Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (6 page)

I had decided to follow Ruth's advice and keep it simple. No animal carcasses today. Or probably ever, if I had any say in the matter. Like Maddie had said, I was in charge now. And I was thinking we had a summer of baking ahead of us.

“Who likes lemonade?” I yelled.

“Me! Me! Me!” they shouted back.

“What about gingerbread?”

“Yay!”

The
yay
s had it. Lemonade and gingerbread it was. The girls were enthusiastic but very respectful of the rules about the fire and the knives. I split them up into little teams, sending a few out to pump water, some to squeeze lemons, and others to measure sugar. Luckily, the water pump was hooked up to a modern, sanitized water source, so we didn't have to worry about bacteria. The lemonade came together quickly, and I turned my attention to the gingerbread. Flour flew like summer snow and covered us all in a light dusting. We made shapes in the flour on the table and powdered flour hearts onto our cheeks. Two of the girls carefully poured the batter into a tin pan, and I placed the pan into the Dutch oven in the ashes, explaining how the baking process worked while the rest looked on.

“Miss Libby! Miss Libby!” A tiny blonde with rainbow braces was peeking out the kitchen window. “There's a boy outside!” She giggled. “And he's not wearing a shirt!”

I quickly joined her at the window, and the rest of the girls swarmed around me. Cam was out in the backyard, chopping wood. And she was right—he wasn't wearing a shirt. Wow. Tacking the jib boom and hoisting the mainsail and whatever else they did must have been really, really good exercise. Sweat glistened on his tanned torso as the ax flashed in the sun. Now that the fire was really going, it was altogether too hot in that kitchen. I fanned myself futilely with a corner of my apron.

“He looks like a Disney prince,” said one of the girls, giggling.

“He looks like John Smith from
Pocahontas,
” another one corrected.

“Girls, let's get some lemonade, okay?” I suggested. I, for one, definitely needed to cool down. A couple of them followed me over to the earthenware pitcher, but most of the girls stayed clustered around the window. I pulled pewter mugs out at random and absent-mindedly poured several glasses. Never in a million years was Dev going to believe this. There was a sexy, shirtless lumberjack outside my window. I pinched myself. Nope, this time it wasn't a dream. I wondered if there was any way I could pull my illegal cell phone out of my bra and take a video to record this for posterity without being detected. Probably not.

“He's coming! Miss Libby, the boy is coming!” one of them shrieked, and the rest of the girls dispersed, echoing her shrieks, several running straight into my skirts. I pretended I was very busy and involved with a jar of molasses.

“Why, Miss Libby,” Cam called, leaning over the kitchen door. It was one of those Dutch farmhouse doors that split in half, with the top half open and bottom half shut. “Oh, Miss Libby, Miss Libby,” he called again, a twinkle in his eye. “Chopping all this wood is hot and thirsty work. You wouldn't have anything sweet and refreshing, now, would you?”

“We made lemonade,” said a slip of a brunette peeping around from behind my skirts.

“Not quite the sweet treat I had in mind, but it'll do . . . for now.” He winked. “Might I have some lemonade, Miss Libby?”

“Oh, pleathe, Mith Libby,” one of the girls lisped. “Can we give him thome?”

“Of course.” I tried my best not to stare at his chest, but it wasn't easy. He was making no such effort with regards to mine. “Would you get, um, Mr. Cameron a mug”—I glanced at the nametag of the girl next to me—“Amanda?” She trotted eagerly over to the cabinet. “Thanks, sweetie.”

My hands shook slightly as I lifted the heavy pitcher to fill his pewter tankard. Amanda grabbed my hand and pulled me over to the door.

“Thith ith for you,” she said.

I handed Cam the mug. He took a long gulp.

“
Mmmm.
” He licked his lips somewhat lasciviously. “Delicious.”

“We made gingerbread too, if you want to wait and have some.” Emily, a spectacled redhead, pushed her way to the front. “Or you can come back later. It'll be finished soon. How many quarter turns are left, Miss Libby?”

“Ah, would that I could, but I have to get back to my ship.” Cam pointed into the distance, toward the water. “The
Anne-Marie,
” he said reverently, placing a hand on his heart. “The most beautiful girl in the world. Well, second-most beautiful girl in the world, maybe,” he amended.

“After Mith Libby?” Amanda asked.

“Smart girl.” Cam winked. “I do want to try that gingerbread, though . . . I bet with so many talented cooks, it's delicious.” He chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully, as the girls basked in his praise. Cam was a lady-killer with eight-year-old girls. I had a feeling there would be a lot of “I ♥ Cameron” doodled in notebooks tonight. I had to admit, it was really cute how nice he was to the girls. And how much they liked him. Unbelievably handsome, romantic, interested in history (obviously, as he was working at a museum), able to quote Shakespeare at the drop of a hat,
and
good with kids? Maybe dreams did come true. “Maybe . . . maybe Miss Libby could bring me a piece after camp?” he asked slyly.

“Maybe Miss Libby could!” one of the girls answered for me.

“Well, then.” We locked eyes. “I'll see Miss Libby on the
Anne-Marie.
” He handed back the mug, and his fingers brushed mine, shocking me like an electric current. Cam picked up the shirt he'd left on the woodpile and sauntered out of the garden, whistling a tune called “Cape Cod Girls” that I only recognized because Ashling had forced us to listen to her
Sailors' Songs and Sea Shanties
CD for “educational purposes” the other night.

“Miss Libby, I think you have a date!” Robin, who had first spotted him, squealed once he was out of sight.

“He's cuter than the Jonas Brothers,” said another one, sighing.

“Cuter than the cowboy in the
Hannah Montana
movie,” another one said, topping her.

“How about we check out how cute our gingerbread turned out?” I tried to turn the conversation away from the subject that was making me blush redder than the beets with which I'd recently become so well acquainted.

As the girls stood back, I carefully lifted the lid off with a set of tongs and, using my apron as a pot holder, extracted the tin of gingerbread.

“Now, how cute is that?” I marveled as I placed it on the kitchen table.

“Thuper-cute,” Amanda agreed. It was perfect. I carefully cut steaming hot pieces that crumbled deliciously as we devoured them.

“This is really good,” Emily said seriously. “The nutmeg really shines. I think it has a more pronounced flavor when you grate it by hand.”

I stared. “How old are you?”

“Eight.” She smiled, revealing two missing front teeth. “My dad writes for
Bon Appétit.
”

Wow. Now that I had the world's teeniest, tiniest food critic on my hands, I'd really have to step up my game.

 

We finished the pan of gingerbread, minus one piece, which the girls demanded we save for Cam. I wrapped it in a clean kitchen towel and placed it in the warming oven on the side of the hearth. As the girls scrubbed out the Dutch oven under the water pump in the yard, I banked the fire and swept the ashes in the hearth. We spent the rest of the afternoon eating lunch outside on the green (another modern allowance: bagged lunch from home) and then at craft time in the parlor sketching out embroidery patterns. By the end of the day, all of the girls had outlines of boats drawn in their embroidery hoops, ready for needlework tomorrow. Just before two, I shuttled them back to the Welcome Center and handed them off to their respective moms, dads, and babysitters.

Two . . . two! The staff meeting/press conference/whatever it was! I ran back to the homestead as fast as my stays would let me, which was, admittedly, not very fast, and quickly changed into my Camden Harbor shirtdress and superfluous shorts. Now uncorseted, I sprinted back to the road, making much better time. As I rounded the corner to the administrative offices, an old woman yelled, “Put on some pants! Hussy!” She shook her fist. I think I'd just caught a glimpse of Ashling's future. Escaping into the offices before the old ladies could form a mob bearing pitchforks and torches, I made my way down the hall and skidded into the Oak Room. I slid into one of the few empty chairs in the back, next to a seat with a messenger bag slung over it. Ashling turned around from the front to glare at me, even though I wasn't technically late, as the meeting/whatever hadn't even started yet.

“Hello, Kitty.”

Oh my God! It was the evil laugher in the Clark Kent glasses! He looked way too amused for his own good as he leaned over the seat next to me. I blushed and pointedly looked away. I had nothing to say to the buttface who'd left me stranded in a barrel. What a jerk.

“Me-yeow,” he growled. “Angry kitty.”

“This seat is taken,” I said acidly, looking at the messenger bag.

“I know.” He slid into the seat. “It's mine.”

“Grrreeeaat,” I said under my breath.

“I'm Garrett.”

I opted to go with the silent treatment.

“And you are?”

I folded my hands demurely and pursed my lips.

“You realize I will keep calling you ‘Kitty' if you don't tell me your name.”

“Libby, okay?” I spat out. “Libby.”

“Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?” He smirked. Ugh, he was just beyond smug.

“Nice T-shirt, by the way,” I said sarcastically. “Another real winner.” This one had a little insignia that read “Stargate SG-1” right where a normal person would have an alligator or a polo pony or something. And he had a button-down short-sleeved checked shirt on top of it, open, which was a look I'd only seen on TBS reruns of
Dawson's Creek.

“Uh . . . thanks,” he replied tentatively, like he wasn't sure if I was making fun of him or not. He pulled a little voice recorder out of his bag and set it on the table. Huh.

“What's that for?” I asked, curious. Garrett just kept getting weirder and weirder. “Are you taking notes for class? And why are you even here? Don't tell me you work at the museum.”

“I'm a reporter,” he announced proudly.

“For what, the school paper?”

“No.” Garrett reddened. “It's not a school paper—it's a real paper, even if it is local. And I just graduated, anyway. And I'm—”

“Hey, guys, we're gonna go ahead and get started, okay?” A forty-something, slightly pudgy man at the front of the room called for attention. The room was packed with museum staff, but Maddie was the only one I recognized. “For those of you who don't know me, I'm Roger, the publicist here at Camden Harbor.” Aha! Roger! This was the guy I'd heard fighting with Maddie about the ghost on my first day. “And at the request of the
Camden Crier,
I've called this press conference. Ed, you want to take it away?”

Before whoever this “Ed” was could say anything, Garrett spoke up. “Actually”—every head in the room swiveled toward Garrett—“I called this press conference. My name is Garrett, and I'm interning at the
Camden Crier
this summer. I'm also”—he cleared his throat—“uh, Ed's son.”

“What is it you want, boy?” an ancient man at the head of the table asked. Suze lobbed a piece of notebook paper at my nose. I uncrumpled it and read: “President Harrow, head of the museum.” Wow, Suze was quick. She was going to make a very helpful librarian someday.

“Camden Harbor has a long history of suspicious, potentially paranormal activity.” Garrett stood up. “With four similar sightings in just one month, however, whatever's going on with this ‘ghostly sailor' on the
Lettie Mae
has the makings of a real story. I'd like your permission to do a piece on it”—he took a deep breath—“and to spend the summer sleeping on the boat to research it,” he finished in a rush.

Madness broke out.

“This is a serious museum!” An old man with a bushy mustache banged his fist on the table. “Not a freak show! If we tell ghost stories and pander to thrill seekers, we compromise our integrity as an institution of research and education!”

“With all due respect, sir,” Roger said as he cut through the crowd, “a story with a little popular appeal like this could really help boost our numbers. Let's be honest.” The crowd settled down. “Camden Harbor is in serious trouble. We've been steadily losing money since the seventies, and with the country's current economic crisis, things are worse than ever before.” A gloomy silence descended upon the room. “If we tell a little ghost story to bring a few people in, is that really so bad?” He shrugged. “All our research and integrity isn't worth a hill of beans if the museum goes under. All that really matters is getting people in the door. Once they're in, they'll learn something. If it's a ghost that brings 'em in, fine by me. When they're in, they're in.” Roger sat back down—his words had clearly resonated.

“While I appreciate your concerns, Cecil,” President Harrow said, acknowledging the man with the bushy mustache, “Roger makes a valid point.” I decided that President Harrow may very well have been the oldest man in the world. “Let's give the boy a shot,” he decided. “He's got gumption. And I've known your father a long time”—he nodded to the man toward the front, who must have been Ed—“and he's been the best editor in chief the
Crier
has had since Mitzi Taintor got out of the game in forty-seven.”

From the sounds of the murmurings, most of the room agreed with the president.

“Someone should stay with him on the boat.” A mousy-looking woman in a floral skirt at the front of the room spoke up for the first time.