Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (7 page)

Another piece of paper flew at my head: “Head librarian.” Suze nodded toward the mousy woman. Aha.

“While I'm sure he is a very nice boy”—the head librarian smiled at Garrett—“I'm not comfortable with someone not on the museum staff staying on one of our boats, which is technically an artifact in our collections. One of the most expensive pieces we have, actually.”

“Good point, Joanne.” President Harrow nodded solemnly. “I agree. The boy needs someone on the boat.”

Silence. The Camden Harbor staff shuffled their feet and looked at their nails, clearly unwilling to give up their warm beds for a summer spent shipboard.

“Let's put one of the interns on it,” Maddie suggested. Ah, yes. In the grand tradition of every company ever in the history of mankind, the job no one wanted fell to the interns.

“The boy is the obvious choice.” President Harrow pointed a gnarled finger toward Neil, lurking in the back.

“He's not technically an intern,” Maddie explained. “He has a federal grant; we only supply part of his funding, so we can't tell him where to live.”

“Plus I need a flexible schedule to visit lighthouses,” Neil added.

“What?” President Harrow asked.

“I NEED A FLEXIBLE SCHEDULE TO VISIT LIGHTHOUSES,” Neil shouted.

The president covered his ears. “Oh, I heard you. I just wanted to make sure everybody else did.”

The marine biologists next to Neil, two sun-browned, windblown, healthy-looking girls in anoraks whom I'd never seen before, even though I supposedly lived with them, begged off on similar grounds.

“Then that leaves my girls.” Maddie smiled encouragingly at the three of us.

“Live . . . boy . . . boat . . . bunk,” Suze babbled incoherently, blanching.

I was getting an idea. This could be my ticket out of Hell House! Sure, Garrett was beyond annoying, but I was pretty sure he wouldn't put shampoo in my bed. Or steal my strawberry-banana yogurt. Or collect hair from my brush for a voodoo doll, which I currently suspected Ashling of doing.

“Will there be modern conveniences aboard ship?” Ashling asked stridently.

“Like what?” Garrett furrowed his brow. “A shower?”

“No showers for you!” President Harrow cackled.

“Whoever lives on the ship can use the bathrooms at the intern house,” Maddie added quickly. “And the kitchen. Whenever they want.”

“Electronics?” Ashling prompted.

“Well, uh, I'll have my laptop, voice recorder, cell phone, digital camera, video camera, and—”

“Susannah Fennyweather cannot exist near digital recording devices. It would compromise the historical integrity of both my interpretation and her existence as a separate, sentient being. Yes, you should probably go with a
less
dedicated historical interpreter.” Here she looked pointedly toward me.

“Ashling, it's not that I'm not dedicated—” I started.

“Then you explain that Hello Kitty underwear,” Garrett said under his breath, smirking.

“Plus,” Ashling interrupted, “I don't think my boyfriend, Martin Cheeseman, would approve of my living with another man, so you should probably ask someone single.” Another pointed look toward me.

“
You
have a
boyfriend?
” That was me.

“Martin
Cheeseman?
” That was Garrett.

Ashling smiled smugly as if she'd just confirmed that yes, indeed, her boyfriend was, in fact, Brad Pitt.

“How do you even know I'm single?” I asked suspiciously.

“Please,” Ashling scoffed, “you were practically
licking
those Squaddies.” She pronounced “Squaddies” with the sort of disgust usually reserved for “poop” or “pedophiles.”

“I didn't lick anyone!” I squawked. “I repeat, I did not lick
anyone.
” I leaned into Garrett's tape recorder. “Let the record show that Libby Kelting did not lick anyone.”

“This, uh, isn't a courtroom.” He scooted the recorder away from me.

“Then why do I feel like I'm being judged?” I glared in Ashling's general direction.

“Also, as a whaler's daughter”—Ashling cleared her throat—“Susannah Fennyweather would be all too aware that many mariners believed that a woman aboard ship brought bad luck.”

“I'll do it!” I cried, before this could go any further. “Sign me up!”

“Oh, super,” Garrett muttered.

“Hey! I said I'd do it. I'm doing you a favor! What is your problem?” I demanded. I mean, he shouldn't have had any objections. I was the one sacrificing myself! I'd probably go blind after a summer spent with someone so sartorially challenged. But as hard as it was to believe, he wasn't as bad as Ashling. Garrett was a pain in the butt, but not downright malicious.

“I don't want some little Nancy Drew–wannabe tagging along.” He shrugged. “I don't need a babysitter. I can do this by myself.”

Nancy Drew. Nancy Drew?!

“Ohhh, um, ooookay, Clark Kent. Why don't you just head on back to the
Daily Planet
where you belong and foil a caper there, okay?”

“Pfff!”
he spat. “If I'm foiling anything, the last thing I need is Cat Grant dragging me down.”

“Who?” I asked, confused.

“She's the gossip columnist at the
Daily Planet,
blond, pushy. She was introduced as a potential love interest for Clark Kent in
Adventures of Superman
number 424, and . . . Never mind,” Garrett trailed off, embarrassed.

“Nerd,” I muttered just loud enough for Garrett to hear me. I mean, really. Who memorizes the issue numbers of comic books? Someone with no life, that's who.

“I like this Nancy Drew–Hardy Boys angle,” the guy I was pretty sure was Ed said, jumping in. “Boy reporter and his girl Friday fighting crime in quaint New England town! Good spin.”

“Girl Friday?” I objected. “Um, if anything, he's totally my . . . boy Friday.”

“I don't want to spend my summer in a Nancy Drew– Hardy Boys Crossover Mystery Super Spectacular,” Garrett shouted. “I want this to be a piece of serious journalism.”

“What, I can't do serious?” I asked. “I can totally do serious.”

“You have got to be joking,” Ashling said, snickering.

“Like I said, I really don't want some little high school kid tagging along,” Garrett spoke over Ashling.

“Excuse me?!” I spluttered. “Like you're
so
much more mature than me because you're a year older. You've been out of high school for what, a week?”

“Not the point,” he muttered.

“Listen,” Maddie interrupted, “Garrett can't stay on the boat alone. Libby's willing to stay on the boat. Problem solved. End of discussion.”

“But—” Garrett interjected.

“I agree,” Ed said. “End of discussion.”

“Then it's settled,” President Harrow concluded. “They can bunk in the fo'c's'le.”

“The what-sil?” I asked, slightly panicky. “The what and a hey now?”

“Hee-hee!” President Harrow tittered. “Dirty mind, young lady!”

Someone hissed, “Slut.” I took a wild guess—Ashling.

“The fo'c's'le,” Garrett explained exasperatedly. “
Fo'c's'le
stands for ‘forecastle.' It's the part at the front of the ship, and there are two bunks under there on the
Lettie Mae.
”

“And it's the only part of the ship closed to the public,” Maddie added. “It's perfect. There's trunk space under the bunk to store your gear.”

“That might be a problem for Libby,” Ashling said. “Can she bring a shoe rack?”

“Not a problem,” I said, overriding her objection. “Not a problem at all.”

“Then there are no problems.” President Harrow looked around for something, eventually selecting a leather-bound volume from the bookshelf behind him. “You can move onto the
Lettie Mae
this weekend.” He smacked the book on the table, a makeshift gavel, and yelled joyfully, “Meeting adjourned!”

Everyone gathered their things and started shuffling out.

“Um, Garrett?” I tugged on his sleeve. “Can we talk? Outside?”

“Sure.” He nodded testily, before we were swept away on a sea of museum staffers.

“Hey, um, Garrett?” I waved. “Uh, Garrett? Over here.”

“I'm, ugh, coming.” He pushed his way through the crowd and met me under the pine tree I'd staked out.

“Listen, Garrett—”

“Why do you keep saying my name like it's in air quotes?” he interrupted.

“What are you talking about?” I snapped.

“You keep saying ‘Garrett' like it's
allegedly
my name.”

“Maybe because it's not a name, but a small Parisian attic where writers live?”

“Oh, as opposed to a brand of canned pumpkin owned by the Nestlé corporation?” he shot back.

We glared at each other. “Listen, ‘Garrett,'” I began again, and this time I actually used air quotes. He grimaced behind his stupid Clark Kent glasses but didn't say anything. “I know you don't want me there, but I'm sorry. You don't have a choice. I'm going to be there. So we're just going to have to make this work.”

“Why?” He gestured wildly and then readjusted his grip on his messenger bag as it flapped. “Why are you doing this? Why do you need to be there? Can't they find someone else to baby-sit me if they have to? Or can't you just
say
you're there and leave me alone?”

“Not an option, ‘Garrett.'” Ha-ha! Each time I air-quoted, he seemed progressively more annoyed. “I do need to be there because I am living with a cat-loving, shoe-hating historical interpreter who wants me dead. And as impossible as it is to believe,
you
are the lesser of two evils.”

“I'm flattered,” he muttered.

“So deal with it. It's happening.” I spun on my heel and stalked off. “See you shipboard, roomie!” I called over my shoulder.

“Can't wait,” he said sarcastically.

I stopped. “Hey, Garrett, 1998 called—it wants its outfit back.”

He did a double take, then said, “Incidentally, when 1998 was on the phone, it also asked for that joke back.”

My jaw dropped. I snapped it shut and went off to finish my sentence in the Hell House without another word. I had the sinking suspicion that I'd just leaped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Needle (noun): 1. A small, slender, usually steel instrument that has an eye for thread at one end and that is used for sewing. 2. A teasing or gibing remark.

 

One definition described my days at Camden Harbor, the other, my evenings that last week living with Ashling. I was thrilled when Friday afternoon rolled around. As soon as camp ended, I'd be moving my things out of the house and into the harbor. The late-afternoon sun slanted through the parlor windows as we worked on our samplers, and I was filled with peace.

“Miss Libby, Miss Libby!” one of the girls shrieked.
Boom
—peace shattered. “
That boy
is back!”

The rest of the girls screamed, chucked their samplers willy-nilly over the settee, and ran to the window.

“Thith time he'th brought
flowerth,
” Amanda lisped, amid a chorus of
ooh
s.

I stooped to pick up a few samplers, straightened, and looked out the window. Cam was coming up the front walk, with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a small white bag in the other. Not only did he actually have his navy jacket on, buttoned, but he'd also added a waistcoat and even a casually tied cravat—every inch the proper gentleman.

“Miss Libby, I believe he's come courting,” Emily said, squinting through her glasses.

“A thuuuiter.” More
ooh
s. A what? Oh, “a suitor.”

Cam rapped a little pattern on the door:
knock, knock, knock, knock, knock—knock knock.

The girls screamed and dove for the settee, picking up whatever sampler was nearest. They were almost interchangeable, anyway—I'd sketched out patterns of all the different ships in the harbor for them to embroider with indigo-dyed linen thread, and they'd all picked the
Anne-Marie.
Surprise, surprise.

“Get the door, Miss Libby!” they said collectively with giggles, pretending—and failing—to be very involved in their needlework. “Get it, get it, get it!”

I paused to check myself out in the hall mirror. I hadn't seen Cam since he'd chopped our wood. How lucky that I'd just happened to choose the pretty pink flowered dress today! Taking a deep breath, I flung open the heavy wooden door.

I was almost finished with
Northanger Abbey,
mostly because I'd discovered Ashling talked to me less if I was reading, so for lack of a better option, I'd started scouting out the romance novels in the house “library” for my next book. I swear to God, the cover art for
Let Sleeping Rogues Lie
had leaped off the page and shown up on my doorstep.

“Miss Libby,” he said bowing deeply. “I've come calling.” He grinned, shaking the hair out of his eyes, and I was hit with the full force of how unbearably, impossibly gorgeous he was. Yes, sure, the (very small) handful of boys who'd been interested in me in the past weren't total trolls, but they had left me completely unprepared for the movie-star-hot manifestation of my dream man. It was like I'd opened a door to the magical fantasyland in my head. I was frozen to the step like the little delft milkmaid on the shelf in the parlor.

“Let him in!” one of the girls shrieked. The rest took it up, chanting, “Let him in! Let him in!”

“I think you'd better let me in. Or it might get ugly in there,” he said, widening his eyes.

“I think I'd better,” I agreed, and, heart hammering, I let him in. I closed the door behind me and led him to the parlor.