Here’s a piece from a chapter I’m writing set in spring 1923.
“Nora,” Nucky said, “when Clara was your age, she was in love with Jeff Tesreau.”
Clara stopped.
Richard looked at her.
Nora asked quickly, “Who is Jeff Tesreau?”
“A pitcher,” Nucky said.
Clara laughed. “Father. I cannot believe you remember that.”
“I remember many things.”
“Selectively.”
“Usefully.”
Richard spoke. “Jimmy. Has mentioned. This.”
Clara turned to him. “Traitor.”
Richard looked down at Tommy. “It was. Mentioned.”
“By Jimmy?” Nora asked.
“Yes.”
“Often?”
Richard considered. “Enough.”
Nucky’s mouth twitched. “She was ridiculous with it.”
“I was not ridiculous,” Clara answered, clearly offended.
“You knew every score associated with that man,” Nucky said. “Every outing. Every inning. You were a little walking, talking ledger book of his pitching record.”
Clara lifted her chin. “A girl should have interests.”
“You had a shrine made of box scores.”
“That is a slander.”
“It was in your desk.”
“That was organization.”
“It had dates.”
“That is what organization means.”
June had one hand over her mouth now. Eli looked delighted.
Nucky settled back, enjoying himself in the dangerous way of a man who had found an old harmless weapon and forgotten all weapons had edges.
“I took her and James to New York,” he said. “A Giants game. Afterward, some of the players joined us for supper.”
Clara covered her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Oh no,” she whispered.
“Oh yes,” Nucky said. “Including Jeff Tesreau himself.”
Nora gasped.
Clara lowered her hands enough to glare at her. “Do not gasp. You are supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” Nora said. “That is why I need details.”
Nucky’s smile became downright wicked. “Clara forgot how to eat steak.”
Tommy, who had been half asleep leaning against Richard, opened his eyes.
“Clara loves steak.”
Clara looked down at him, mortified and affectionate at once. “While that is true, my father is also correct.”
Nucky lit a cigarette, which June permitted only because the room had already survived foyer legends and Clara’s romantic baseball ledger. Smoke curled upward between them, thin and silver.
“Harrow,” Nucky said.
Richard looked up.
“He’s also a pitcher.”
Clara blinked. “What?”
Nucky watched her through the smoke.
“Tesreau. Harrow. Pitchers.”
Clara stared at him. “That is not a category of man.”
“It is when you are Clara Thompson.”
Eli laughed.
Clara turned to him. “Do not encourage this!”
Nucky waved the cigarette slightly. “What girl besides you loves baseball?”
“Baseball is extremely lovable.”
“What girl,” Nucky continued, “besides you, loves baseball the way you love baseball?”
Clara frowned. “It is math. It is rules. It is angles. It is men making elaborate decisions and then pretending chance has offended them personally. It is…”
“No one asked for a telegraph report.”Nucky tapped ash neatly into the tray. “Girls who love ballplayers usually love sluggers.”
Nora looked interested. “Why?”
“Because sluggers are theater,” Nucky said. “They command attention. They swing and everyone sees the result. Crowd roars, ball goes up, boy becomes a hero before the thing even lands.”
Willie nodded despite himself.
Nucky’s eyes stayed on Clara.
“But a pitcher,” he said, “is different. A pitcher is all waiting. Control. Nerves. A private argument conducted in public. He stands there alone, makes everyone watch the smallest motion, and half the game happens before anyone else realizes something has begun.”
Clara’s face had changed.
Richard had gone very still.
Nucky’s voice softened just enough to become dangerous.
“What girl loves a pitcher?” he asked.
Clara did not answer.
Nucky looked at Richard, then back at her.
“You.”
Jeff Tesreau was a real pitcher, and mentions of Clara’s crush are sprinkled through out T3.