Confederates Don't Wear Couture (8 page)

I kicked him with a dainty booted heel as he scrambled into the cab of the truck. With Beau plus the two of us, and me in my hoop skirt, it was pretty close quarters. Willie sat patiently in the driveway, looking up at us.

“Is that beast coming in?” Dev asked, appalled. “I'm wearing a
white suit!
He better not sit on me. This outfit is not supposed to come with a fur coat. You're terribly out of season, ducky,” he addressed the dog.

“He can sit on me. Here, Willie!” I patted my lap, and Willie clambered up and over Dev—who moaned with dismay—finally settling on my lap. He was so big it was smothering but nice. Willie's tail wagged happily, smacking Dev repeatedly in the nose.

Packed nice and tightly, we set off.

“Are we there yet?” Dev whined the minute we passed the sign thanking us for visiting Confederate Memorial Park.

“Not quite,” Beau said, as we barreled down the road. Tammy was right—he did drive fast—and with breezy, one-handed confidence. “It's a little less than two hours to Tuscaloosa.”

“I thought we were going somewhere called Tannehill?” I asked.

“We are.” Beau sped by and passed another car. “Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park. It's about halfway between Birmingham and Tuscaloosa. There's more than fifteen hundred acres for us to set up and fight on, which is good, since we got more than five hundred reenactors last year.”

“Excellent,” Dev said, rubbing his hands together. “‘The best things in life are free,'” he sang, “‘but you can keep them for the birds and bees. Now give me money.'”

Willie whined.

“My voice isn't
that
bad,” Dev broke off, offended. “Everyone's a critic.”

“Now, Willie,” Beau reprimanded him, jokingly. “Be nice to our guests.”

“Stuck with the Simon Cowell of dogs,” Dev complained. “And he's the size of Randy.”

Beau and I chatted as we sped north to Tuscaloosa. Dev had fallen asleep almost immediately, as he was wont to do when in a moving vehicle. His head lolled against the window, a faint trickle of drool working its way down his chin as he snored softly.

“How'd you get into this?” I asked. “Reenacting, I mean.”

“It was my mama's idea,” Beau said with a grin. “My dad passed away when I was real young—”

“Oh, I'm—I'm so sorry,” I interrupted, the words burbling up before I could stop them.

“No, it's, uh, it's fine.” He smiled tensely, something shuttered flitting across his eyes. “But my mama thought I could use some positive male role models. So she signed me up as a drummer boy. Jeff—uh, Captain Cauldwell—had been a poker buddy of my dad's. So he sorta looked after me, taught me the ropes, well . . . They all sorta did. It's a real close group. They all look out for their own. Sorta gruff, not the friendliest, always suspicious about newbies . . . They haven't been too rough on ya, have they?” he asked anxiously.

“No, no, they're fine,” I assured him. “Just not super out­going.”

“Yeah, they probably won't pay you much notice, but I wouldn't worry about it.” He shrugged. “It's just their way. Prefer to keep to themselves. And, anyway . . . well . . . more'n ten years later . . . here I am.”

“That's cool that you stuck with it for so long.”

“Well, I love history,” he said, and colored a bit, embarrassed. “I mean, to do this, you have to. And if you're a big ol' history nerd, like me, it doesn't get better than this.” He grinned. “But I'm guessin' you already know that. Or you wouldn't be sittin' in this truck in 150-year-old underwear.”

“So true.” I grinned back. “It's hard to explain to other people, isn't it? How much you love it.”

“I s'pose,” he said. “Although I s'pose I'm lucky, spendin' my summers here with people who are even nuttier about the war than I am, and then at UA . . . Y'all have Phi Alpha Theta at your school?”

“What?” I asked skeptically. “What is that, a frat? I, um, haven't started college yet.”

“You're still in high school?” Beau asked, surprised. “'Cause you don't look—”

“Just graduated,” I interrupted him. “I'm starting college in the fall.” Beau nodded. “But I have to say I find it really hard to believe that you sit around with your frat brothers discussing the effects of the Union naval blockade on the Confederate home front or whatever.”

“No, not a frat,” Beau said, roaring with laughter. “Phi Alpha Theta is a history honors society.”

“Oh.” I blushed.

“Check and see if they have it at your school when you start, then. It's nice, to have that group. Whole buncha nerds together.” He smiled. “And the department at UA's pretty good too—I can concentrate in exactly what I want to study.”

“Which is . . . ?” I prompted, even though I had a pretty good idea what he was going to say.

“American Civilization to 1865, History of Alabama to 1865, American South to 1865, U.S. Constitution to 1865, the Coming of the Civil War, the Civil War, Mexican War through Civil War . . .” He rattled off the course names.

“I'm sensing a pattern,” I teased.

“Funny,” he said, and laughed. “All right, smarty-pants, what is it you wanna study when you start next year?”

“American social history, definitely. Probably eighteenth- and nineteenth-century women's and gender studies,” I replied.

“Gotcha,” he mused. “So we're in the same general area, just comin' at the same thing from two different sides. Pretty much.”

“Pretty much.”

“Coffee.” Dev woke himself up with a start, snorting a little. “Coffee,” he murmured, and snorted again, rubbing his eyes. “Oh, I had the most horrible nightmare.” He sighed. “I was stuck in a terrible land without coffee. And you were there, and you, and you!” he said, as he channeled Dorothy from the
Wizard of Oz,
pointing at me and Beau and Willie, in turn.
“Wait a minute . . . that wasn't a dream, was it?”

“'Fraid not,” Beau replied cheerily.

“You are altogether too chipper for someone with no caffeine in his system.” Dev glared at him. “I want coofffeeeee,” he cried softly into his seat belt.

“Well, turns out, you're in luck,” Beau said. He took the next exit and pulled off the highway. “We're almost there. And I'm gonna need to fill up on gas before we stop. And I'm pretty sure the gas station'll have coffee.”

We were almost there? I couldn't believe how fast the time had flown by.

As we pulled into the gas station, Dev wept tears of joy.

“I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a BP,” he recited. “Hello, lover,” he cooed at the yellow sunburst on the big green BP sign.

Dev was out of the truck before it had come to a complete stop. He sprinted into the mini-mart without a backwards glance.

“Comin'?” Beau asked as he hopped out.

“Nah, I'm fine,” I said, gesturing to my hoops. “With all of this, you'll be done pumping gas by the time I get out of the truck.” Plus, I wasn't exactly sure how I felt about hanging around a gas station just outside of Tuscaloosa in the twenty-first century wearing nineteenth-century clothing.

“Suit yourself.” Beau clearly had no such worry as he stood around pumping gas like a Confederate pep boy. He tipped his gray kepi hat to the other people at the gas station, who didn't seem to think it was anything out of the ordinary.

And then, when I had finally stopped thinking about it, my phone vibrated. I scrambled around through what felt like a million yards of muslin, until I triumphantly extracted my cell phone from where I'd stashed it in my corset.

“Garrett!” I cried. “Finally! Where are you? What's up? How are you? How's it going?”

“Hey, Libby,” he said, and sighed, almost dejectedly. “What's with all the questions? I thought I was the reporter.”

I smiled. It was sort of a halfhearted joke, but at least he seemed a little bit more like himself.

“Very funny, Mr. Hotshot Reporter.” I shifted under Willie's weight. “So do you spend more of your time running around chasing hot leads and yelling, ‘Stop the presses!' or just coming up with brilliant bons mots behind a big glossy desk?”

“Um . . . not exactly.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I-don't-even-have-a-desk,” he mumbled very quietly.

“Sorry, what? What was that?” I asked. I had no idea what he'd said.

“I don't have a desk!” He shouted so loudly I nearly dropped the phone, and Willie barked unhappily. “I don't even have a desk,” Garrett repeated at a normal volume.

“Well, okay,” I said, commiserating, “that's not great, I guess, but—”

“I thought I'd at least have a cubicle,” he said sadly, “or something. It didn't have to be fancy. It's not like I was expecting an
office
or something ridiculous. I just thought I'd have a desk. At least access to a desk. A time-share to a desk maybe, but no.” He sighed again, heavily. “No. I have to sit on the floor.”

“The . . . the floor?”

“They had to do major cutbacks because of the economy,” Garrett said bitterly. “And they replaced everyone they let go with interns. So they don't have to pay them. Or provide things like desks. And there's so many of us, we have to sit on the floor. It's . . . not great.”

“Oh, Garrett,” I said, frowning. “I'm so sorry. I know how much you were looking forward to this, and this isn't exactly what you pictured—”

“Definitely not,” he said grimly. “But I'm trying to get sent out on assignment. I just need the right story. So hopefully I can get sent closer to—”

“Regardez!”
Dev shouted, as he flung open the door and proudly held up a bucket-size coffee. “Mmm.” He held it under my nose. “Smell that. Liquid nirvana. Mmm.” He took another sip. “This coffee is awful. But at least it's not yams.”

“Is that Dev?” Garrett asked over the phone.

“Yep,” I confirmed.

Beau finished filling up the tank and started getting back in the truck.

“Is that loverboy?” Dev asked as he sat back down.

“Mmm-hmm.” Out of the corner of my eye, I happened to catch a glimpse of Beau, whose face fell.

“Tell snookums I say hi.” Dev made a kissy face as he blew on his hot coffee.

“Dev says hi,” I said quickly. “Listen, I have to go; we're getting back on the road.”

“Marching to the sea, General Sherman?” Garrett cracked. “Oh, no, wait—you're the enemy.”

“Har-har.” I rolled my eyes. “With wit like that, you'll shoot straight to the top in no time. But seriously,” I said softly, “I know this sucks. But it'll get better. You'll be okay.”

“I know.” Garrett sighed. “I love you, Libby.”

“I love you too.”

I hung up and stuck the phone back in my corset as Beau started the car.

“So . . . that your boyfriend?” Beau peeled out of the gas station so fast he burned rubber.

“Mmm-hmm.” I held on to Willie for dear life as Beau turned corners at breakneck speed, tires kicking up gravel. Dev raised an eyebrow over the rim of his giant coffee as he balanced it, careful not to spill a single precious drop, no matter how fast we were going.

“He back up north?”

“Yeah.” I knotted my fingers deeper into Willie's fur. “He's working at a newspaper. In Boston.”

“Nice. Nice.” Beau nodded tensely. “Real nice.”

Thankfully, we really were almost at the state park. Probably because we were traveling at the speed of light. We managed to arrive in one piece, albeit one slightly frazzled piece, as the truck skidded to a stop in the parking lot, kicking up a hailstorm of dust and gravel.

“Aw, hell no,” Beau said with dismay. “Randall.”

I followed his gaze. A bit of a ways into the park, there stood a group of boys in Confederate uniforms, most of whom looked to be between ten and fourteen, in a very straight line.

“School must've gotten out.” Beau pulled a frown. “Dammit.”

“Um, who are they?” I asked.

“Boy Scout Troop 72. They spend the summer with us, earnin' some kind of history or military badge or somethin'.”

“Aw, that's so cute!” I exclaimed.

Beau shot me a look. “You'll see,” he said, as he got out of the truck. He waited for Dev and Willie to scramble out before helping me. “Oh, how quickly you'll learn.”

Dev had miraculously finished that enormous coffee during the quick drive. He expertly tossed his cup into a trash can at the edge of the parking lot.

“We'd better get this over with,” Beau said, offering me his arm, and together we walked toward the Boy Scouts. Dev sauntered along on my other side, trying to ignore Willie, who was desperately clamoring for his attention.

“Corporal Anderson.” A skinny, pasty scout at the head of the line stepped forward and saluted him.

“At ease, Randall.” Beau sighed.

“You can't make me!” Randall shot back. “Uh, I mean, you don't outrank me, soldier.”

“I think I do, Brevet Corporal,” Beau said, and sighed again.

“Think again, Second Corporal,” Randall retorted.

Beau shot me a look as if to say,
See what I mean?
And I did. Randall seemed to be an extremely whiny and obnoxious specimen of twelve-year-old boy.

“Does it matter, Randall?”

“I'm telling Captain Cauldwell.” Randall's nostrils flared. “I'm telling him that you don't respect rank and . . . and . . . I'm telling.”

“Aw, come on, Randall, not again.”

Randall stared Beau down for a minute, then fled in toward the camp.

“Come on, Randall, you don't need to bother him with this—he's busy with registration and stuff!” Beau yelled after him. “Aw, hell.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I'd better go deal with this before he pisses off the captain.”