The Wedding Dress(9)

With a shout, Emily whirled around with her fist drawn back, ready to strike. Earl Donaldson, her neighbor and childhood friend, knew the power of her punch. He’d jumped out from behind a tree one too many times, and eventually she belted him.

“Emily, simmer down, it’s me. It’s me.”

She lowered her fists and gazed into the eyes of Daniel Ludlow. Her knees went limp. “Daniel, what are you doing here?” She threw herself against him, the thump beneath his chest loud and clear. It’d been so long, months, since she’d heard from him.

“Looking for you, that’s what I’m doing, silly girl. Where have you been?”

“Where have I been? Right here, where you found me. Where have you been?”

“You know where I’ve been. Don’t tease me.” He grinned, shoving his ball cap back on his head, and her resolve to be angry with him jellied. “I looked for you when we were in town. How come you never came to any of our games?”

“I had more pressing engagements.” Emily turned away from him, but only by a half step or so. Did he expect her to drop everything and run down to Rickwood Field just to watch him bat a ball?

“What’s more important than baseball?” He scooped her up and twirled her around. “I missed you.” He pressed his cheek against hers, and Emily locked her arms around his neck.

“Plenty of things are more important than baseball. Art, theater, education, suffrage, learning how to run a household from Mother.” Emily pushed away from him when he set her down, leaving his puckered lips to kiss the air. “If you missed me, why didn’t you write me? And there is such a thing as a telephone. You’ve heard of that invention, haven’t you?”

“Come on, Em. I’m a poor ballplayer. I can’t afford phone calls.” Daniel fingered a strand of loose hair curling about her neck. She held her breath, tingling as his fingers brushed her skin. “And I did write you. Every week. The question here, young lady, is why didn’t you write me back?”

Emily stepped away from his hand. He was confusing her, plying her with his charm. “Did you come up to Highlands to examine me? How come I didn’t attend your ball games? How come I didn’t write? You’re the one who boarded that jitney and drove off with fourteen smelly men to play a silly game. Imagine grown men running round all day in the dirt, chasing a small white ball.”

“Em, it’s baseball. America’s pastime.” Daniel raised his arms, his expression foretelling his passion. “It’s the greatest game in the world. And it’s getting better, Em.” He stripped his cap from his head, combed his fingers through his thick bangs, then settled the hat in place again. It had a big B on it for his team. The Barons. “We’re getting new rules and more leagues. A good hitter or sacker can make a decent wage these days. Stars are being born. Cy Young, Nap Lajoie, Ty Cobb. Word is he’s making a pretty penny up there with the Tigers. Five thousand dollars.”

Five or six thousand dollars a year? Father made that, or more, in a month. Phillip Saltonstall and his father, even more. They traveled in Oldsmobiles, not jitney buses, and lived in fine houses, not roadside motels.

“I’m not concerned about Cy Young or Ty Cobb. I’m concerned, was concerned, about Daniel Ludlow. Did you come here to tell me you’re signing a professional contract worth thousands?”

Emily stood back, folded her arms, and waited. She was definitely late for dinner now, but it was Daniel standing in front of her. Daniel.

“No, as a matter of fact.” Daniel turned away, slipping his hands into his pockets. The chain of his gold watch glinted in the sun. “I’m not making thousands of dollars playing baseball. That’s why I quit. I love the game, and one day it would be swell if I could purchase my own team, but for now”—a soft smolder beneath his brilliant blue eyes burned away every ounce of Emily’s ire—“I’ve secured a position at Pollock Stephens Institute.”

“My alma mater? Doing what? Teaching?” Daniel was coming home. “When did this transpire? I can’t believe you’re quitting the game you love. I declare it almost makes me not respect you. What would possess you to do such a thing?”

“Don’t you know, Emily? You.”

“Me?” She was helpless against his advances, and when he pulled her into his arms, she let her heart go. “But I heard nothing from you for five months. Not one letter. Not even a postal card.” He smelled of soap and warm, washed cotton.

“I wrote you every day, I promise. Mailed them all myself too.” He caressed her shoulder and kissed her temple. Romantic flutters burst open in Emily’s belly. “What does it matter, sugar, I’m home now.”

“I’ve missed you so much. I don’t have anyone to play croquet with me.” Emily snuggled against him. “Or try the new dances. Father and Phillip—?” She pressed her lips together. Phillip. Daniel didn’t know about him.

“Phillip?” Daniel touched her chin, dipping his face to see into her eyes, but Emily moved away.

“So tell me, what made you decide to give up baseball?” She crossed her arms and closed her heart. She belonged to another man now.

“Well,” Daniel began, slow and deliberate, his eyes on her face. “We lost to the Memphis Turtles in a doubleheader and the boys were pretty riled about it. They were smoking and swearing, drinking, and the jitney smelled like a sewer after a hot, rainless summer, and I had to ask myself, ‘Why do I prefer these lugheads over my favorite girl?’ Who’s Phillip, Emily?”