Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (5 page)

A tall, blond, muscular thought drifted through my brain. I smiled.

“I may have hit the man jackpot.”

“Explain, Miss Libby.”

“Sexy sailors!” I squealed. “In knickers!”

“Shut up!”

“True!” I giggled. “But probably nowhere near as sexy as all the models you're seeing, right?”

“They don't let me near the models,” he said sadly.

“Well . . . did you meet Anne Hathaway yet?”

“Libby”—he paused dramatically—“I . . . AM . . . Anne Hathaway!”

“Um, excuse me?” Someone from the outside addressed me. Startled, I lost my balance and shifted forward, toppling into the apple barrel. All except for my legs, that is, which were kicking in the open air.

“Eeek!”

“Libby? Libby?!” Dev shrieked amid a great deal of static. Outside the barrel, I could hear a guy laughing. Uproariously.

“Dev, I'll call you back.” I shut the phone.

That idiot outside the barrel was still howling. He was laughing so hard, I think I heard a few snorts.

“Um, a little help here!” I yelled. “Please!”

Finally, still chuckling, whoever it was came over to the barrel, grabbed my waist, and lifted me out of it, planting me back on solid ground.

“You know,” my Johnny-come-lately rescuer said, removing a pair of rectangular plastic-framed glasses to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes, “I don't think they wore underwear in the 1790s. Definitely not Hello Kitty underwear.” He dissolved into giggles again. And yes, I was right—those were snorts. He was laughing like Miss Piggy on acid or something.

My cheeks flamed. “Thanks for the history lesson. Were you going to just leave me in the barrel for your own personal amusement?”

“If I didn't have somewhere to be, yeah, I would've left you in there longer,” he said, chuckling. “It was pretty funny.”

This stupid, tall, scruffy, brown-eyed boy may have had Clark Kent's glasses, but he had none of his heroic impulses. Or manners. Or classic good looks.

“It was
not
funny,” I snapped. I pulled a disturbingly mushy piece of apple out of my hair and violently threw it to the ground. Oh, gross, gross, gross.

Having composed himself, he put his glasses back on, blinking rapidly. “I should be hearing the dulcet chime of a thank-you right about . . . now.”

“Th-th-thank you?!” I nearly choked on it.

“You're welcome.”

“No, no, I wasn't thanking you!” I protested. “That was an expression of disbelief! Why on earth would I thank you?!”

“It is customary in these situations.” He straightened his glasses, blinking again. Oh my God. He was totally one of those guys who spent all his free time playing World of Warcraft, blinking at his computer screen, and being all “It is customary in these situations for Orcs to cede to humans when invoking the wrath of the Lich King” or something equally gross. You could just tell. He had WoW computer nerd written all over him. There was a whole troupe of them at SPA. They spent their lunches and free periods holed up in the computer lab, emerging only to go to class or to rush home at the end of the day to play some more.

I looked him up and down, from the top of his curly brown hair to his “My Other Car Is the Millennium Falcon” ringer tee to his fraying cargo shorts and beat-up black Converses—whoa, extra tragic. I mean, seriously, it was like a mountain climber and an IT guy had a baby and decided to raise it in Vermont with the help of a Phish-loving nanny. Someone who dressed so badly wasn't even worth a telling-off. Clearly, he was so socially hopeless (hello,
Star Wars
T-shirt) that anything involving manners or basic human interaction was just beyond him. So I said, with all the dignity I could muster, streaked with soot and bedaubed with apple mush: “You, sir, are a buttface. Thanks for nothing.”

I spun on my heel and marched back into the house.

“Wait!” he called after me. “Hey, Hello Kitty! Come back!”

I latched the door shut. Buttface? Yikes. Not my finest comeback. But whatever, he wasn't worth anything better. I mean, eeuw, the way he was snottily prompting
me
to say thank you? Like
I
needed the manners lecture? After he just left me there to laugh at?! And what was with those stupid glasses, anyway? What, were they supposed to be ironic or something? I stomped back into the kitchen.

“All cleaned up?” Ruth asked. I nodded. “Good.” I swept the hearth into a neat pile of ashes, and we went into the parlor.

“This is where you and the girls will do the crafts. It said on your résumé you have knitting and needlepoint experience?”

I nodded. I am a girl of odd and diverse talents with little to no practical value.

“Then you know what to do. We should have everything you need.”

And they did. I could have run an underground craft supply store out of that parlor, doing a roaring trade in black-market yarns and embroidery floss. As Ruth opened cabinets, showing me where they kept knitting needles, embroidery hoops, and even a flower press, she made nonbusiness conversation for the first time. I suspect she was inspired because there was no longer any danger of either of us being scalded by a vat of hot, bubbling lard, which, incidentally, crackles and pops, like Rice Krispies but gross.

“So,” Ruth asked mischievously, “have you seen the ghost yet?”

“No, I only got here yesterday.” I arranged balls of yarn in a big wicker basket by the window. “What ghost?”

“You haven't heard about it?”

“Um, sort of.” I didn't think a half-overheard yelling match between the internship coordinator and some guy named Roger really counted as hearing about it.

“Ahh.” She nodded. “You see the schooner closest to us out there in the harbor? The little one? She's called the
Lettie Mae Howell.
”

“Yep.” I peered out the window, smushing my nose against the thick pane. It left a soot print. I quickly wiped it off with a clean patch on my elbow.

“There have now been four separate sightings of a man in early American clothing, a silent sailor, a ghostly figure all in white.”

“Spooky.”

“He appears only after dark, then vanishes. The
Lettie Mae
was originally named something else—the
Sachem
or something like that. She was shipwrecked off the coast of Cape Cod in 1804, and nearly the entire crew drowned. This ghost sailor is supposed to be one of them. Anyway, some dunderheaded merchant rebuilt the ship and renamed her after his wife. And anybody with half a brain knows renaming a ship is bad luck. Which is why this feller is back from the grave. Or so they say,” she harrumphed. “Sounds like a lot of nonsense to me. Probably kids messing around.”

“Probably,” I agreed. Silently, though, I reasoned it was probably a creepy old lighthouse keeper in a glow-in-the-dark ghost mask. I'd watched a lot of
Scooby-Doo
as a kid. I knew how it worked. Actually . . . with gangly Neil's lighthouse-keeping expertise, Suze's Velma-librarian smarts, and my flair for accessories, we meddling kids were more than halfway toward forming a Scooby gang.

“I think you're ready for Monday.” I realized Ruth was talking to me as I was wondering what I'd look like in a purple minidress and green scarf. Focus, Libby. “I'd start off with one of the simpler recipes and then play to your strengths with the crafts,” Ruth advised.

“I was thinking I'd lead with needlepoint. Little sailboat samplers embroidered in indigo thread.” I could see them in my head—adorable. And accurate! Needlework was a really common pastime for colonial women, and homespun linen thread dyed with indigo was the most readily accessible material. Plus indigo is just beautiful. By the time I was done with this place, I would have Martha-ed Maine up!

“Good.” Ruth nodded approvingly. “Good. They're usually a sweet group of girls, so you should have no problems. If the ghost doesn't get you, that is,” she added.

I half expected her to punctuate it with a “Bah, humbug!”

“Clean yourself up, sweep the front steps, and you're done for the day. You did good, kid,” she concluded gruffly.

Using the window's reflection, I wiped the sooty streaks off my forehead and repinned my hair out of my eyes. My beet-and-ash makeup line was holding up remarkably well, even hours later. Maybe I could market it as EverAsh EverLast. Grabbing a broom out of a tiny cupboard under the stairs, I headed out to the front steps. The sun was lower in the sky, just above the water, bathing everything in a golden glow. A whistled tune I recognized as “Hey, Ho, Blow the Man Down” drifted down the lane. It segued smoothly into a low wolfwhistle. The insanely hot Squaddie who had smiled at me yesterday was leaning against the front gate, in his tan breeches and white shirt, navy jacket flung casually over his shoulder.

“Some girls,” he said with a rakish grin, “were just born to wear a corset.” His eyes lingered on my neckline, and he whistled again.

So maybe he'd used a historically inaccurate term for eighteenth-century undergarments . . . and maybe on a modern street corner it would have been kind of pervy . . . but I felt like I was in a movie. The star of my very own Ang Lee–directed period film or BBC-produced miniseries or historical HBO special. This, right now, was the life I had always wanted, but I was afraid only existed in my head or at the movies. Thrilled to the tips of my toes, I blushed to the roots of my hair.

“Your name, Cinderella?”

“Libby.” If my life was a romance novel, sparks would have been flying and bosoms would have been heaving. But with a sailor dangling over the garden gate, for the first time I was entertaining the possibility that maybe life
was
a romance novel.

“Good.” He plucked a primrose off the vine twining about the white picket fence. “Now I won't have to search the kingdom to find you again.” He twirled the flower in between his fingers. “I'm Cameron.” He squinted into the sun. “Cam.”

“Cam.” I sighed rapturously. I could hear an imaginary
West Side Story
orchestra tuning up: “The most beautiful sound I ever heard . . .” Except instead of “Maria,” the violins were singing “Cameron.”

“Come here often?” he joked.

“From now on? Every day.” I grinned ruefully. “I work here now.”

“Then now I know where I'll be.” He tossed the rose up to the steps. I caught it as he quoted, “My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep.”

“The more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite,” I completed the couplet. Thank you, freshman English.

Cam raised his eyebrows and let out a long, impressed whistle. “Until we meet again.” He bowed, then bobbed his head toward the water. “I must down to the seas again.” He slung his jacket over his shoulder and strolled confidently away, whistling “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” which I recognized from a
Songs of Little House on the Prairie
tape I'd played until it fell apart when I was little. I watched him fade into the sunlight, wind ruffling his golden hair.

Primroses and poetry . . . I sighed and sniffed deeply. Sweet.

If we were shooting
VH1: Camden Harbor,
this would not have qualified for Best Weekend Ever. In a series of unfortunate incidents including countless snide comments, the revoking of my TV privileges after the
Charm School
marathon I watched was deemed “lewd,” and the theft of a strawberry-banana yogurt, the absolute low-light was when Ashling decided I was taking up more than my allotted one-third of the bathroom shelving. Consequently, she moved all of my toiletries into my bed, where I, unawares, rolled over them and ended up covered in shampoo. It wasn't as bad as pork fat, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. I couldn't wait to get out of the house for work on Monday. I practically skipped down the sidewalk and up the stairs of the Bromleigh Homestead. For the first day of camp, I donned the sky-blue striped poplin. The stripes were sort of nautical, and in case a certain totally romantic, Shakespeare-quoting, flower-tossing, chivalrous, charming, breathtakingly handsome Squaddie happened to pass by, the blue brought out my eyes. Once dressed, I walked over to the Welcome Center, where I'd be meeting my campers. On my way in, Maddie flagged me down.

“Hey.” She hustled over, clipboard in hand. “Things are a little nuts. The first day of our busiest season, you know? Not that things are particularly busy this year,” she muttered darkly. “Anyway.” She shook her head to clear it. “You okay?”

“Yep.”

“Good, good.” She checked something off on the clipboard. “Camp ends at two, then I'll need you to head over to the administrative offices for an all-staff meeting–slash–press conference sort of deal.”

“Press conference?” I asked, curious.

“Yes, press conference, the Oak Room, two fifteen. Attendance is mandatory. Over here!” she called, and waved at a blue polo-shirted employee, who was leading a group of ten little girls in old-fashioned dresses and pinafores. Clearly, they'd been to the costume shack too. “Over here!” she called again. The girls formed a group around us. “Miss Libby,” she said, “these are your campers. Campers, this is Miss Libby. She's in charge now.”

Maddie bustled off, frantically scratching at the clipboard with a chewed-up BIC pen.

“Hey, guys,” I said as I gathered them in. “Let's hit the homestead. Follow me, and stick tightly together.” The Welcome Center was really crowded, but I managed to shepherd my flock safely through. We chatted as we walked down the lane to the Bromleigh Homestead, and Ruth was right—they seemed like a sweet group of girls. Not that I was really surprised, because a historical domestic arts camp just doesn't seem like it would attract the wild ones. They squealed with delight and exclaimed over the house as I led them to the dining room, where I'd set up ten little calligraphy stations. I thought we'd start off by making colonial “nametags,” using ink pots, parchment, and quill pens. About an hour and a million ink blots later, we finished. I punched holes in the tags and tied them around each girl's neck with a length of yarn. After a brief squabble over who got the purple yarn, we headed into the kitchen.