Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (18 page)

“Can I borrow your book?”

“Um . . . this one?” I held up
Northanger Abbey.
I assumed he hadn't meant
Let Sleeping Rogues Lie
or
Never Seduce a Scoundrel.

“Yes.”

“Uh, sure.”

So we were surviving, but it wasn't exactly pleasant. I was considering asking Madam Selena to move in just to break the tension. Or exorcise some of these negative energies.

Beardy would have definitely moved in. It was hard to believe, but the Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine were
still
camped out at President Harrow's. And it had been weeks. Weeks! Beardy, however, had decided to stalk me and Garrett. He spent most of his time loitering around outside the boat, waving to us whenever one of our heads happened to peek over the side. It was a little creepy. I had a newfound sympathy for Britney Spears.

So between the paranormal paparazzi and the elephant in the fo'c's'le, I was spending as much time as humanly possible out of the ship. As per usual, Girls of Long Ago Camp was proving to be my salvation. I'd thrown myself wholeheartedly into an ambitious quilting project. Perhaps overly ambitious, but I was trying to fill all the corners of my brain with binding and batting, so that there would be no room for nerdy reporters who were disturbingly good kissers . . .

“Mith Libby?” I snapped out of it. Amanda was standing in front of the parlor window that faced the street, looking worried. “Thomething jutht hit the window.”

“Okay, don't worry.” I stood up, moving my quilt blocks to the floor. “Let's see what it is.” I joined her at the window.

“I think it wath that.” She pointed at a small rock by the gardenia bush under the windowsill that had what looked like a piece of parchment tied to it with a silk ribbon.

“I'll go get it.” Now I was curious too. “Guys, I'll be right back, okay? Please don't stab each other with the needles!” I called as I went out the front door. They giggled.

I knelt on the front step and leaned into the gardenia bush to pick up the rock. Yep, that was definitely a piece of parchment. Rock in hand, I went back into the house. Not that I actually thought a quilt fight would break out, but better safe than sorry.

“What wath it?” Amanda asked as she joined me in the entryway.

I untied the ribbon. There was a note written on the parchment in ink. I read:

 

“You left something on our steps. SF”

 

SF? SF?! I didn't know anyone named . . . ohhh right. Susannah Fennyweather. Ashling. So I'd left something on the steps back at the house? Impossible. Unless, of course, my belongings had somehow started moving around on their own. Everything I owned in Camden Harbor was either on the boat or stored in that rickety IKEA closet. How weird.

Amanda was still waiting expectantly.

“Oh, it's nothing,” I explained. “Apparently I left something in the house I used to live at.”

“Why didn't they just text you?” Robin asked from the couch.

“Because that would be way too normal,” I answered.

I cleaned up, got the girls to the Welcome Center, and changed back into my giant blue polo as quickly as possible, curiosity eating me alive. What the hell could be on those steps? I sprinted down the sidewalk to the house. It looked exactly the same as it always did, except with one unusual addition.

A short, skeletally thin Indian boy with spiked hair was sitting on the steps next to a Louis Vuitton hat box and a Bernina sewing machine, licking an enormous swirl of soft-serve ice cream with rainbow sprinkles.

“Dev! Oh my God, Dev! What happened?! Are you okay?!” I sprinted up the steps. “Jesus Christ, you're like malnourished.”

“I know, right?” He licked his cone. “I'm like an effing UNICEF ad. Save the Children!”

“Did they not feed you in New York?”

“Emaciated is the new black, darling. But not for me. Not anymore. I'm on an all–ice cream diet until people stop asking if they can sponsor me for a dime a day.”

“Well, you picked the right place. You've got the Sea Swirl for soft-serve, and then the Dairy Bar is the best homemade ice cream in the world. Try the S'mores!”

“Yes, that's why I picked Camden Harbor as my safe house. For the ice cream,” he said sarcastically. “Why aren't you wearing pants?”

“I'm wearing pants!” I shouted.

“Show me,” he demanded. I flashed some khaki.

“Why are you here, Dev?” I joined him on the step. “What happened?”

“I got fired,” he said matter-of-factly. “I put full-fat milk in someone's latte.”

“Yikes.”

“And I was afraid they were going to kill me. Full-fat milk? I mean, really! Maybe I deserved to die. But I was just so tired, I wasn't paying attention. So the minute they fired me, I got on a Greyhound bus bound for points north. To go to the only place I could think of where Mono Corps could never find me. And to see you, of course.” He bit off a piece of waffle cone.

“Well, you picked a good place to hide from the fashionistas. People wear
Tevas
here.”

“No!” He gasped. “Libby, how have you
survived?! 
”

“I'm tougher than I look,” I said. “How did you find this place?”

“Oh, I asked for directions to the intern house at the Welcome Center. I told them I was visiting a friend. But then I knocked on the door, and this girl in a
whale
T-shirt, worn unironically, might I add”—he made a face—“told me you didn't live here anymore, and she, quote, ‘would not be a party to Libby's man parade.'” He smirked. “And I couldn't come in.” He paused to take another bite of ice cream. “If, unlikely though it may be, you
are
having a man parade, however, I would like to be a party to that party,” he added.

“Well, she's right—I don't live there anymore. She should've let you in, though. It wasn't very nice to make you wait on the step. Not that I'm surprised,” I huffed.

“Well, where do you live?”

“In a tiny room. On a boat.” He raised an eyebrow. “With a boy.” Double-eyebrow raise. “Not like that!”

“What's it like?” he asked suspiciously.

“Purely professional. We live together in a business-only, investigative capacity.”

“I have no idea what that means.” He licked his ice cream nonchalantly. “And I have no idea where I'm going to stay.”

“Well, you can stay with me. On the boat.”

“I thought you said it was like really tiny.”

“Yeah, it is. But so are you. We'll put you somewhere.” I could build him some kind of nest out of blankets, and he could curl up in a ball in the two square feet of space in the fo'c's'le. Or something.

“You sure I'm not breaking up your love nest?”

“I am totally, completely sure,” I reassured him. He was breaking up my awkward nest, but that was so not a problem. “I should warn you, though—it's haunted.”

“Um, oooookay.” He rolled his eyes. “Sure, Libby. Whatever you say.”

“Would someone PLEASE get the
trash
off the step!” Ashling yelled from inside the house.

“Come on.” I stood up. “Let's go. I can take you to the boat.”

“Can we get more ice cream first?” He polished off his cone. “I want to try the homemade ice cream now.”

“Of course. Here, I'll help you carry your stuff.” I leaned over to pick up his sewing machine.

“Good God, woman. Why do you have Michelle Obama arms?” he asked. “They're so defined, I hardly recognize the weakling library nerd I know and love.”

“It's all those cast-iron pots,” I grumped. “They're heavy.”

“Well, it's working for you.” He grabbed the hat box. “Come on, She-Ra, let's hit the bricks. Which way to the frozen milk-fat?”

“Follow me.” I led the way down the sidewalk to downtown Camden Harbor. Before hitting the main drag, we passed the public beach and the CVS on the outskirts of downtown.

“Well, this is too effing cute!” Dev exclaimed as we hit Main Street. It really was. The last major downtown construction had been in 1885, so it still looked like a picture-perfect postcard full of whitewashed clapboard storefronts. The Dairy Bar was at the top of the street, next to the toy store.

“Thank God!” Dev burst through the door, raising his Ray-Bans. “I need more ice cream stat.” He quickly scanned the giant chalkboard crowded with handwritten flavors. “So, I'm gonna need one scoop of Jamaica Me Nutty, one Café Mocha Chunk, one Rocky Rocky Road, and one Sticky Fractured Butterfingers, then top it all off with crushed Reese's, hot fudge, and M&M's. And whipped cream!” he concluded with a flourish.

“Wow.” The girl behind the counter looked him up and down. “I don't know where you put it. I wish I had your metabolism!” She laughed.

“Wow, you are really pretty.” Dev returned her once-over. “Like model-pretty. And I should know”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“I work for
Mode.
”

I rolled my eyes.

“Oh my God.” She blushed. “Not even! Thank you, though, that's so nice of you to say.” She was really pretty. Dev was right—like model-pretty. Miles of limbs and flawless skin and shining mahogany hair that looked like it had escaped from a shampoo commercial. “Do you know what you want?” she asked me sweetly.

“Chocolate-chip cookie dough, please. Just the one scoop,” I said, eyes on the mountain of ice cream the Scooper Girl had constructed for Dev.

Dev collected his enormous sundae. “I was starting to believe it was no longer possible for hot people to be nice. Ice Cream Scooper Girl has restored my faith in humanity.” He took a huge bite of ice cream.
“Mmm.”
He sighed euphorically. “I wanna live again! Oh God, I wanna live again! It really is a wonderful life! Thank you, Camden Harbor!”

“Come on, George Bailey, let's sit down.” We paid and took seats at a small round table with two metal café chairs.

“Yum, yum, yum.” Dev started working his way through the scoop of Jamaica Me Nutty.

“So, until the milk incident, how was the internship?”

“Shhp!”
He threatened me with a plastic spoon. “We shall not speak of this until I've recovered from my post traumatic stress disorder. I need time.”

“Too soon. Got it.” I concentrated on finding all the cookie dough chunks in my ice cream.

“So, what's there to do for fun around here?” Dev asked. “Anything?”

“Um . . .” For a minute I was stumped. I mean, I thought Camden Harbor was lots of fun, but nothing that would be up Dev's alley was coming to mind. “Oh, wait!” Light bulb! Brilliant idea! “You'll love this, actually. There's a costume ball coming up! Pretty soon, actually.”

“A costume ball? That does sound fun! Like Halloween? Ooh, I'll be a cowboy!”

“No, no, not that kind of costume,” I explained. “Period costume. It's like a 1790s ball, and people even make their own clothes. Well, I'll probably rent, because I won't have time to work on anything, and it's in like two weeks, the first weekend in August—”

“Wait.” Dev put down the spoon. “A sew-your-own colonial ball gown party?” I nodded. “Oh my GOD, be still my heart!” He clapped joyously. “I'm making you a dress.” He started eating again.

“Oh, no, Dev, that's way too much work. I couldn't ask you to—”

“You didn't ask me to. I offered,” he said simply. “So I'm doing it. Plus, how will I ever be a designer if I don't
design?
If I don't get people out there wearing my label? I mean, yes, I wasn't planning on going into colonial couture, but every designer has to start somewhere, right?”

“I guess so.”

“I can go too, right?” he asked.

“Of course.” I mean, I didn't know if he was technically allowed to come, but I figured anyone in costume would be welcome. And if I knew Dev, he'd be dressed to the nines.

“Fantastic.” Dev was almost done with his sundae. “Now, all we'll need is a fabric store . . .” he trailed off, looking around, like he was going to find a bolt of silk moiré in the Dairy Bar. “Hey! Gisele Bündchen!” No response. “I mean you, Scooper Girl.” He sighed.

“Yeah?” She came to the edge of the counter.

“Do you know where the nearest fabric store is?” he asked.

“There's a So-Fro Fabric in Rockport. It's about a twenty-minute drive inland.”

“A million times, thank you.” He inclined his head in a half-bow, and she returned to whatever she was reading behind the counter. Dev's eyes suddenly lit up with fiery passion. “The flame of inspiration,” he whispered. “I'm going to make you an exact replica of Keira Knightley's wedding dress in
The Duchess.
Except not in that icky yellow. You'd look totally washed out. Maybe blue . . .” He sighed dreamily.

“Um, Dev, are you psychotic?”

“No, of course not. You know I only take my Paxil recreationally.”

“I saw
The Duchess.
Three times, actually.”

“Lame,”
Dev coughed.

“Shut up. What I meant was that dress is
insane.
The costumes in that movie are so elaborate, they're out of control! They're amazingly, heart-stoppingly, breathtakingly beautiful, but there's no way you could do that in this amount of time! It's impossible!”

“Libby”—he took my hands, eyes shining—“impossible things are happening every day. Trust me. I can do this. I need to do this. This will be my finest moment. My greatest triumph. I am a caterpillar, Libby, a caterpillar about to become a butterfly,” he whispered passionately. “Let me fly, Libby. Let me spread my wings and fly.”

“Okay, Dev, fly.” I sighed.

“Yay!!!”

“Only one problem,” I said.