Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (17 page)

“Why . . . um . . . sure. Yeah, I guess so.”

“Blueberry lattice, please,” she requested as she withdrew a battered deck of cards from the folds of her skirt. She shuffled them on the counter as I sliced her a piece of pie. She fanned them out before me. “Choose three, one at a time, then place them face-up on the counter.”

I picked the first. “Past,” she said as the card hit the table. “Present,” the next, and finally, “Future.” She leaned in to examine them.

“Hmm . . .” She stroked the cards. “Past: Queen of Swords Reversed. A deceitful, sly, intolerant, and narrow-minded woman, expert in the use of half-truths and quiet slander.”

“Ashling,” Suze whispered, stunned. “Wow, she's good.”

“I know, right?” I whispered back.

Looking troubled, Madam Selena stroked the second card. “Present: Temperance Reversed. Imbalance. Volatility. Poor judgment. Fickle decisions. Conflicting interests.” She shook her head worriedly. “Two reverse cards. Careful, little fish.”

Suze looked equally worried, scowling somewhat owlishly behind her glasses.

“Ah, but the future.” Madam Selena breathed a sigh of relief as she caressed the third card, smiling beautifully. “The Lovers.” I blushed. “Ah, love is a force that makes you choose and decide for reasons you often can't understand. Finding something or someone who is so much a part of yourself that you cannot, dare not resist. There are choices to be made, but in the end, harmony and union.”

Suze made an
ooh
face.

“Persevere, little fish, happiness will be yours.” Madam Selena collected her cards and returned them to her garments. “
Ad astris per aspera
—to the stars through difficulties.” She picked up her pie. “Blessed be.” She wandered away aimlessly.

“Blessed be,” I called after her.

“Love is a force that makes you choose and decide.” Suze mulled it over. “That's actually quite profound.”

“Yeah. It does sound profound,” I agreed. “Madam Selena's very good.”

“I know! Ashling! The cards knew!” Suze squeaked. “Then I guess you'd better be careful with all that temperance reversed business. I'd stay away from the beer.”

“That's not a problem.”

We discussed the tarot at length until all the pies were gone and Suze was scraping the bottom of the lemonade barrel. The timing worked out almost perfectly, the sun setting as I sold my last piece of pie. As twilight fell, I stacked the empty pie tins, broke down the collapsible table, and neatly folded the flag bunting that had decorated it.

“Okay.” Suze huffed and puffed. “I've got to roll this barrel back to the cooper's shop.”

“Are you serious?” I asked, concerned. “That thing's enormous!” It was. It was almost as tall as Suze and way more than twice as round.

“Oh, not to worry!” She struggled. “I'll just pop it up there and be back in a jiff! Go turn in your pie tins.”

“Suze, are you sure? I really don't mind helping you—”

“Nope, nope, I got it.” She set her glasses determinedly. “I can do this myself.”

“Well . . . okay . . . if you're sure . . .”

Red faced, Suze rolled away her barrel, moving at a glacial pace. I shrugged and collected my pie tins. I brought them back to the Bromleigh Homestead, to be washed on Monday. Probably leaving them in a bucket outside overnight wasn't the best idea, as every raccoon in the county would come running, but I wanted to find Cam before the fireworks started, so we could watch them together. After the tins clattered into the bucket, I wiped my hands on my skirt and headed to the green to look for Cam.

They were going to be shooting the fireworks off a boat anchored offshore in the harbor. Nearly every square inch of the green was covered in picnic blankets, with families settling in to watch. I picked my way carefully around the blankets, scanning the unfamiliar faces for Cam, but he was nowhere to be found. It got darker and darker, and I began to despair of ever finding him. Maybe he was on the beach—even though the main Fourth of July festivities were taking place on the green, you'd probably have a good view of the fire­works from the beach. I hitched up my skirts and ran toward the shore.

I heard a crackle and a hiss, and looked up to the sky—oh no! The first opening volleys of the fireworks display. Where could he be? I hit the beach and scrambled up the stone jetty, hoping to get a better view. Peering into the dark, the beach appeared to be completely deserted. The wind whipped my skirts and teased my hair out from under my mobcap. Oh, where, where could he be?

“Libby! Hey, Libby! Is that you?”

Another slight hiss and crackle, as a small shower of starbursts rained down. I turned—Garrett was climbing up the other side of the jetty.

“Oh, hey, Garrett.” I ran carefully over the uneven stones to meet him, as the waves crashed on the side of the jetty. “Listen, have you seen—”

BOOM!
An enormous firework exploded, filling the sky with white-gold lights and making the beach bright as day. In the moment that we were illuminated, suddenly and without warning, Garrett leaned down and kissed me.

Like really kissed me. Like movie-kissed me. No, like
epic
movie–kissed me. This was a
Titanic, Doctor Zhivago, Gone with the Wind
kiss. The fireworks exploded around us, a booming, symphonic underscore, turning the world green and blue and gold as we were bathed in falling sparks.

I had no idea how long we were on that jetty. Time had stopped. Except it clearly hadn't, because eventually there was silence. Startled by the quiet, I broke the kiss. In the distance the applause from the town green floated toward us.

“Oh my God.” I pulled away, white faced. What had I done? How had this even happened? Garrett didn't even like me. And I sure as hell didn't like him.

“Libby, I know that was sudden, but I have to tell you. I—”

“No, Garrett. Don't,” I cut him off.

“Libby, please,” he pleaded. “You have to know how I feel. I—”

“Don't. Don't say it. Don't say anything.”

“But—but why?” He looked hurt and confused. “I don't understand. I—”

“I'm—I'm here with Cam,” I stuttered.

“Really? Really, Libby? You're here with Cam?” Garrett said angrily. “Then where the hell is he? He's sure as hell not here.” Garrett ran a hand through his hair, fighting the wind as it disarrayed his locks. “Libby, I'm here. I'm here with you.”

“I should go find him.”

“Jesus, Libby.” He shook his head. “You're so much better than this,” he said sadly.

“Better than this? Than him? Are you kidding?” I said.

“Libby, you—”

“Better?” I kept talking right over Garrett, not even really hearing what he'd said. “Better? There is no one better, Garrett. Cam's practically perfect. He's like one of the nicest guys I've ever met. So sweet. And romantic. And . . . chivalrous.”

Garrett snorted.

“He's a gentleman, Garrett. A real one. You know, you could learn a thing or two from Cam.”

“You deserve so much better, Libby. You—”

“Deserve what, Garrett? What? You think I deserve . . . you?” I asked somewhat hysterically. “Because you're so much better than he is? Is that what you're saying? That you think you're better than he is? You've got to be kidding.” An ugly laugh burbled up before I could stop it. It echoed, hanging between us in the night.

Garrett recoiled like I'd slapped him.

“You know what? Save it, Libby.” He turned away to look out over the water. “I don't need to hear any more.”

“Look.” I exhaled noisily. I had to make peace. There was no other choice. “We have to live on a boat together for the rest of the summer.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Why don't we just chalk this up to, um, holiday spirits and just pretend none of it ever happened, okay? Just go back to being friends.”

“Friends. Sure, Libby. If that's what you want,” he said bitterly. “Friends.”

“I . . . I do.” I tentatively reached for his hand, willing to make peace—at least for the sake of domestic harmony. He shook me off.

“Go find your boyfriend, Libby.” He turned away, sticking his hands in his pockets, watching the waves break over the end of the jetty.

“Okay,” I said in a small voice. “I'll see you back on the boat, then.”

He didn't respond. I climbed down the jetty and watched him as I ran, a hunched figure standing alone on the rocks, buffeted on both sides by waves breaking low in the water.

I ran away from the beach and back toward the green. Oh God, I was a horrible person. How could I have done something like that to Cam? To sweet, romantic, perfectly perfect Cam? And with Garrett of all people? Garrett! I was a horrible, horrible person. A horrible,
confused
person. I mean, Cam and I were dating. Sort of. Not that we'd ever talked about it, really . . . but I definitely shouldn't be running around kissing other people. Right? I mean, especially kissing
friends
. . . whom I
lived with
. . . whom I didn't even like . . . I mean, it was Garrett! Obnoxious, arrogant, self-important, completely lame, totally nerdy, terribly dressed Garrett! How had this even happened? But oh, that kiss . . .

BLEEEEAAAGGGGGGGGGH.

The unmistakable sound of vomit hitting ground interrupted my tumultuous thoughts. I peered into the bush I'd just passed.

“Cam?”

Sure enough, Cam was crouched on all fours, heaving into a bush. Temperance reversed, indeed.

“Hey, Libs.” He smiled crookedly, wiping his mouth. “I couldn't find you.” He hurled again. “I don't feel so good.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” I knelt down to join him. “Come on, let's get up. I'll help you.”

“Aw, you're too good for me, Libs,” he said, becoming increasingly maudlin and tearing up a bit. “You're like an angel. You're my angel. Save me, little red, white, and blue angel.”

“Yeah, yeah, I've got you, Cam.” I helped him up. “You're okay. I've got you. Where should we go?”

“Travis.” He spat a neat stream of puke into the bushes. “He's my ride.”

“Pirate Travis?” Cam nodded. “Then, let's go find him.”

He was easy to spot. The Dread Pirate Travis was now dressed like Uncle Sam, handing out sparklers in the middle of the town green. I lumbered over to Uncle Sam, Cam leaning heavily on my shoulder.

“Hey.” Travis nodded sympathetically, in a sign of solidarity at our ridiculous outfits. “Dude, I think this museum is just out to get us.” He stroked his fake white beard, which was slipping off his chin to the left.

“I'm starting to think you're right, Travis.”

“But this time I get to tell kids to play with fire, so that's cool.” He cheerfully handed a sparkler to a small boy with brown hair.

“Yeah . . . um, listen, Travis.” I tried to readjust Cam so he was less heavy, but to no avail. He was crushing my shoulder. “I think Cam had too much to drink—”

“Dude, he and Scrubs invented the most hilarious drinking game! So, you take four beers, a sparkler, and—”

“Tell me about it later,” I interrupted. “Listen, he's really sick, and he told me you were his ride home?”

“Yeah.” Uncle Sam pulled on his beard. “I have to finish out my shift here, and then I'll take him home and get him some water and stuff. Just sit him down and lean him up against that cannon. I'll make sure he doesn't pass out and choke on his own vomit.”

“Thanks. That's . . . sweet.”

“No biggie, Betsy Ross.” Struggling, I eased Cam into a semi-comfortable position next to the cannon. His head lolled, and he grinned blankly.

“You're my angel, Libs.” Cam heaved and vomited heavily onto the hem of my Betsy Ross dress. Now America really had thrown up on me. “You're the nicest person I know.” He retched a little, but nothing came up. Then he passed out.

“Don't worry, I got it.” Uncle Sam handed me a sparkler. “Happy Fourth of July, Betsy Ross.”

I took it and walked off into the night. The nicest person? Hardly. I was the type of person who betrayed a boy who'd never been anything but nice to me, who had finally shown me that romance and chivalry weren't dead, by kissing some obnoxious loser. The type of person who probably deserved to be covered in vomit. Ugh! Gross! This was even worse than pork fat! Too many thoughts were careening around in my already stuffed brain, and I just wanted them to be quiet. I started running. Running away—from Cam, from Garrett, from everything. For the first time since I'd arrived in Camden Harbor, I wished I was up at Moose Lake with Mom, Dad, and the beagles, where I'd spent every summer before this, and where everything was so much less . . . complicated. Using the sparkler to light my way, I ran until I somehow ended up outside the boathouse, with a stitch in my side from trying to do cardio in a corset. I leaned against the weather-beaten wooden planks and sunk to my knees, curling into a ball against the boathouse wall. The sparkler went out, plunging me into darkness. As I listened to the waves crash against the dock, soundless tears poured down my cheeks. I buried my face in my hands, trying to drown out my thoughts with the roar of the ocean.

True to his word, Garrett pretended that nothing had happened. Neither one of us was doing a particularly good job of pretending, however. All of the next week, we were painfully conscious of each other as we tried to navigate the minuscule shared space of the fo'c's'le without making physical contact, which was practically impossible.

Garrett was being so carefully, formally polite that I half expected him to ask me if I would be attending the assemblies at Bath, and did I not find society in the country dreadfully dull after a season in town? Maybe that was why he'd borrowed my copy of
Northanger Abbey—
to pick up tips. That was the longest conversation we'd had all week: