Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink Read online

  “Do you know when the house was built, Suze?” I asked. “It looks sort of Greek Revival—1830s?”

  “Good eye,” she said approvingly. “It was built in 1833 by Josiah Helms, a prosperous local merchant, and, like you said, neoclassically inspired.”

  The Greek Revival is really cool. Dev would probably say cool is a relative term here, but whatever. Following archaeological discoveries in the eighteenth century, ancient Greece suddenly became awesome—just like a couple of years ago when everybody started wearing leggings and decided the ’80s were back, you know? All these archaeologists-architects came back from seeing Greece and started building things in the classical tradition, but with a new twist (neoclassical, get it?), and soon everybody wanted in. In America Thomas Jefferson pushed it big time—which is why so many of the buildings in D.C. look like Greek temples. Because the Greeks had basically invented democracy, Americans saw themselves as Ancient Greece, Part Two, once America broke away from England to become a democratic country. Greek Revival architecture became a symbol of the new democracy, of national pride—a uniting force for our brand-new country. That Thomas Jefferson was no fool. Plus, he was a super-sassy redhead.

  We passed through the skinny hallway into the living room. There was a large, sagging striped couch sprouting stuffing, a lopsided bookshelf, and an ancient TV.

  “Believe it or not, we get cable,” Suze said, pointing to the TV.

  “That is hard to believe.” It looked like the last thing that TV had broadcast was the moon landing.

  I walked over to examine the room’s sole decorative object: an oil painting of an ancient, rain-soaked mariner at the helm of a schooner. He was dressed like the guy on the fish sticks box but had the general demeanor of Captain Ahab. I had never seen an oil painting look quite so pissed off.

  “The ‘library’ is something else too,” Suze added.

  I bent down to look in the crooked book shelves under Captain Ahab. Seven different maritime histories, Knotcraft: The Practical and Entertaining Art of Knot Tying, an illustrated children’s version of the collected works of Robert Louis Stevenson, Joy of Cooking, a handful of romance novels boasting shirtless Fabios, Betty Crocker Cookie Book, and Horton Hears a Who!.

  “So . . . lots of summer fun tying knots and baking cookies?”

  Suze shook her head. “I wouldn’t bet on the cookies. Check out the kitchen.”

  I followed her through the open door frame, narrowly avoiding a piece of hanging lintel. The kitchen was filthy and beyond cluttered with the oddest assortment of kitchen appliances I’d ever seen. There was a crepe pan, six soufflé ramekins, and an apple peeler, yet no spoons. Mysterious bottles and boxes of nonperishable food items spilled out of the cabinets, over the counters, and onto the oven. A few alphabet magnets decorated the once white refrigerator.

  The kitchen was already occupied, by a boy sitting at the hefty wooden table with a bag of radishes and a tub of hummus. I was seriously beginning to think I’d passed Rod Serling somewhere and had now entered the Twilight Zone. You think you know what tall is, until you see a six-foot-seven gangly teenager with a huge ’fro unfold himself from a kitchen chair.

  “I’m Neil.” He extended the longest arm I’d ever seen to shake my hand. “I’m here to film a documentary on the last living lighthouse keepers. And to abuse my unlimited kayaking privileges.”

  “Cool.” I smiled.

  “Neil lives upstairs, with two marine biologists,” Suze explained.

  “What are you here for?” he asked.

  “I’m the Education and Interpretation intern.”

  “She’s not real Interpretation!” Ashling yelled from the other room.

  “The walls have ears,” Suze whispered fearfully, darting paranoid glances around the room.

  “She’s just a camp counselor!” Ashling yelled again.

  “Technically true.” I gritted my teeth. “I’m in charge of Girls of Long Ago Camp.”

  “Nothing wrong with camp counseling.” Neil nodded, Adam’s apple bobbing. “What’s Girls of Long Ago Camp?”

  “Eight- to ten-year-old girls learn open-hearth cooking, needlework, soap making, candle making, spinning . . . domestic arts. Basically they do all the things eight- to ten-year-old girls would have done two centuries ago, give or take,” I explained.

  “You know how to do that stuff?” he asked, reaching back to dip a radish in the hummus and pop it in his mouth. It crunched loudly.

  “Some of it.” I shrugged. “The rest, they’re gonna train me, supposedly. I mean, my favorite area is American social history, specifically women’s studies, so I know what it all is, in theory. Hopefully the practical application shouldn’t be too hard.”

  “I don’t have to bother with practical application.” Suze grinned. “That’s why I’m a research librarian. I’ll be up to my ears in all the maritime folklore a girl could wish for,” she finished dreamily.

  “Radish, ladies?” Neil polished off another one.

  “Umm, no thanks,” I demurred. “I should finish unpacking. But it was really nice to meet you.” Odd snack choices aside, he seemed nice enough.

  “You too. The marine biologists are out collecting samples, but I’m sure you’ll meet them later.”

  “Right.” Suze and I nodded and headed out, leaving Neil to his radishes.

  “It’s gonna be weird, living with a boy,” she whispered as we left the kitchen. “Having him around all day.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, he’ll be upstairs. It probably won’t be that weird,” I mused.

  “I’ve been at the same all-girls school since kindergarten,” she confided. “This may already be the most time I’ve ever spent with a guy our age.”

  “Yikes,” I blurted out, without thinking. “Oh my God.” I blushed. “I didn’t mean that! I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking; it just sort of popped out . . .”

  “It’s okay.” She laughed. “Unusual, I know. I’m like the last unicorn.”

  “I’m leaving for orientation,” Ashling yelled. “NOW!”

  “Keep your pants on,” I said. “We should probably go with her, right?” I asked Suze.

  She nodded.

  “Oookay.” I sighed reluctantly. “Let me just get my sunglasses.”

  Ashling was clipping on a fanny pack in the bedroom as I pulled a pair of giant white sunglasses out of the purse I’d left on my bed.

  “You’re wearing . . . that?” Ashling asked.

  “Um . . . yes?” I hadn’t meant for it to come out like a question, but it did. I had planned a special nautically inspired outfit for my first day—an adorable seersucker strapless button-down top, cuffed-hem linen shorts, striped canvas ballet flats, and the pièce de résistance, a silver anchor necklace.

  “Hoo boy.” Ashling huffed. Clearly, I had made a sartorial error in her expert eyes. I wondered idly if she would have outright strangled me with said silver necklace if I’d gone with my original plan and worn espadrilles. Ashling stormed out, Suze and I following in her wake.

  The screen door slammed shut, wobbled on its hinges for a moment, but somehow managed to stay in the door frame, seemingly only through sheer force of will. It was a beautiful day, and the heat hit me like a tangible force as we stepped out into the sunshine.

  “It’s humid here, isn’t it?” My curly hair was rapidly expanding into Afro-tastic proportions. I tried to pat it down, but that only made it redouble its efforts to defy gravity.

  “You look like a lion.”

  “Thanks, Ashling.”

  Ashling criticizing my hair was kind of like Jenna Jameson condemning premarital sex. Suze shook her close-cropped head, warning me not to start anything. We plodded down the sidewalk.

  “The museum is this way, the way we’re going, and the beach and downtown area are in the other direction,” Ashling explained like a bored tour guide. “You exit the house, walk for five minutes either left or right, and you hit a destination. “Anyone”—she looked at me—“should be
able to figure that out.”

  “Mmm.” I nodded. What was going on here? I had never met someone who disliked me so much, so quickly! I mean, I don’t want to sound stuck-up, but usually people like me! I had always gotten “plays well with others” on my report card back at Eunice Norton Elementary. I had thought that I was just not an interpersonal-conflict kind of girl. But right now it looked like this was shaping up to be an interpersonal conflict on the level of Batman and the Joker.

  Luckily, it really was only five minutes—five awkward, silent minutes, but five minutes nonetheless. We had reached the rambling white farmhouse that served as the administrative headquarters of Camden Harbor: the Museum of Maine and the Sea. Located just outside the gates of the living history museum, it held all the staff offices. I’d been here just this morning to pick up a key to my less-than-luxurious accommodations.

  Ashling pushed open the door and marched straight up to the receptionist’s desk. “We’re the interns,” she announced proudly.

  “How nice, dear.” The receptionist, a round, motherly woman smiled. “Head down the hallway and wait in the Oak Room—last door on your left. Maddie will be there in just a minute. We’re just dealing with something right now.”

  They must have been dealing with something big—I could hear indeterminate yelling noises floating from one of the endless rooms off the hall. The Oak Room was just like the rest—dark wood, burgundy carpet, heavy floral drapes, brimming bookshelves, and stern nineteenth-century New Englanders frowning down from oil paintings. We took seats in three of the Quaker-style chairs around the oval table that dominated the room. The yelling drifted in from the next room over, louder, and now I could make out what they were saying:

  “Maddie, I need you on my side on this one,” a man’s voice pleaded.

  “I don’t know,” a woman said, hedging. “It was just some kid. It might be nothing.”

  “This isn’t the first sighting and you know it,” he argued back heatedly. “There’ve been enough sightings that it’s definitely something. This is happening, Maddie, whether you want it to or not. So we might as well do something about it! Do you have any idea how much business this could bring in?”

  “President Harrow doesn’t want to capitalize on any of this ghost stuff. He thinks it’s cheap—”

  “And it’s a museum, not a tourist trap, blah, blah, blah. I’ve heard it all before,” he interrupted. “But we’re in serious financial trouble, Maddie. We’re at an all-time attendance low, and this place is hemorrhaging money. Wouldn’t anything—anything—be worth it to get more people in? Especially just a silly little ghost story? What’s the harm in that?”

  “I’ll have to think about it, Roger.” She sighed. “If people see this ‘ghost’ again and it starts to really become something, I’ll think about it, okay?”

  “It already is something, Maddie, four sightings. It—”

  “I’ll think about it, Roger,” she said, finishing the conversation. “I have to go welcome the interns.”

  A door slammed, and a pair of heels clicked down the corridors. Not a moment later, a harried-looking thirty-something in a slim-flitting black pantsuit pushed open the door.

  “Hi,” she said breathlessly. “Sorry about that. Thanks for waiting. I’m Maddie. The education director and internship coordinator.” She had the kind of red hair usually considered striking on women and unattractive on men. It suited her. She twisted it into a low bun at the nape of her neck as she took a seat at the head of the table. “Welcome to Camden Harbor, the Museum of Maine and the Sea.” She smiled. “In here, it’s always 1791.” We smiled and nodded in return. “Brief introduction, then down to business. So, as I’m sure you guys all know from the brochure we sent you, this area—called Mengunticook, or ‘great swells of the sea,’ by the Penobscot Abenaki Indians—was settled just after the conclusion of the French and Indian War. The settlement served as an American encampment during the Revolution and was incorporated as the town of Camden Harbor in 1791. Which is why, when the museum was built in the late 1920s, the founders decided to recreate Camden Harbor as it would have been at the time of its incorporation. Although not a brick-for-brick reproduction, the Camden Harbor buildings give visitors the experience of what life would have been like in a small New England fishing village of the period. I’m sure this isn’t new information.” We nodded again. “Great. I’m just gonna give you guys a quick spiel about scheduling, what your days will be like here, that kind of thing . . . Really quick, I promise, and we’ll be on our way. We’re big into on-the-job learning here.”

  Suze and I exchanged nervous glances. Maddie pulled out a folder from the attaché case she’d brought in with her. “All righty, let’s see.” She flipped it open. “Ashling.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Ashling pulled a minuscule notebook and pen out of her fanny pack. “Before you begin, I already know what I’m doing. I am extremely experienced in first-person interpretation, and I was planning to proceed with my current character.”

  “Okay.” Maddie tried to smile politely. “Well, that’s great. So you’ll be walking around the harbor, in character, interacting with guests all day, in a freeform environment.”

  “That is correct,” Ashling confirmed, like she was the boss.

  “Then I guess all we need to do is get you a fitting. Suze?” She moved on. Suze waved. “When we next meet up, for your training session, I’ll take you over to the Research Library, where you’ll be assisting the head librarian and the curator with whatever they’re working on, as well as researching a project of your own choosing.”

  “Great.” Suze nodded happily.

  “So that makes you Libby.” Maddie turned to me. “Girls of Long Ago Camp starts on Monday. In the mornings, you and the girls will do hearth cooking, and then in the afternoons, different craft projects. You can schedule needlework, knitting, quilting, flower pressing, all of that, at your discretion. They’ll go over it in more detail at your domestic arts training this weekend and show you where all the supplies are, so you can make some kind of lesson plan.” She pursed her lips.

  “Awesome.” I smiled.

  “Great.” Maddie closed the folder. “Glad this is going so well. We’ll be off to the costume shack in no time. Ashling and Libby, you’ll be in period dress, but whenever you’re not, you’ll join Suze in wearing the official Camden Harbor uniform: a blue polo with the Camden Harbor logo.” She pulled one seemingly out of thin air and held it up. It wasn’t particularly cute—a generic royal blue polo with a white schooner and “Camden Harbor: The Museum of Maine and the Sea” embroidered above the left breast pocket. “And then,” she continued, “your own khaki bottoms. Shorts, pants, what have you.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” I raised my hand. “Nobody mentioned a uniform. We have to wear that all the time?”

  “Malibu Barbie is worried she won’t be able to show off the wardrobe from the dream house,” Ashling muttered.

  “Malibu? Malibu?! I’m from Minnesota,” I hissed back.

  “Yes, all the time,” Maddie confirmed. “When you’re not in costume. And when you are in costume, no makeup.”

  “N-no makeup?” I stuttered. “Um, I don’t mean to be a pain in the butt about this, but I’m blond—”

  “We are well aware,” Ashling deadpanned.

  “What I meant,” I continued, “is that I look really weird without eye makeup. Like an alien. Because I have blond eyelashes? It might, um, scare the kids . . .” I trailed off.

  “As a redhead, I am familiar with the phenomenon,” Maddie said dryly.

  “No, but seriously,” I stressed. “You’re underestimating the gravity of the situation. Once I left for school without eye makeup and everyone thought I was sick and my friend Dev tried to send me to the nurse for a mono test, but it was just because I overslept and didn’t have time to put on any eyeliner—”

  “We appreciate the enormity of your sacrifice.” Maddie held up her hand for silence and cut me off. “But no mak
eup.”

  Ashling rolled her eyes and smiled smugly.

  “And finally, obviously, whenever you’re in costume, no cell phones.”

  “NO CELL PHONES?!” I exploded.

  “They shatter the illusion of the eighteenth-century village,” Maddie explained calmly.

  “But what if we hide them from the tourists? And only check them when no one’s around?” I wheedled. What if Dev needed to call me? What if Meryl Streep needed him to get an unpublished Harry Potter manuscript and I was the only one who could help? Not that I’d know how to do that anyway, but that was beside the point.

  “Nope.” Maddie stood firm.

  “Come on, Suze, back me up here,” I whispered. Sure, Suze seemed a little repressed, maybe, but I was holding out a hope that she was a normal human.

  “Sorry, Libby.” She shook her head. “I work in a library. We’re not exactly pro-phone.”

  “Oh, fine,” I grumbled. I’d find a way. I was resourceful. Like a pioneer woman.

  “Now that that’s settled”—Maddie picked up her attaché case—“let’s get you gals fitted.”

  We filed out of the Oak Room, left the administrative farmhouse, and went through the staff entrance to Camden Harbor, which was a swinging gate in a white picket fence behind a butter-yellow house.

  “This is the Bromleigh Homestead.” Maddie pointed to the house as we wound our way through the garden. “It’s where you’ll be, Libby. This is where Girls of Long Ago Camp is.”

  It was a beautiful house, older than the one we lived in but perfectly restored. It was right on the main road, a gravel path ringed with clapboard houses surrounding a green and facing the harbor. Three-masted tall ships bobbed gently in the sea. The whole place looked like a postcard; like an idyllic dream of New England. And maybe it wasn’t totally real, but it was real enough: I was here.

  “The costume shack is that tiny white house on the other side of the town green, down by the quay, next to the cooper’s shop.” Maddie indicated a small building in the distance. “Let’s cut across the green.”