by Honey
"A woman doesn't buy her own home," her father reiterated.
"And a woman doesn't manage a baseball team either. But I am."
"Don't get me fired up about that again."
The debate went on for nearly half an hour, the conversation quite rocky at times. Their lunches came but were barely touched. After her father paid the bill, he'd stood and frowned. He hadn't revised his opinion an inch, calling her actions irrational. He did, however, relent on paying her a salary. She'd have the money in her bank account this afternoon.
"The thinking of modern women baffles me," he exclaimed, pushing in his chair. "The next thing you'll be telling me is you want to take over my hardware store."
Her mother placed a hand on Camille's arm. "Are you quite certain this is what you want to do?"
She was quite certain. The decision wasn't a rash one. And it had to do with the players. The fact that they'd played tricks and practical jokes on her while in Philadelphia and Washington, D.C., was a determining factor. Men couldn't respect a manager—female or male—who still lived with parents. It wasn't independent. In the players' eyes, her being their manager probably looked to be a whim. An indulgence by a father. She'd come across differently if she had to depend on the baseball team for her livelihood. And now she would.
If she was going to be a spinster, she'd better be one in the truest sense of the word.
"I'm very certain, Mama," Camille said at length. "I'll be happy living alone. I'll come visit you often, and you and Daddy can come visit me."
And that's how things had been left between them.
An hour later, Camille stood in the empty parlor of the cottage, glad she was daring enough to buy it. The cottage was charming. Empty, but charming. In need of tender care, but perfect for her.
The first floor had a piazza that ran around two sides of the building. Callers entered directly inside the living room. There was no foyer. A corner fireplace drew the eye with its floor-to-ceiling brickwork; the cobwebs and ashes needed to be swept out. Two pocket doors led to the dining room, which had four windows; from there was the kitchen with a pantry and porch. A shed had been attached by the last owner. It housed a water closet and small shower bath with tub.
The upstairs had ultimately drawn Camille to the cottage. At the top of the stairs was a loggia with latticework. From the position of the house, she would receive just the right amount of sunlight for her ferns and other delicate plants. The area was protected against the wind but would heat up nicely on a warm summer day. Perhaps she'd try her hand at orchids.
Aside from the loggia, the second floor had two large bedrooms, and one smaller one, which she wasn't sure yet what she'd use for. A long hall ran between them, and the bedroom she'd picked for herself had a balcony that connected to the other bedroom of the same side. Inside, a large closet shared space between them.
The exterior needed paint. The drab colors had faded and were peeling in places. She wanted to go with Indian red for the accents, medium olive for the trim, and fawn for the body. The leafy green foliage of her plants would look wonderful against that kind of scheme. When the Garden Club came by for teas, she would have a beautiful setting in which its members could view her garden.
She had sent out invitations for this Friday's meeting to be held at her new residence. They'd be taking the vote for the next president. Her name was on the ballot, along with Mrs. Calhoon's and Mrs. Treber's. She had no illusions that by inviting them over, she'd gain votes. She'd already missed two meetings because she'd been out of town. When she allowed herself to, she doubted her ability to manage both team and club. But she didn't want to think about that. She wanted to be able to juggle the two positions.
It was important for her to maintain a good impression. These women's lives were steeped in tradition. To be president meant you had the fortitude to lead such a group. To display a garden worthy of renown, which she would have because while she'd been away, Leda had watered her plants. They were coming along nicely.
But it would take time to get things in order. First, she had to move her bedroom furniture and buy a few things—divan, chairs, tables, fireplace tools. There was a nice plot of dirt in the back of the house that wasn't overrun with weeds. Which was a good thing. Because secondly, she had to dig up her garden and move it to her new home. Just how, exactly, she wasn't sure.
* * * * *
If Alex didn't know any better, he'd say Captain was perfectly normal. That he didn't need the daily bromide the State Orthopaedic Hospital and Infirmary insisted he take. Didn't need the Dover's Powder for his headaches. And didn't need Silas Denton in Buffalo.
Since returning to Harmony, Cap had been fine.
But what happened in Philadelphia reaffirmed to Alex that going to New York in the fall was the right thing to do. So he continued to make plans. In the meantime, he put himself into his woodworking.
He had lots of orders to fill and fewer hours in which to work on the projects these days.
He'd come into town to pick up his mail; he was waiting for a letter of confirmation from Silas Denton's hospital. But no correspondence had come yet. So he was headed back to his wood shop.
Nearing Elm, he spotted Camille. She pushed a wheelbarrow and had to struggle to keep it steady. The unbalanced load wobbled from left to right, then at one point nearly tipped over. She set the legs of the barrow down, adjusted her grip on the handles, and proceeded. She'd overloaded the bed. With what looked to be dirt.
Moving dirt down Elm Street didn't seem like a normal activity for a lady.
She wore gardening gloves and a simple straw hat. It reminded him of the one she'd lost on the streets of Philadelphia. This one was simpler in comparison. Not a single fruit or bird decorated it. Plain straw with a wide ivory ribbon that caught beneath her chin in a bow. She wore an apron over a plain gray dress.
Even without her flowing pale skirts and lightweight shirtwaists, she looked ethereal to him. Camille always exemplified the femininity that some women tried hard at capturing but never quite had. Looking soft and stunning was simply a part of her, like the refined way she walked. He liked the entire package—far too much.
He stopped directly in her path. She clunked the wheelbarrow on its feet and glared at him. A smudge of dirt marked the bridge of her nose.
"Mr. Cordova."
"Miss Kennison."
Looking at him through the thickness of her lashes, she asked, "Did you have a baseball question?"
"No."
"Well, then, can you move out of the way? I'm in somewhat of a hurry." She raised the wheelbarrow handles once more and grappled for a solid hold on the wood.
"You've got too much dirt in the bed," he replied, bumping her out of the way as he took hold of each handle and began walking in the direction she'd been going. Behind him, he heard her give a little gasp as she caught up.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Where're we going with this load of dirt?" he inquired, ignoring her question.
A slight skip caught her steps as she kept up with his pace. "It's not dirt. Can't you see there are seedlings in there?"
He gave the dirt a quick glance. Tiny green shoots erupted from the earth in various places, as if they'd been dug up.
"Those are cucumbers, muskmelon, sweet peppers, and tomatoes."
Shrugging, he took her word for it. "Okay."
"I'll be going back for my gladioli, ranunculuses, and anemones, as well as some hedges." She practically cut directly in front of him as she turned up Elm. "This way," she said, directed him toward a run-down cottage that needed its lawn clipped and porch cleared of leftover fall leaves. "Around the back."
The wheels of the barrow jumped and bumped over the uneven grass. Alex didn't know much about flowers, but there were a lot of them coming into bloom along the serrated bricks that edged the path to the porch. Bricks also circled the tree trunks and beds of some kind of lily-looking flower.
He walked around the side of the house
where a large plot of dirt had been recently raked and little plants had been dug into the freshly tilled ground.
Stopping the wheelbarrow, he reangled the brim of his Stetson. "Why are you putting plants in this yard?"
She snatched up a trowel and began to make long furrows in the dirt. "This is my yard."
A contemplative silence held him as he stared at the surroundings.
"I bought this house, Mr. Cordova. I'm moving in. Lock, stock, and plants."
Before Alex could comment, Betram Nops entered the yard with a frown on his mouth as wide as the hairpiece that covered his forehead.
"If it isn't the Regal man without a regalness to his name—or shall I say feet?" Dressed in a neatly tailored suit, Nops wore a plaid necktie that Alex would have liked to choke him with because of the crack he made. "I should have let Regal Shoes have you, Cordova. I'm sure not getting my thirty-five hundred dollars' worth."
Alex's thoughts jammed on the monetary amount—the exact sum he'd been offered by Kennison as a bonus. "What are you talking about?"
Nops looked at him, then at Camille, who looked at Alex.
"Cordova doesn't know?" Nops suddenly laughed. "It surely isn't a secret. What's the matter with Kennison? Didn't want to look like he didn't have the ol' greenbacks?" Then to Alex. "I'm paying your bonus. Therefore, I should have been the manager of the Keystones instead of her."
Camille paled. "I didn't want the job in the first place, Mr. Nops. You insisted."
"Only after your father reneged on his word about the manager's job. Enticing Cordova out of retirement had everything to do with my money and nothing to do with the way you handle yourself—aside from the fact that you are nice to look at, and who could say no to a pretty face? But the scores tell everyone what they need to know about your baseball smarts or lack thereof."
Alex was on Nops before he could take another breath. Tightening the man's plaid necktie, he slid the knot up a fraction.
Nops's eyes widened in stunned horror. "Take it easy, Cordova. I was only stating facts."
"Then here's another one for you. You may think you own a piece of me, but you're not entitled to insult the lady."
With a shove, Alex let him go.
Nops put on a display of exaggerated sputtering as he smoothed out the wrinkles in his tie. "Cordova, you aren't worth a plugged nickel, much less thousands. The Keystones are in the same place they were weeks ago. Last in the league. The only bright side is I get to see Kennison's public humiliation."
On that, he turned and walked from the yard in a disgruntled huff.
Alex held his gaze on Camille. She didn't readily look at him. "Is it true? Did Nops put up the bonus money?"
"Yes."
He didn't know why it should make a difference, but it did. Not only did Kennison own him, but so did Nops. He felt manipulated. He smiled. Grimly. "I must be the golden apple to you. You get me, you get the manager's job."
"I'm managing the team because Bertram Nops was going to pull out his thirty-five hundred if I didn't. He had designs on the manager's position and that's why he agreed to invest in you. When I came to see you that day, I honestly didn't know things would work out this way."
"Lucky for you they did."
"Lucky?" she said, astonished. "I wouldn't say I'm lucky at all. My life's been turned upside down because of this. And when you play bad baseball, you make me look bad in front of my father, the players, and the town." She tugged off her gardening gloves and slapped them into her palm.
It struck him that this was the first time he'd ever seen her hands without gloves. Her fingers were slender. She wore a ring on her right hand. A tiny sapphire with diamonds around it. The ring looked delicately romantic. He momentarily wondered who'd given it to her.
He had no defense for her statement. At least none that he'd care to explain. He did make her look bad. But not for reasons that could be fixed by a pep talk and a steak over at the restaurant.
Camille sighed. "I have your photographs in the house. I'm sure you have more pressing things to do at the moment than think about baseball, but maybe you could take a quick second to sign some of them now."
"I could do that."
"Good." She untied her apron as she started for the house.
Alex followed.
The rear entrance led directly into an attached shed where partially unpacked boxes lined the walls. Camille went into the kitchen, the sideboards covered with wrapped dishes and other cooking items. He noted the red gingham curtain that covered the sink plumbing was open. A slow, steady drip from one of the pipes fell into a galvanized bucket.
"I have them in here. The photographer sent them over this morning," she said, entering a dining room where a very small, and very well-used, table was made smaller by the large room. "I can have the autographed ones given out at tonight's game."
He drew up behind her, standing close enough to smell the lavender of her perfume and the sweet earthiness of garden dirt. The backside brim of her hat nearly hit him on the cheek as she turned her head toward him.
In a low voice he whispered, "So what kind of pressing engagement do you think I have?"
Her breath practically tickled the side of his mouth before she backed away a few inches. "I could pick anything and it probably would apply."
He wanted to take her in his arms. Take her into another room in the house. He looked into her extraordinary blue eyes and imagined how it would be lying beside her on her bed. Naked. Caressing. Touching her body—everywhere.
"I can't pick one," he said, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her nose to wipe the dirt smudge off. Her breathed sucked in at his touch. "There aren't any reasons why I have to leave."
That was a lie. There were many. He had to finish sanding a chair. He had to size lumber for a cradle he'd been commissioned to build for the Wolcotts. He had to fix the handle on his adze eye hammer. He had to look over his orders. He had to mix up glue for his broken wood clamps. But none of that seemed important to him right now.
"Get me a pen." Alex pulled out a mismatched chair from the table.
"Here." She slid the pile of photographs in front of him. "Can I get you a glass of water? I was going to make some lemonade, but I haven't had time."
"Yeah. Water's good."
She went through the doorway to the kitchen. He could see her at the sink. She turned sideways to look beneath it, then put her hands on her hips as if wondering what to do. He was no plumber, but he figured a few twists and a little putty would fix the problem. It was on the tip of his tongue to offer to fix it for her, but he refrained. He couldn't afford to get personal with her. And yet, because of Nops, here he sat at her dining room table as if he belonged in her house.
He couldn't take his eyes off her. The way she moved. The way she searched for just the right glass for him. She discarded a rose one; then an amber. She settled on a cut crystal.
He liked the line of her back, the way her spine was straight and tall. The way she paused, as if she suddenly remembering she'd left her hat on. She lifted her arm, and gave the ribbon a tug. He wanted to see her profile. The slant of her nose, her forehead, the fullness of her lips, the shape of her breasts. She set the straw hat on the counter.
The rusty sound of the faucet handle turning shrieked through the kitchen as she poured water into the glass. He hadn't watched a woman so intensely since he'd been a boy and he'd peeped across the alleyway into the sixth-story neighbor's window with Sean O'Brien and several others from the sand-lot gang. The woman had been in her chemise and in the arms of her lover.
This was different. Camille was fully dressed, yet he felt the same sensations pulling at his body.
She turned. He didn't look away.
From the expression on her face, she knew he'd been watching her.
"You haven't signed anything."
He returned to the photographs. He cursed himself for letting his thoughts and emotions get the better of him.
"Well," she said, puttin
g her hands on her hips once more. "While you do that, I'm going to unpack some other boxes."
Alex took up the pen. "All right."
As she moved about in the room, he signed his name. Alex Cordova. It seemed so meaningless to do this.
From the corner of his eye, he followed her movements. A lift of a vase here; a setting down of a knick-knack there. He didn't have to try hard to come up with the illusion that this could be something more.
Before Captain had gotten hurt, Alex hadn't thought about female companionship beyond a leisurely dalliance. An overnight stay, then a kiss good-bye. A new city. A new woman. He had never regretted his lack of serious involvement. He'd done what he'd felt like doing in the heat of the moment. He'd never been without a woman if he'd wanted one. Never had to stay and worry about breaking her heart. The women who followed the game hadn't wanted his heart anyway. They'd wanted a part of him, much like the photograph. A memento. A token of Alex "the Grizz" Cordova.
Now that he saw that clearly, he didn't like himself much for how he used to behave. After being away from the game for three years, he was free to explore the fact that he wasn't getting any younger. That he would grow old and die without knowing what it would be like to spend his days with a woman who loved him and whom he loved equally in return. To pass their days walking, holding hands, watching sunsets, making love outdoors, indoors, wherever they desired. Waking up together. Going to bed together.
These were all things he couldn't wish for because they weren't to be.
Because no matter what, he owed Captain.
Chapter 12
To the uninformed observer, the men in baseball uniforms throwing a ball around the bases at Municipal Field while an Edison phonograph played Scott Joplin's "Maple Leaf Rag" looked like buffoons. But there was a good reason for the two-step even rhythm that had them flinging balls to one another. Or at least that's what their manager had told them. There were those hold out skeptics who'd scratched beneath their chins, but they'd eventually given into her demand.
"Syncopation, gentlemen," Camille called from home plate, where she stood next to a table that held the phonograph. Out of the colorfully painted black horn came the piano notes to the double-time rag tune.
