Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (19 page)

“What?”

“A twenty-minute
drive
inland? I don't have a car.”

“A minor detail.” He waved his hand. “I'm sure you know someone who does. You get the car, Libby, and I'll get you the dress of your dreams. We just need that fabric fast.”

“Okay.” I set my jaw determinedly. “I'll get that car.”

“I have no doubts.”

Who did I know with a car? None of the interns . . . I knew Garrett had one, but I really didn't want to have to ask him for a favor. Maybe Cam had one . . . I'd ask, and then Garrett would be a last resort—only in case of an absolute emergency.

“I'm done.” Dev put his spoon in his empty cup. “Can we go to the boat? I want to start sketching.”

“Of course.” We threw out our cups and headed outside, walking back to the museum.

“Damn.” Dev squinted into the setting sun. “Check out how hot that guy is. The one running. Over there.”

“Where?” I followed his pointing finger. “Oh, perfect!” I waved. “Hey! Hey, Cam! Over here!”

“You know him?” Dev's jaw dropped. “Oh my God, you do not seriously know him!”

“Seriously, I do.”

Cam, shirtless, jogged over to meet us. “Hey, babe.”

Dev mouthed, “Babe?!”

“I'd hug you, but I'm all sweaty.” He grinned.

“Yes, you are,” Dev said breathily.

Cam shot him a weird look.

“Cam, this is Dev,” I introduced him. “Dev's my best friend from home. He's visiting me for a while.”

“Why hellooooo.” Dev extended his hand.

Cam shook it for the briefest of seconds, before dropping it like a red hot poker.

“I don't have cooties,” Dev muttered under his breath.

“We just had ice cream!” I said brightly, trying to diffuse the mounting tension.

“What?” Cam snapped. “Where?” he asked anxiously.

“Um . . . the Dairy Bar.” Why was he tweaking out?”

“The Dairy Bar,” he said nervously, looking over my head toward the Dairy Bar. “You did, huh? How was that?”

“Um . . . fine?”

“Listen, I really have to run,” Cam said, still acting all shifty. “I have to, um, keep my heart rate up.”

“Okay.” I tried to catch his eye, but he was still looking over my head. “Hey, listen, Cam, before you go, do you have a car?”

“Naw, Libs, I have the boat, you know that. I can't afford both.” He started jogging. “Later!” He disappeared off into the direction of the museum.

“Uh, you should tell Homophobe Hottie that ‘gay' isn't contagious.” Dev lowered his sunglasses. “And how did he even know I was gay?” he demanded.

“You're wearing Armani Exchange white jeans and a doodle-print Marc Jacobs T-shirt in a town where Dockers are considered the height of fashion and the only designer people can name is L.L.Bean.”

“Hmph,” Dev snorted. “Point taken.”

Weighed down by the sewing machine, we made our way back to the museum at a glacial place, gossiping as we went along and stopping so Dev could take iPhone pictures of everything he thought was cute. By the time we finally hit the museum grounds, night had fallen.

“And here she is.” I gestured grandly. “The
Lettie Mae Howell
! Home, sweet home!”

“I cannot believe you live on a boat.” Dev followed me up the gangplank. “That is so effing weird. Who are you, Captain Hook?”

“Lots of cool people live on boats,” I countered, sewing machine banging against my knees as we went down the steps into the belly of the ship. “Like, um, Vikings. Vikings are totally badass.”

“I am not even going to dignify that with a response.”

“Okay, give me a minute, I'll think of someone cool. Like—”

I froze. Dev bumped into me, looked over my shoulder, and then screamed like a little girl. I joined him.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

The ghost was standing at the end of the passageway that led to the galley. It was completely motionless. Dev, however, turned and ran for his life.

“What's going on?” Garrett burst out of the fo'c's'le.

“Ghost! Garrett! GHOST!” I shrieked. He ran back into the fo'c's'le, returned with his video camera, and skidded to a stop in front of me.

“Is that a purse? It's kind of bulky,” he asked, befuddled.

“No, you idiot, it's a sewing machine! Go!” I shooed him away.

Garrett chased the ghost down toward the galley.

“I see it, Libby, I see it!” he shouted excitedly. “I've got it on film!”

“Awesome!” I cheered, and ran into the galley. Running
toward
the ghost? There must have been something wrong with me. By the time I got there, Garrett was standing alone in the galley.

“It's gone,” he said breathlessly. “But look, Libby,
look.
” Grinning from ear to ear, he played back a fifteen-second shot on the screen. It was fuzzy but distinctly there—the ghostly sailor, all in white.

“Oh my God, that's amazing!” I clutched his arm, and we jumped up and down.

“This is huge, Libby.
Huge.
” He couldn't stop grinning. “I'm getting so close to figuring this out! And now I know it's definitely a person. Not a hologram. Which was, admittedly, a stupid theory, but—”

“Oh, shoot! Dev!” I remembered suddenly. He was probably halfway to Rhode Island by now. “Garrett, I've gotta find my friend.”

“Who?” He looked confused.

“Oh, my friend from home is on the run from an international publishing conglomerate with designs on his life, so I'm hiding him in Camden Harbor,” I explained, mounting the stairs to the deck.

“You are certainly . . . one of a kind, Libby Kelting.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Wait. I'll help you find him. Let me get a flashlight.”

I smiled. Not just because Garrett had caught the ghost on film, but because it seemed like things were finally back to normal. We ran onto the dark grounds of the museum, Garrett scanning the grass with the beam of his flashlight.

“Dev!” I called. “Dev! Dev!” Garrett took up the call as well.

A soft “Oh, no” floated in from somewhere.

“Wait! Quiet! Shhh!” I listened intently.

Yep, it was there. Faint. And sort of echoey. But there. “Oh, no, I do not hook up, up, I go slow.”

“Kelly Clarkson!” I cried triumphantly. “Dev's happy place!” Garrett still looked confused. “He's around here somewhere.”

I ran, following the sound, and it led me to a barrel. I stuck my head in.

“Hi, Dev.”

He was curled up in a ball in the bottom of the barrel, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he whispered in anguish.

“I
did
tell you!” I protested. “You just didn't believe me!”

“Libby? Hey, Libby! Where are you?” Garrett shouted.

“Who's that?” Dev asked.

“That's my bunkmate, Garrett.”

“Ooh-ooh,” Dev singsonged. Even traumatized, he could tease me.

“Oh, stop, it is
not like that.
He's pretty much hideous.”

“What, like Spencer Pratt post–facial hair? Or like a mole man in the
National Enquirer
?”

“What? No, neither.” God, Dev's mind must have been a strange place. “He looks . . . fine. He's not like ugly or anything.” I thought about it for a minute. “Not ugly at all, actually.” I mean he certainly wasn't hot, but he wasn't unattractive. I could see how someone might find him attractive. Not that I did. Because I didn't. But I could see how someone could. “I meant personality.”

“What, he's an asshole?”

“No, no, he's nice. Mostly.” I wasn't explaining this at all well. “Just, um, annoying.”

“Okay.” Dev shot me a funny look.

“Hello, Kitty.” Garrett had found us. “Back in the barrel?”

I popped my head out. “Hi. I found Dev. Help me get him out?”

“I understand why you guys are friends.” He chuckled.

Garrett joined me at the barrel, and together we extracted Dev.

“Hey, man”—Garrett extended his hand—“I'm Garrett.”

“Nice to meet you.” Dev dusted himself off and shook Garrett's hand. “Now can someone get me the eff off of Haunted Hill here? Is there a non–Bates Motel in this Yankee
Deliverance
?”

“Yeah, I can give you a ride to the Sea Breeze Motel, if you want. It's clean,” Garrett offered.

“Thanks, I—wait—you have a car?”

“Uh, yeah. That's why I offered to give you a ride.”

“Screw the motel. Can you take me to the So-Fro Fabric in Rockport?”

“Oh, Dev, Garrett probably doesn't want to do that, and it's probably closed by now anyway, and—”

“I don't mind.” Garrett shrugged. “And it's open till ten.”

“Road trip!” Dev cheered.
“Vamanos!”

“Okay, Dora the Explorer, cool your jets,” I grumbled. The three of us walked toward the parking lot, Garrett leading the way. Dev raised his eyebrows at the myriad
Battlestar Galactica,
World of Warcraft,
Star Wars,
and
Star Trek
bumper stickers plastered to the back of Garrett's car. I rolled my eyes in response. We all piled into Garrett's old Toyota, me riding shotgun, Dev in the back.

“Oh, no, you did
not
let Libby pick the music,” Dev moaned as we pulled onto the road.

“I didn't. This is my CD,” Garrett said.

“Really?” Dev gawped. “This is the song Libby listens to when she's sad.”

I turned to glare at him and shake my head. “TMI,” I hissed. Garrett didn't need to know that we actually had something in common.

“I wouldn't have picked you for a Radiohead girl.” Garrett smoothly turned the wheel with one hand.

“I love this song.” I looked out the window, so I wouldn't have to look at him. “In the deepest ocean, the bottom of the sea,” I sang softly.

Garrett sang-spoke, “Your eyes, they turn me,” never really finding any discernible key, but turning it into a kind of spoken-word poetry.

I caught a glimpse of Dev in the mirror's reflection. His eyebrows were waggling so furiously, it looked like he was trying to communicate something in semaphore. Semaphore was not, unfortunately, covered in our brief maritime orientation.

After my refusal to answer any of his eyebrow-semaphore questions, Dev launched into a long explanation about the ball and Keira Knightley's
Duchess
wedding dress and pin tucks.

“I'll make you something too,” he offered Garrett.

“Oh, uh, you don't have to do that. I probably won't even go . . .”

“Um, helloooo, you
have
to go! It's a
ball!
You're going.” Garrett tried to object. “Tut-tut!” Dev scolded him. “Don't bother arguing. You're going. I decided.”

Dev always got his way. This was no exception, and Garrett looked resigned to his fate. Soon after, we pulled into the So-Fro Fabric.

“Amuse yourselves.” Dev rocketed out of the car. “I have full creative control, so don't bother picking anything out. I've got it covered.” He practically skipped into the store, and we followed, slightly less giddy.

Garrett wandered around, clearly bored out of his mind but being a good sport about it. I joined Dev in the “Special Occasion Fabrics” aisle.

“Blue,” he said confidently. “Definitely blue. I just need to find the right texture . . .” He wandered up and down the aisles, stroking fabrics. “He's kind of cute.”

“What? Who? Garrett?” I asked, surprised.

“Super-nerd, obviously. But you're into that, so—”

“Into what?”

“Huge into nerd.”

“No, I'm not. I—”

“Don't try to deny it. Fact.” He fingered a bolt of blue shot silk. “But I think he's a secret hot nerd. Like Seth, on the
O.C
. No one thought he was going to be hot, because he was all like ooh, Death Cab for Cutie! Comic books! But then he was. H-O-T-T hot.” We leaned around the aisle to peek at Garrett, who had bent over to pick up a few bolts of fabric he'd accidentally knocked over. “Definitely secret hot nerd,” Dev said confidently.

“You're crazy.” I shook my head. A nerd? Definitely. Secret hot? Doubtful. “I'm going to go play with the buttons.”

 

Dev worked pretty quickly. After one loop around the store, he had made his decisions, and before we knew it, we were headed back home to Camden Harbor.

“Drop me off at the Sea Breeze Motel, please,” Dev requested politely.

“Dev, are you sure?” I turned around to look at him.

“I am
not
staying on Satan's ship. Let me out right up here.”

Garrett pulled into the motel parking lot.

“Do you have money? Are you sure you're okay? How are you going to—”

“Stop worrying, Libby.” He hopped out of the car, sewing machine, hat box, and shopping bags in hand. “You've restored my faith in humanity and given me a purpose in life. Mono Corps be damned. I'll make it work.” He slammed the door shut and strode confidently toward the lobby.

“Make it work.” I smiled. “And they say you can't learn anything from reality TV.”

I turned up the music, and we drove back to the ship.

The weeks leading up the ball seemed to fly by at the speed of light. It was like the anticipation plus the time pressure of finishing our costumes had combined with that terrible end-of-summer feeling to create some kind of ultra-speedy time warp. The end of July was a whirlwind of patterns, cutting, sewing, quilting, and trimming. I spent my days trying desperately to help the girls finish their quilting projects and my nights at the motel assisting Dev with his “colonial couture.” Dev had arranged to stay at the Sea Breeze for free, in exchange for promising to update all the maids' uniforms once the ball was over. Patches of fabric and little silver needles danced before my eyes when I tried to sleep.