Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink Read online

  “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,” Ro
ger 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.

  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?”
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  “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.”