The Baseball Bride

CHAPTER ONE

Abigail Mason sat cross-legged atop her bed and stared at the scandalous cover of the July edition of The Ladies’ Home Journal. A man in evening clothes clutched a woman to his chest as though he couldn’t bear another second without her. With his free hand, he angled her chin so that her mouth was in the correct position and kissed her with abandon.

Oh, that kiss! Abigail could almost feel it on her own lips. The woman in the picture pressed her palm against the man’s chest. Was she pushing him away, or searching for his heartbeat? What would it feel like if a man ever desired Abigail that much?

Would Abigail allow it or fight off his advances?

So many questions.

So few answers.

There was a soft knock on her door before it opened an inch. “Laundry, Abigail,” her mother called. “Can you get it off the line?”

So much for daydreams. The daily drudgery of her real life interfered. “Mom, I want to ask you something.”

Her mother entered the room, repinning her graying hair as she did. “What’s on your mind?”

“This.” Abigail held up the magazine.

Her mother eased onto the edge of the bed. “I’ve been looking for that. Let me know when you’re finished. There’s a recipe for peach compote I want to try.”

“Recipe?” Abigail’s voice brimmed with incredulity. “What about the cover?”

Her mother chuckled softly. “Romantic, isn’t it? Looks like Valentine’s Day instead of midsummer.”

Abigail frowned. “Has Dad seen this?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t pay much attention to my magazines. Why do you ask?”

“This picture. It’s so…so…”

Her mother’s shoulders rose in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s just a man kissing his wife on their wedding day.”

While it was true the woman on the cover wore a long-trained white dress, there was no other indicator of matrimony. There was no bridal bouquet, lace veil, or wedding rings. Abigail shook her head in dismay. There were some things her mother was too old to understand about the modern woman of 1910.

Her mother took the magazine from her daughter and nonchalantly flipped a few pages. “What time is Benjamin calling for you?”

“Six o’clock,” Abigail answered as she scooted off her bed. “We’re going to the band concert in the park.”

“John’s going with you?”

“He and Rosalind will meet us there.” Abigail lowered herself to the floor, retrieved her shoes from under the bed, and struggled to button them onto her feet. “I’ve been walking out with Benjamin for six months. Surely I don’t still need a chaperone.”

“You and Benjamin have earned our trust. Otherwise, your father and I wouldn’t allow him to drive you. I wasn’t allowed to be alone with your father until we were engaged.”

Her mother had a point, Abigail silently conceded. Some girls’ reputations were ruined simply by being caught alone with a beau. “Does it have to be John every time? Once he starts talking baseball, Benjamin doesn’t pay attention to me.”

“I know how that is,” her mother said with a soft laugh. “After all, I am married to your father, and no one’s crazier about baseball than he is. But I think our young doctor has more on his mind than baseball.”

Abigail lifted her head. “Has Benjamin said something to you or Dad?”

Her mother closed the magazine and gave Abigail her full attention. “Something tells me you’ve set your cap for Dr. Connor.”

Abigail finished buttoning her shoes and stood. “What if I have? Lots of girls my age get married.”

“Is that why you’ve been primping so much lately? I used to have to practically tie you to the chair just to brush your hair. Now you spend an hour washing, combing, and styling it.”

Abigail turned to examine her reflection in the mirror above her dresser. “I just want to act more like a lady. You’re the one who said I stomped through the house like a lumberjack.”

Her mother propped an elbow on her knee and regarded Abigail. “I suppose that’s why you no longer play baseball with your brothers.”

Nothing had been as much fun as diving for a line drive or tagging one of her brothers at the plate. Bruises and scrapes had been a small price to pay for the look of surprise that crossed their faces whenever she had refused to get out of the way of a charging runner. But if she was ever going to win a young man’s heart, she had to give up her boyish ways. “Ladies don’t play baseball.”

“That may be true,” her mother allowed, “but I hate to see you giving up everything you once enjoyed.”

Abigail crossed her arms over her chest and plopped down on the bed. “I’m going to end up like Hildy Campbell if Benjamin doesn’t say something soon.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Hildy,” her mother scolded. “She’s a good Christian woman with a generous heart.”

“But she’s old and alone.”

“She’s not that old. Let me see, you’re twenty-one now, so that makes Hildy…” Her mother looked at the ceiling while she calculated. “…twenty-nine, I think. Maybe thirty.”

“That’s what I mean. Old.”

Her mother laughed and shook her head. Abigail gazed at her mother in bemusement. Why did her mother find Hildy’s age something to laugh at?

Her mother laid the magazine on the bed and walked toward the door. “Get the clothes off the line, will you? Dark clouds are gathering toward the north and the last thing I need today is wet laundry.”

Abigail followed her mother into the kitchen and sighed loudly as she perched the wicker basket on her hip. Laundry. Cooking. Cleaning. Ever since she’d graduated from high school, all she did was help with the housework. It wouldn’t be such drudgery if she were doing it for her husband and children. If she had her own home, she could make it look like one of the elegant places featured in her mother’s magazines. If she were married, she’d gladly cook for her husband and surprise him with new recipes. Someday she’d be a mother, with a beautiful, happy baby and maybe one of those darling, white Maltese puppies like Hildy Campbell had.

Someday.

Abigail grudgingly pulled the clothespins from the line and dropped them in the basket with the clean clothes. Three brothers. All she and her mother did was clean her brothers’ sweaty shirts and stinky socks. In the Mason house, every day was wash day.

If only Benjamin would do more than escort her to band concerts. They’d been walking out together for two months before he’d held her hand. Two months! Who knew how long it would be before he worked up the nerve to kiss her. If he ever did. Did all courtships move with the speed of a lazy turtle, or was Benjamin dragging his feet in case someone better came along?

Abigail hoisted the basket as though it weighed five hundred pounds and returned to the kitchen. Now that the clothes were dry, she had ironing to do.

***

Preston Walker, editor of the Brightfield Gazette, called to Benjamin as he crossed Main Street. “Afternoon, Dr. Connor. Nice game this morning.”

Benjamin touched the brim of his panama hat in acknowledgement. “Thanks, Preston. I thought they almost had us in the sixth, but thanks to our outfielders, we chalked up another win.”

“That’s one mean slider you’ve got,” the newspaperman said with a sly grin. “You leave the batter standing at the plate, his mouth open and his eyes spinning. It’s a lovely sight to behold.”

“My uncle taught me that pitch,” Benjamin said as he tossed his jacket onto the seat of his Model F Ford.

“It’s a good one all right,” Preston replied. “I’m sure glad you decided to join the Bobcats.”

“Thanks. The Mason brothers tell me this has been the team’s best season yet.”

“They’re right about that. You know, the townspeople are beginning to get their hopes up. Do you think this will be the year we beat Greenville?”

“I know a lot of Brightfield men work for the Superior Farm Machinery Company there. Is that why there’s a rivalry?”

Preston propped his elbow on the hood of Benjamin’s car and leaned against the fender. “That plus the fact they’ve beaten us ever since the Town Leagues formed. That’s twenty-two years in a row. Can you imagine?”

Benjamin frowned. “Are the Green Stockings that good?”

“They have been in the past. But this year is different. Not only do we finally have a good pitcher, we’ve also got all of Simon Mason’s boys on the team. Did you know he leveled an acre of farmland in order to make a baseball field where his sons could learn to play?”

“He must really love the game.”

“The whole family does.” Preston removed his hat and used it to fan his florid face. “Will I see you at the band concert tonight?”

“I’ll be there.” Benjamin raised a hand in farewell and walked to the right side of the automobile, cranked the engine to start, and then went to the opposite side to climb in. He drove slowly down Main Street, returning good-natured waves to storekeepers and neighbors. Less than a mile later, he reached the road leading to the Masons’ farm.

The village of Brightfield had been love at first sight. Its gently rolling hills and acres of untouched forest had felt like home. The well-kept farms and brightly painted barns testified to the hardworking people he’d come to admire.

His decision to buy Dr. Harris’s practice had been a good one, although it had come with a painful lesson. Benjamin had given almost all of his savings to buy the practice from Dr. Harris’s heirs, only to discover the disastrous state of the buildings. The misfortune of being stuck with a house and clinic near collapse, however, had led him to the Mason brothers and they had led him to the two most appealing things about Brightfield – the town’s baseball team and their sister.

George Mason was a carpenter who played second base. Andrew Mason worked alongside his brother and was a crack shortstop. John worked the family farm and was the best catcher Benjamin had ever known. Best of all, Andrew’s twin, Abigail, could ease his frustrations with one smile. She was sweet, feminine, and bound to make a wonderful helpmate. If Abigail married someone else, Benjamin’s heart would wilt and blow away, but he couldn’t propose yet. All of Benjamin’s funds went into the clinic.

What were the chances Abigail would wait for him? Every time he was with her, Benjamin felt more and more certain she was the one for him. But he was in no position to support a wife and the children who would surely follow.

Benjamin had been so naïve when he’d bought the clinic. Dr. Harris’s son had looked him in the eye and guaranteed everything was in tip-top shape. But the disturbing truth was Benjamin had been fooled. He’d never made the trip to personally view the property, relying instead on the seller’s word and a few photographs. He’d arrived at his new home with soaring hopes, only to be confronted by the reality of broken plumbing, leaky roofs, and hopelessly jumbled patient records. It was a struggle to keep the clinic well-provisioned and to bring it up to twentieth century standards. As nice as it would be to wake up to Abigail’s smiling face every day, that pleasure would have to wait.

Benjamin slowed his automobile and downshifted as he turned into the Masons’ drive. Two of Abigail’s brothers sat on the front porch of the two-story white farmhouse, each clothed in dress pants, crisp white shirts and ties. “Looks to me as though you’re planning to attend tonight’s concert,” Benjamin said as he stepped onto the porch. “Have the young ladies of Brightfield been warned?”

George, a wide-shouldered bear of a man, smiled widely at Benjamin’s good-natured jibe. “We’re the ones in danger, Doc. Good-looking men like us make prime targets for husband hunters.”

“Keep dreaming,” Andrew said. “You haven’t got a chance when I’m around.”

George punched Andrew’s arm. Andrew, a head shorter and at least fifty pounds lighter than his brother returned George’s hit with a hard shove.

“All right,” George warned. “Don’t start something you can’t finish. If you end up tearing your clothes, no lady will give you the time of day.” He turned his gaze toward Benjamin. “What brings you way out here on a Saturday evening?”

“I believe it’s our sister,” Andrew answered. “Although why anybody would want to spend time with that harridan, I’ll never know.”

“What did you call me?” a feminine voice asked.

Benjamin turned away from the brothers. Abigail stood in the doorway. She wore a lacy white dress with yellow ribbons and her blonde hair was braided and wrapped into a bun on the crown of her head. Her full lips were a fetching shade of pink and her cheeks blushed of natural good health. She was a lovely girl, both inside and out.

“Pay them no mind, Abigail,” Benjamin said. “It is my professional medical opinion that these gentlemen received too much sun during today’s game.”

Abigail walked to Benjamin’s side, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her eyes flashing sparks. “You may be right. But how do you explain their asinine behavior on other days?”

“Ass-i-nine,” George said with a hoot of laughter. “Our little sister called you ass-i-nine.”

Andrew jabbed his brother’s shoulder with his fist, sending George’s rocking chair backward. The porch groaned as George’s brawn hit the wooden floor. All six feet and six inches of George lay sprawled beside the upturned chair, his raucous laughter a contrast to Abigail’s tightly clamped lips.

Simon Mason stepped out of the house. “What’s going on out here?” he asked, his tone gruffer than an old dog’s.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” Abigail answered. “It’s just two old mules who don’t know how to act when company comes.”

Andrew brayed like a donkey. “Hee-haw.”

George kicked Andrew’s chair. “I think our sister’s on to something. You sure smell like an old mule.”

“All right, you two,” their father said with an edge to his voice. “You’ve embarrassed your sister quite enough. Come in, Benjamin.”

Benjamin followed Abigail into the comfortably furnished parlor. Abigail sat daintily on the upholstered divan and Benjamin settled himself next to her, his hat on his knees.

Simon eased into an armchair near the open window and reached for his pipe and tobacco. “You put on another fine show at today’s game,” he said, tamping tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “Eight straight wins. We’ve never done that well. People are beginning to talk about a perfect season. We’ve got Clinton next Saturday, and, of course, Greenville for our final game.”

Benjamin slid the brim of his hat through his fingers. “According to your sons, Greenville is the toughest team in our league.”

“Greenville has been king of the league for over twenty years. I wouldn’t mind seeing them taken down a peg or two.”

“Your boys are mighty fast on their feet.”

Simon laughed softly as he lit the tobacco. “Always have been. Have to show up one another, don’t you know? When you loaded the bases at the top of the sixth, I thought for sure we would lose, but you squeezed your way out of it. I remember one time…”

Simon went on describing a game that had taken place long before Benjamin had moved to Brightfield, but Benjamin couldn’t pay attention to the older man. Abigail was mere inches from him. He moved his hand next to hers so that their fingers touched. Then he slid his palm over the back of her hand.