Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink Read online

  “And now we wait,” he whispered.

  “Do we have to wait in the dark?” I whispered back nervously. “Can we turn the light back on?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m sorry, Libby, but we can’t. The paranormal societies I contacted said most spirits prefer the darkness, and you should make yourself as unobtrusive as possible. Like you’re not even there. That way the ghost feels more comfortable with appearing in the environment.”

  “You contacted paranormal societies?” I was somewhat taken aback. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing he’d believe in. But maybe it was part of the whole sci-fi thing.

  “Yeah. For research.”

  “So you’re into all that ‘the truth is out there’ X-Files stuff too?” I asked. “You think the ghost is real?”

  “I don’t.” He snorted. “Of course it’s not real. It’s completely ridiculous. The existence of paranormal phenomena has been repudiated time and time again. And I enjoy science fiction that takes place in an alternate reality, either far into the future or a separate galaxy, so that there’s no blurring of reality, like there is in a series such as the X-Files or Supernatural. The mind can more easily accept the impossible than the implausible—”

  “Oh God, spare me,” I interrupted. “Let’s get it back on track.”

  “There’s no ghost on this ship, Libby,” he continued. “That’s one of the reasons I wanted to write this story—to figure out what’s really going on here. Because even though I know there’s no ghost, the eyewitness accounts line up enough to confirm that someone certainly wants us to think so. Now I just have to find out why. But I contacted the paranormal societies, anyway, because a good reporter gets all angles of the story. Even if they don’t always line up with his personal convictions.”

  “Gotcha.” I nodded. “Objectivity and all that. Good deal.” Even a moment of silence was intolerable. It made me feel like the blackness was pressing in on my eyelids, smothering me. “But I’m going to tell you right now, it’ll be the creepy old lighthouse keeper in a ghost mask. You mark my words.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Scoobs.”

  “Oh my God, I am not Scooby in this metaphor!” I contested hotly. “Obviously, I’m Daphne!”

  “Libby?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “Okay.”

  Silence.

  “Garrett, do I have to?”

  “Libby, I mean this in the nicest possible way, but shut up.”

  Slightly longer silence.

  “Why?” I whispered so quietly it was barely audible.

  “Because I want to be as unobtrusive as possible so that if someone’s running around in a ghost suit, he won’t know we’re here. Or if you want to think about it paranormally, so that the ghost feels comfortable in the environment,” he whispered back.

  “But what if we made the ghost feel comfortable.” Brilliant idea! “We could whisper, ‘Welcome, spirit,’ or something. Or we could sing!” Even more brilliant idea! “Consider yourself at home!” I sang softly. “Consider yourself one of the family.”

  “Libby,” he cut me off.

  “Yeah?”

  “Even live people avoid Oliver! My sister was in that, and I wanted to slit my wrists by intermission. Let’s steer clear of musical theater, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Silence.

  I sang, “You don’t realize how much I need you. Love you all the time and never leave you. Please come on back to me—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Garrett interrupted again.

  “But everybody likes the Beatles.”

  “Libby,” he warned.

  “Okay. Quiet. Got it.”

  We sat, silent, still, in the darkness, as I inched ever closer to Garrett, hoping it would make me feel less scared. It didn’t. A lifetime later I had closed my eyes and was almost drifting off to sleep, when I felt a hand cover my mouth.

  “Libby,” Garrett whispered very, very quietly, “don’t move. Don’t say anything. Open your eyes very slowly, and don’t freak out. Whatever you do, don’t scream. I’ll take my hand off your mouth if you promise not to scream. Nod if you promise.”

  I nodded, and he removed his hand as I opened my eyes. My mouth froze in a rictus of horror, hanging open in a silent scream. No sound would have come out even if I’d wanted it to—I was so scared, I couldn’t make any noise. There, at the end of the table, was the exact figure I’d heard about. He was much too far away to make out any details, but it was definitely the figure of a man, all in white. I clutched Garrett’s right forearm and dug my nails in so fiercely, it was a miracle I didn’t draw blood. Luckily, Garrett was a lefty, so he used his free hand to slowly pick up the video camera. Immediately, the ghost retreated into the blackness.

  “I’m going to go after it.” Garrett got up.

  “Don’t leave me!” I said, but no sound came out, just air. Garrett vaulted over the cornmeal sacks and chased the figure down the hallway. I immediately flipped the camping lantern on and clung to it like a totem, shaking. Oh God, why was I here? Why didn’t I just stay in that awful house? Even Ashling wasn’t as bad as a ghost! I mean, yes, maybe she would have killed me eventually, but right now that was a chance I was willing to take.

  Moments later Garrett returned.

  “You okay?” he asked, bending over to pick up his lantern and flip it on.

  I nodded, silent, mouth still frozen in a scream.

  “Libby, are you sure?” he asked concernedly. “Here.” He shut my jaw for me. “That looks better. Come on, let’s go to bed.”

  “Wh-wha-what about the ghost?” I asked shakily. Words! I’d made words! Progress.

  “It disappeared.” He kicked a coil of rope with more violence than was necessary. “Whatever it was, a guy in costume or, I don’t know, a projection or a hologram or something, it disappeared by the time I got into the hallway.”

  “Okay.”

  Garrett led me into the fo’c’s’le, closed the door, and bolted it shut. He then helped me up to my bunk. It was like I had lost control of my limbs.

  “Libby, are you sure you’re okay?” he asked again. “Come on, Proud Mary, you’ve got this.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “Right, right, I’m fine.”

  “Sing it with me,” he started. “Big wheels keep on turning,” he sang tunelessly, totally off-key. “Proud Mary keep on burning.”

  “Rolling,” I sang with him, “rolling. Rolling on the river.”

  Just like I always told Dev. Sing till you find your happy place. Weird that Garrett knew I did that.

  “There you go.” Garrett grinned in the glow of his camp light. “That’s the Libby Kelting I know.”

  “Good night, Garrett.”

  “Good night, Kitty.”

  I went to bed immediately, but I didn’t sleep for a long time.

  Seven

  “And as I slooowly opened my eyes, one millimeter at a time, I saw it appear at the end of the long hallway.”

  Ten little mouths formed perfectly round O’s in a ring around the kitchen table.

  “A ghostly figure, all in white,” I continued, leaning my elbows into the flour, “and silent as the grave.”

  “Oooooh,” the girls chorused.

  “But before we could address the spirit, as mysteriously as it had come, it vanished!” I flourished my rolling pin for emphasis, as they shrieked and clutched each other.

  I’d told them this story about five times, but they still clamored for more. And they weren’t the only ones who wanted to hear it. I’d become something of a local celebrity since our ghostly sighting.

  Practically the moment Garrett’s article in the Camden Crier hit newsstands, the story was all over Maine and who knew where else. It spread like wildfire. Literally, it was all anyone talked about. I found I enjoyed the ghost a lot more in the daylight—it wasn’t scary and I was sort of famous! Even though Garrett’s article hadn’t mentioned my name to preserve my anonym
ity, everybody knew I’d been on the boat. Camden Harbor was a small town, and people talked. I was stopped about fifteen times a day on my way in and out of the Bromleigh Homestead and on and off of the Lettie Mae.

  The best part of all this ghost fuss was that the museum was more crowded than I’d ever seen it. There was even a line outside the fudge shop. A line! There were so many people in the museum they were waiting for fudge. The entire staff was running around with huge, dopey grins on their faces. Maddie, who was sporting the standard-issue dopey staff grin, said the museum was reaching attendance levels it hadn’t seen since the ’70s.

  What all this meant, of course, was that we were expecting record numbers for the Fourth of July, which was already traditionally the museum’s busiest day. And since yours truly was in charge of the pie table, the pressure was on both in quality and quantity. I mean think about it: pie on the Fourth of July. Ever heard of a little phrase called “American as apple pie”? Yeah. Only like the seminal American dessert on the seminal American holiday. Who wasn’t going to want pie? Everyone likes pie.

  So after a minor freak-out, I’d decided to use the resources available to me. Upon Miss Libby’s Official Decree, this week was “Pie Week” at Girls of Long Ago Camp, and we were cranking out pastry like you would not believe. I’d turned the girls into my personal pie factory. It was a little sweet-shop sweatshop of my very own.

  “Guys, don’t eat the dough,” I said for the millionth time. “It’s got lard in it, and that’s gross, and I’ll get in big trouble if you get salmonella.”

  “Salmonella?” Emily wrinkled her nose. “There’s no fish in this.”

  “Very funny, miss.” She giggled at her own joke.

  “Whath thamonella?” Amanda asked.

  “Something bad that Lysol kills, as it disinfects to protect, along with ninety-nine percent of other germs,” Robin answered her. “Duh. Don’t you watch TV?”

  “Well, since we’re a couple hundred years early for Lysol—as well as TV, for that matter—let’s just stay out of the pie crust, okay?”

  “Oooookay.”

  They didn’t. Not really. But at least they were eating less of it, minimizing the potential salmonella intake. By the end of cooking time, we’d finished all the lattice-topped and double-crust pies, which meant all we had left to do the rest of the week was crumb-top pies. Not too shabby. This could be the beginning of my very own domestic empire. Martha would be so proud. Except that the whole child-labor aspect might be a problem.

  Later that afternoon during craft time, I set up an actual sweatshop in the homestead, as the girls and I sewed flag bunting. Everything everyone did at Camden Harbor that week was in preparation for the Fourth.

  “Can you tell uth about the ghotht again, Mith Libby?” Amanda asked, handing me a scrap of fabric into which she’d sewn a truly impressive knot.

  “Are you guys sure you want to hear it again?” I attacked the knot. “I’ve already told it a lot.”

  The general consensus was yes.

  “Okay, then, if you’re sure.” Man, she’d knotted that up good. “So, Garrett and I were waiting in the galley—”

  “This is the point I’m unclear about,” Emily interrupted, squinting through her glasses as she threaded a needle. “Who is this Garrett character?”

  “He’s a reporter at the Camden Crier.” I stuck out my tongue, concentrating on undoing the knot.

  “And why was he on the boat?”

  “He lives there. With me,” I answered without thinking about it.

  Emily’s eyebrow shot up above her glasses.

  “Not like that!” Major giggles. “You guys, not like that. Stop giggling! It’s not like that. He’s investigating the ghost, reporting, you know, writing a story. I’m just there to make sure he doesn’t steal anything.”

  “Like your heart?” someone suggested. Giggle, giggle, giggle.

  “We are just friends,” I said firmly. I mean, um, gross. I couldn’t even begin to imagine Garrett as anything other than just a friend. Hobbit feet and Trekkie talk don’t exactly inspire romance.

  “Suuure,” Robin said. “Miss Libby, you know the Jonas Brothers song ‘Just Friends’?”

  “Can’t say that I do.” Robin’s knowledge of all things Jonas was encyclopedic. Mine, not so much.

  “Well,” she began with great excitement, as she always did whenever anything Jonas related came up in conversation—which happened a lot more often than you would think in a place where it was technically always supposed to be 1791. “See, Nick Jonas keeps saying that it’s cool, ’cause he’s just friends with this girl, but everyone knows it’s meant to be, and he’s making lots of plans, like a picket fence and a rose garden, and thinking about how they’re gonna say their vows, which means they get married. So even though Nick said they were just friends, really he was falling in love, till the end of time. It’ll happen,” she finished smugly.

  “Well, in this case, the Jonas Brothers are mistaken.”

  Major protests.

  “I’m sorry to have to say it—I know it’s hard to hear—but just this once the Jonas Brothers are wrong. Garrett and I are friends.”

  “Men and women can’t be friends,” Emily said matter-of-factly. “The sex part always gets in the way.”

  “Seriously.” I stared at her. “How old are you?”

  “Eight!”

  “Hmm.” I eyed her suspiciously. I was starting to think she might have been a thirty-five-year-old midget with great skin.

  “Miss Libby, you need to resolve your feelings about this Garrett character if you intend to keep pursuing things with Cam. How’s that going, by the way?” Emily took a sip of her lemonade. If it had been a cosmo, she would have been ready for Sex and the City. Or, more accurately, Sex and the Harbor.

  The grandfather clock in the parlor tolled two. Saved by the bell. Not that I had any feelings to resolve about Garrett. I knew exactly how I felt about him—he was tolerable. Barely.

  “Okay, guys, as educational as this conversation probably is for most of you, we’ve gotta get you back to the Welcome Center! Darn!”

  Emily fixed me with a look that said she knew exactly what I was doing and that I wouldn’t be so lucky next time. “How’s that going with Cam?” was just not a question I was prepared to answer at the moment. I hadn’t seen him since our aborted sail date.

  ***

  By the time I’d shepherded all the kids back to their parents, I was more than ready to collapse on the deck of the Lettie Mae and read the copy of His Reluctant Mistress that I’d liberated from the intern house library, which I was actually enjoying. It wasn’t something I was proud of. My newfound appreciation for romance novels was definitely going to stay a secret shame.

  Unfortunately, there was a crowd of strangers standing between me and the renowned rake, skilled seducer, and expert spy waiting between the pages of my Harlequin romance. All these unknown people were milling around the boat, blocking my way up the gangplank.

  “Um, excuse me,” I said as I pushed through the crowd, looking for someone, anyone, I knew. “Excuse me, excuse me.”

  I spotted Garrett at the front of the crowd.

  “Who are all these people?” I asked him under the cover of crowd noise.

  “Paranormal societies, mediums, and psychics,” he answered.

  “Jesus.” I scanned the crowd. “Why are they here?”

  “To get on the boat. Well, all except Madam Selena.” He indicated a woman with wild, curly hair, dressed like a gypsy. “She just wants to feel our energies.”

  “Our as in yours and mine?”

  “Our as in yours and mine,” he confirmed.

  “I think I’ll have a better understanding of the spirit’s situation if I can get a better feel for the energies he chose to reveal himself around.” Madam Selena poked her headscarf in between us, heavy gold hoops clattering like clunky wind chimes.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” Garrett whispered. “She’s the onl
y one who’s been nice. The rest of them are really pushy.”

  “No, that’s fine,” I agreed. “Please, Madam Selena,” I said at a normal volume. “I’d love it if you, um, read my energy.”

  “Ah, blessed be.” She smiled beatifically. Madam Selena closed her eyes, inhaled deeply, and held up her hennaed hand in front of my face, about three inches from my nose. Two minutes of silence later, she smiled and opened her eyes.

  “What a lovely, romantic, watery glow coming off of this one.” She waved her hand around my head, bangles clattering up and down her arm.

  “Watery?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes. You must be a water sign. Am I right?” I nodded. She was pretty good. “I’m feeling . . . Pisces. Pisces?” Again, I nodded. Actually, she was really good.

  “And you.” She turned to Garrett and repeated the process. Only this time, her smile was even wider. “Scorpio,” she said definitively. “Determined Scorpio. The natural investigators of the zodiac!”

  “Actually, yeah.” Garrett looked stunned. No surprise, given his complete dismissal of everything supernatural and paranormal. “I am. That’s amazing. I can’t believe it. How did you—”

  “Hey, Libs.” Cam worked his way into the circle and kissed me on the cheek, like he’d never been gone. Like he hadn’t avoided me all week. Like we’d just seen each other. “You look . . . busy,” he said, eyeing Madam Selena skeptically, and she returned the look.

  “Are you a fire sign, young man?” Madam Selena asked him imperiously.

  “I’m not a sign of anything. What the fuck is she talking about?” he muttered into my ear, just loud enough for Madam Selena to overhear.

  “On what day were you born?” she said with a sigh.

  “April fifth,” he answered suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Aries.” She nodded. “The ram.”

  “Yeah.” Cam looked Madam Selena up and down, like she was a total loon and he couldn’t be bothered to deal with her. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you later, Libs.” He swaggered off, presumably to his own boat. Madam Selena watched him go, a worried look on her face.