just don't damned know. He's not here. He could be anywhere."
"Maybe the police—"
"You think the police might have picked him up?"
"It's worth finding out."
The closest police station was the 12th Precinct on Monument and 33rd Streets.
The clatter of horses hooves rang across the damp street as the carriage sped along. The sky had blackened, glowing lanterns on street corners lending a hazy yellow light to the returning fog.
Alex set his jaw, unable to speak as the wheels rolled over the cobblestones. Guilt consumed him.
Silence blanketed them like the heavy mist that had begun to creep through the streets. If he'd thought about it long enough, he would have realized he was so cold, he had to keep his knees pressed together.
"Monument and Thirty-third," the driver called as he reined the horses to a stop.
"Wait here." Alex bounded out of the hackney and was inside the police station before he could breathe. He went straightaway to the tall desk, where a uniformed sergeant sat on a hip-high stool.
"I'm looking for a man my height, black hair, black beard—"
"Alex? Alex!"
Captain's screams came from a hallway. Cap appeared, two men on either side of him, escorting him toward the front of the police station.
In a condescending tone, one of the officers explained, "We're taking you to the hospital, laddy, where they'll take real good care of you. Woo-woo." He chuckled.
"H-o-s-p-i-t-a-l! No shave!"
The other officer laughed while jerking at Cap, who fought to get free. "Somebody stole his rudder. He's not on an even keel."
The officers' chins shot up as Alex went straight for Captain.
"Shut up," he warned them, advancing. "It's okay, Cap. I found you."
Captain's gaze was glassy. His hair fell wildly about his face, and his screams were ones of sheer terror. "No shave! No hospital!"
Bracing Cap by the shoulders, Alex glared at the men restraining him. "Get your hands off him. "Cap, we're going back to the hotel now. Not the hospital."
"Alex," he sobbed. "I was mad at you. Just like you were mad at me. I tried to find the train home. I got lost." Gazing through his rumpled hair with forlorn eyes, he asked, "Are you still mad?"
"I'm not mad, Cap. You're all right now."
"I want to go home."
"We are. Soon."
But the weight of that promise settled heavily on Alex's shoulders. He wondered how he was going to tell Cap they were going to Buffalo, and never going back to Harmony again.
Camille couldn't sleep. She couldn't think about anything but Alex. And Captain. And what had happened.
Alex had come out of the police station and taken Captain into the hackney, his arm wrapped tightly around him. The ride back to the hotel was broken only by Cap's quiet mumbling and shaky sighs.
Once at the Euclid Avenue Hotel, they'd entered the lobby together, taken the lift, and parted company on the fourth floor, she to her room at the front of the hall, Alex to his and Captain's in the other direction. Alex hadn't said a word. It had been as if she'd ceased to exist. His energies had been spent on calming Captain, making sure he was comfortable.
In the quiet of her room, Camille had washed up but she hadn't undressed for bed. She couldn't. Not until she made sure Alex was all right. Reassuring Captain had been his sole purpose, but she'd seen the look of utter grief on Alex's face.
Taking up her key, she left her room and walked down the near-dark hallway to knock on Alex's door. She slowed her steps midway, noting a tall man's silhouette outlined by the window at the end of the hall. A glowing red ember burned; the smell of cigarette smoke lightly drifted in the air.
Alex.
She began walking once more. She reached him, but he didn't turn to look at her. He continued to stare out the curtainless window, the globe of light above him hissing. The wick had been turned down, the illumination a faint spot of flame. His profile to her, she noted his lips clamped around the cigarette, firm and hard, as if he was trying to maintain a composure that was slipping.
In the darkness, she followed his gaze to the lights outside that looked more like milkweeds in the low fog, fuzzy and white, unclear. Much like her thoughts at this moment.
Should she have come to him? She had no business... and yet.... It was like Cap had brought them together tonight. But it was more than that. She'd been drawn to him. Physically. And now emotionally. Unable to help herself.
The window had been opened, and now the chill of night seeped into the hall. Dew glittered off the fire escape. The coo of pigeons could be heard from a perch on the side of a nearby building.
"Thank you for helping me."
She hadn't been expecting him to speak, much less say that. His voice sluiced over her almost as if he'd skimmed gentle fingers up her arms and across her lips.
He brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled, and let out a slow and steady stream of smoke. She watched him. The way he stood, the way he was dressed. He wore no shoes, just socks. The hem of a ribbed cotton undershirt was tucked into his trousers. Three buttons met at the throat. He'd kept them open. Barely discernable was a sprinkling of dark hair. She'd wondered if his chest would be smooth.
"You would have helped me, too," she replied at last staring through the window once more.
"Maybe."
A tug of irritation made her frown. Why did he feel like he had to do that all the time? Make himself look beyond caring. He did care. She'd seen him with Captain.
"I know it's none of my business, but what's wrong with C
aptain?"
Although she couldn't see it, she could sense the muscles in his body grow tense and inflexible.
A long moment passed where Alex thoughtfully smoked his cigarette. She didn't think he'd answer her. She was about to return to her room when his words came to her.
"He had an accident some years back. It damaged his brain."
"What happened?"
He held the cigarette between his forefinger and thumb and flicked it out the window. "His mind went, that's what happened. He hasn't been right in the head since." He still hadn't looked at her. "Cap's got to take a certain amount of medicine every day."
"Do you think it helps?"
"Yeah." But then he slowly shook his head. "I don't know. I thought he'd get better. I thought—" His voice broke. "He has his good days. And his bad."
"I'm sorry." The words seemed so simple. She wished she had more to offer him. "I heard him say 'no shave' again. What does that mean?"
"It has nothing to do with his beard. He was in a hospital that shaved his head," Alex said while blinking at the lights across the city. "They rubbed mercury over his bare scalp. You can imagine how that must have stung like hell." His deep voice dropped to a mere whisper. "With all the things he can't remember, he has to remember that."
Camille felt helpless.
Alex lowered his chin, running a hand though the hair that fell in his eyes. "I can't do anything. I can't make him better. I can only watch him get worse."
She cupped his cheek with her palm. It seemed the right thing to do. He leaned into her hand, a troubled sigh breaking on his lips. He finally looked at her. His eyes glittered. Her heart broke.
They stood there that way. Silent, a spell of kinship having cloaked them. It was a moment like none she'd ever experienced.
In the past, she'd flirted with men; she'd been coy. They, in turn, had come to her with flowers and candy. It had been a ritual of sorts. Neither she nor her suitor had taken things all that seriously.
But now, the men that had been in her life seemed so insignificant. So trifling. She felt a stirring deep within her heart, a place that had never been touched. She feared and yearned for the feeling at the same time.
Alex moved away first, bringing himself back to the aloofness she was used to. But she could see the shudder of his chest as he drank the night air to his lungs.
She dared to broach a topic that she thought she now understood. "You can't pitch because you worry about Captain's illness."
She didn't know what she expected from him, but laughter hadn't been it.
Humor lacing his words, he replied, "That's not why."
"Then tell me what's wrong."
He faced her, an easy grin on his mouth—a grin she wanted to erase. "There's nothing wrong."
"There is." She went as far as speaking what she'd been thinking for the past hour—even though it would probably come back to haunt her. And she'd never hear the end of it from her father. "If you need me to let you out of your contract, I can do that."
Before she knew it, he'd laid a hand on her shoulder. He didn't hurt her, but his displeasure was clear. "Don't even think of letting me out of my contract. We have an agreement."
"I just thought that if you're so distracted—"
"You distract me." Then he brought his mouth over hers, in a quick but effective kiss that left her reaching for the window casement when he moved away from her. "G'night, honey."
Then he left her there, reeling from the warm touch of his lips.
Chapter 11
"Is there any way you can get back issues of a Baltimore newspaper for me, Mr. Gage?" Camille asked.
The clunk and whoosh of the press echoed through the tiny shop as the latest edition of the Harmony Advocate was printed. Strong odors of ink and wet pulp filled the air.
Matthew Gage, the editor, reclined behind a desk, fingers meshed against his neck and his feet kicked up. He was quite attractive. He wore his black hair clipped short and fashionable; he'd grown a mustache in the past month. A dark blue silk vest covered a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Curls of a smoke from his cigar swirled toward the ceiling.
Meg Brooks had done very well when she married this man. He was ambitious and yet fit into the slowness of small-town life. Camille did, however, have one small bone to pick with him. But she wouldn't bring that up until after he answered her question about the newspapers.
"It's possible, Miss Kennison." Standing, he said, "But it may take some time." He went to the press to check the long sheets of paper running through the machinery. He raised his voice above the loud clackety-clack. "How soon do you need them?"
"As soon as you can get them." She reached into her pocketbook and withdrew a piece of paper. "This is the year I'd like you to find."
Mr. Gage took the sheet and gazed at it. "1898." His brows furrowed. "Any specific month? A search like this is going to take just about as long as 1898 did."
She snapped the clasp closed on her purse. "April to June—I think. Go to July, just in case."
"I can tell them to look, but what exactly," he said, lowering the paper, "are they looking for? Do you want copies of the dailies from those months? Going to be expensive to get them and have them mailed."
"How expensive?"
"Really expensive." He leaned a knee into the low spindled railing that separated the pressroom from the office. "If you told me what, specifically, you want to find, I could save you a lot of money. And time."
She didn't want to have to come out and say it, but she was left with no choice. "Could you have them look for any articles written about Alex Cordova?"
Mr. Gage didn't ask her why. In fact, he didn't seem all that interested. "All right. Give me a couple of weeks. I can have the telegraph request sent today. I know one of the editors on the Sun. He may be able to pull some strings. It's still going to take somebody a lot of hours reading over those back issues, Miss Kennison."
"I understand." She fussed with a row of buttons on her gloves. "Do I pay you a deposit for your services now?"
"You can pay me when the newspapers come in."
"Thank you."
As he began to turn to the press once more, she blurted, "Mr. Gage, I enjoy reading the Advocate. Harmony needed a newspaper. I do, however, have to take issue with the fact that you keep printing unflattering headlines about the Keystones."
When she had his full attention, she continued. "Take for example, last Friday's edition when you reported on our game with the Detroit Tigers. I wasn't here, but my father saved a copy for me." And with great huff and bluster, he'd handed it over to her. "Headlines like the keystones go down in a boatload of mistakes is bad for morale."
His eyes, a mixture of gold and green, leveled on her. "Pardon my saying so, Miss Kennison, but I didn't think the Keystones had any morale."
She drew herself taller, quietly bristling. "We might have lost eight on the road in the past sixteen days, but we did win three."
He brought his cigar to his mouth. On a puff, he said, "Next time you win, I'll make a special banner."
"You do that." She smoothed down the front of her skirt. "Good day."
She exited the newspaper office and headed toward the restaurant. Now that that piece of business was taken care of, she could move onto the next. Which would be about as pleasant as having Dr. Teeter drill out a cavity.
* * * * *
"I'm buying the cottage on Elm and Hackberry Way," Camille announced, taking a fortifying sip of water. "Mr. Healy is handling the transaction. I've put a down payment on it."
"What?" Her father's reaction was precisely what she had thought it would be. He threw his napkin on the table. At least he couldn't break anything.
She'd invited her parents to lunch at a public place: Nannie's Home-Style Restaurant—safe ground on which to announce her plans.
She'd stalled for a while. They'd placed their meal orders, talked briefly about how the team was coming along. Vehemently, she'd had to deny there was
any trouble on the road. But her father had heard about the train incident and hotel pranks. Most likely, the players had told him in an effort to get her canned. She'd assured her father that she could handle the situations as they arose.
Choking, her father stared at her. Her mother leaned forward a little over the table, eyes wide with surprise.
Camille proceeded in a rush. "I have that small amount of money in the bank from Granddaddy Kennison that I used for the deposit, but the majority of my living expenses are corning from my salary of twelve hundred dollars." She didn't pause for a breath. "Of which I'm owed one hundred and fifty dollars as of today, Daddy. I haven't pursued the financial aspect of my position because I wasn't sure how things would work out. But now that I'm certain I'll be in the manager's position for the season, I have an income that can support me."
"How much is this house?" her father asked.
"Nine hundred dollars."
"Nine hundred dollars," her mother repeated. "Camille, that's so much money."
"I know, but I'll have the mortgage paid off by October." She fingered the handles of her clean utensils. "After that, I'll rethink my options. If Daddy doesn't find anyone else for the manager's job, maybe I could keep it for another year."
"I can't believe you'd make such a decision and not talk it over with us first," her mother said, worry lines marring her forehead.
"A woman doesn't buy her own home," her father bellowed, then, on her mother's warning—sent with just a look—lowered his voice. "She waits for her husband to buy one for her."
"I don't have a husband," Camille reminded him.
"And whose fault is that?"
"I'm not interested in marriage at the moment," she replied, refusing to let him interfere with her resolve. "I bought the house because I felt like it was time I became independent. The cottage is in some disrepair, but the location is very respectable."
"I know how much disrepair it's in—I've seen it." Replacing his thrown napkin on his lap, her father said, "Healy hasn't been able to unload it for over a year."
"But it is in a nice part of town." Her mother grew thoughtful. "Oh, Camille, you'll be alone. I'll worry."
"I'll be fine."
