Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (20 page)

Garrett had been in a remarkably good mood, having managed to parlay his second ghost sighting (with video, this time!) into another smashingly successful article. It had been picked up by several other Maine newspapers, including the three papers with the largest circulation: the
Bangor Daily News,
the
Lewiston Sun Journal,
and the
Portland Press Herald.
Even better, it had traveled down south to a small paragraph in the “Special Reports” section of the
Boston Globe,
which was, as Garrett reminded me about fifty times a day, the fourteenth most widely read paper in the United States.

While Garrett was out of his mind with glee, the paranormal societies were just straight up out of their minds. They had gone nuts after discovering Garrett now had what they considered video proof of paranormal activity. (Garrett, of course, thought of it as video proof that a very corporeal someone was up to no good.) The Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine were sticking to their original plan of petitioning President Harrow, only now, in addition to their 24/7 sit-in, they had added megaphones. Yes, megaphones. Mostly they chanted a nonstop chorus of “What do we want? Onto the boat! When do we want it? Now!”—although occasionally they would read various treatises on cruelty to unhappy spirits and our duty, nay, our privilege as fellow humans to help them cross over to a better place in the beyond.

The BAGS Ghost Slayers, however, still hadn't processed that neither Garrett nor I had the authority to let them onto the ship. So they had redoubled their efforts to get on our good side. First, Beardy sent us “Just for Fun!” balloon bouquets: Garrett's featured frolicking sea creatures and jewel-tone balloons, whereas mine was all pastels and a giant silver “PRINCESS” crown. I brought them all into the fo'c's'le to try to liven the place up a bit. It certainly was feeling a lot cheerier, albeit a bit claustrophobic, until Garrett had a horrible clown nightmare and attacked them, popping them all in his sleep. The giant stuffed panda and the “We Love You Bear-y Much” teddy met similar unpleasant fates.

I thought the gifts were a bit much, but the Ghost Slayers were panicking: Sally Minich, local reporter for MWTW News Channel 8, had recently shown up to express her interest in airing the video clip. And as the Ghost Slayers also had a TV show, they had similar designs on the prize.

Beardy was halfway up the gangplank with a “You're So Special!” Daisy Smiley Face Cookie BouTray when he discovered Garrett had done the unthinkable and given the video to MWTW News 8. Beardy angrily stuffed as many cookies as possible in his mouth before dumping the rest in the water for the seagulls to feast on.

So even though there were no more inappropriate gift baskets coming our way, Garrett was still pretty pleased. He didn't even complain when Dev had accidentally stuck him with pins about fifteen times during his fitting. Nor did he complain when Dev dragged him back to the motel for a second fitting, and I knew that Garrett wasn't exactly gung ho on the whole costume thing.

 

Nevertheless, against all the odds, before I knew it Garrett was waiting, fully dressed, in the lobby of the Sea Breeze Motel, while Dev and I put the finishing touches on our outfits in his room.

“Dev, I underestimated you.”

“I know,” he said smugly, tying on my choker. “There!” He walked to the front and examined me with his quizzing glass, which is what gentlemen of fashion called monocles back in the 1790s. Much to my surprise, Dev had actually done research and spent hours poring over fashion history books. He'd decided we were much too stylish to dress like simple colonial Americans and had instead outfitted us like British fashion plates. Dev looked like the Scarlet Pimpernel, every inch a dandy in a high-collared embroidered velvet jacket in rich plum, ornate brocade waistcoat, lacy cravat that tumbled like a waterfall, and fawn knee breeches so tight they bordered on the obscene. “I have truly outdone myself this time.”

“You have,” I agreed fervently. It seemed impossible that he had created something so amazing in two weeks in a tiny motel room. The dress was astonishing—a large panniered overskirt on top of a heavily embroidered, hand-embellished stomacher, and an underskirt decorated with swoops and tucks. The sleeves came tightly down to my elbows before exploding into froths of silk and lace and exposing strings of faux-pearl bracelets at my wrists. It looked exactly like the one in
The Duchess,
except in a beautiful periwinkle blue silk.

“That color makes your eyes look effing enormous!” Dev said happily. “Your boobs are pretty effing enormous too.”

“Dev, we were having a nice moment!” I admonished him. “But now that the moment's been ruined, let's go—I don't want to miss the Scottish reel.”

“Now, now, now, wait just a minute.” Dev pulled out a box from under the bed. “Cinderella needs one more thing before she's ready to go to the ball.” He opened the box. “Choos.”

I looked inside. Cream Jimmy Choo slingbacks with slightly pointed toes and a Swarovski crystal buckle. They looked exactly like a modern update of an eighteenth-century dancing slipper, diamond buckles and all.

“Oh, Dev.” I gasped with disbelief. “How did you—”

“I'm your fairy godfather, darling! I couldn't let you leave without your glass slippers!” He looked around, then whispered naughtily, “I stole them for you from the sample closet at grown-up
Mode.
”

“Mono Corps really is going to kill you,” I said as I slipped them on. “Oh, they fit perfectly,” I murmured with a sigh.

“You're my best friend, Libby. I'd risk death for you any day.” He smiled. “If they'd made them in a men's size ten, you'd have been shit out of luck, though, obviously.”

“Obviously,” I agreed. “And just so you know, you are the most fabulous fop I've ever seen.” I kissed him on the cheek. In the seventeenth century,
fop
had been a derogatory term for men who were way too into fashion. But Dev was more like an end of the eighteenth-century fictional fop—like Sir Percy Blakeney, the Scarlet Pimpernel, using his foppishness to disguise hidden depths and liberate French prisoners from the guillotine. Or to liberate Choos from a sample closet. “And I mean that in the best possible way.”

“Why, thank you, my dear. Might as well just stick a feather in my hat and call it macaroni.”

“Dev!” I started to tear up. “You really
do
know your fashion history!” A
macaroni
was the mid- to late eighteenth-century term for the most outlandishly affected, fashion-obsessed, exquisite fops in existence. It came from the Macaroni Club, an elite group of flashy young men who'd traveled to Italy, which was then, as always, the fashion mecca. That's what “Yankee Doodle” is about—making fun of how Americans were so sartorially challenged, they thought just putting a feather in your hat was enough to make you a macaroni. As if. No, you had to be over the top to the utmost. No wonder the look suited Dev to a T.

He blushed modestly and cleared his throat. “And now, Cinderella, your carriage awaits! Well, our Toyota awaits,” he corrected himself, and shut the door behind us as we crossed into the hall. “And above all else, remember this—if you don't stay out past midnight, I'll effing kill you,” he warned.

“I don't think that's how the story goes.”

“Please. I don't know what that bibbidi-bobbidi-bitch was on about. No self-respecting fairy leaves a party before four.”

We hit the lobby. Garrett was sitting on a coffee-stained couch, flipping through a “Maine: The Vacationland!” brochure, looking totally out of place under the flickering fluorescent lighting.

“Libby!” He sprang to his feet, banging a knee on the coffee table. “You look—I—you—uh—I—oh—wow—”

“I've rendered a man speechless.” Dev nodded with satisfaction. “My work here is done.” He exited the Sea Breeze dramatically and sailed into the parking lot.

“You look very nice, Garrett.” He really looked much better out of those stupid T-shirts and endless parade of cargo shorts. His was a simple navy suit with a pale yellow striped waistcoat and cotton cravat. Actually . . . I looked more closely. I suddenly realized why it looked familiar. It was an exact replica of one of the suits worn by Dominic Cooper, the love interest in
The Duchess.
(I know, I know, I've seen that movie way too many times.) I made a quick mental note to have a chat with Dev later about fashion matchmaking. Regardless, it suited him. “Awkward and uncomfortable, but nice.”

“Shhh!” Garrett glanced worriedly out to where Dev was. “I don't want him to know that I don't really like all this costume stuff. He worked really hard, and he's really good. I just feel stupid. But that's my problem. Not his. So I don't want him to know.”

“Your secret's safe with me,” I said, patting his arm. “Let's go.”

We piled into the car. My dress took up the entire passenger seat. On the plus side, if we crashed, I wouldn't even need an air bag.

“I love dancing!” Dev trilled. “I'm so excited.”

“Me too,” I admitted. Sure, it was a Toyota, not a coach, but I really
did
feel like Cinderella. I mean, I had spent the afternoon sweeping out the hearth, after all.

“Just dance, gonna be okay,” Dev sang. “Da-da doo-doo-mmm, just dance.”

“I wouldn't get your hopes up for any Lady Gaga,” I warned him. “It's a string quartet.”

“Maybe they take requests,” he said hopefully. “Da-da doo-doo-mmm.”

It was such a short trip, we probably could have walked from the Sea Breeze instead of driven, but I don't think any of us wanted to walk down Main Street in our ball gear. Well, except for Dev, maybe. Once he'd parked the car, Garrett came around to the passenger door to help pull me out of the car. It was definitely a two-man job. But I managed to make it out from under all my layers of fabric, and we walked to the ball.

The ball was being held at the Manor House, which was the biggest, grandest house in the museum's collection. A stately white pillared mansion at the edge of the museum grounds, it had an actual ballroom inside, as well as a terrace and a formal French garden out back. Apparently, the museum made a large portion of its revenue renting it out for weddings. But tonight it was all ours.

“OMG. Loves it!” Dev shrieked at the top of his lungs as he bounded up the steps. I walked up a little more slowly, careful to do nothing to injure my shoes. Footmen were posted at the door, and they ushered us through the foyer to the ballroom.

The room was huge, golden, and glowing with a thousand electric candle lights. Crystal chandeliers and gold filigree sparkled all along the walls, and the ceiling was covered in a cherubic mural. The room was packed with women in silks and satins, and straight-backed men in suits. Finally, I felt like I'd found my time machine.

“How beautiful.” I sighed happily and turned to Garrett. “This is everything I ever dreamed of.”

“A bunch of historians playing dress-up?” he teased.

“No, you idiot.” I smacked him lightly. “This . . . this lost world, this other time that I thought I'd only ever read about or see in movies. But now I feel like I'm really here. Somewhere impossible.”

“And how does it measure up?”

I looked up at him. “It's better than I imagined.”

“Let's dance!” Dev shimmied. “Come on, come on, let's tear it up in here! We're gonna party like it's 1799! Woot woot!”

“Ooh, yes please.” I took his hand. “Garrett? You coming?”

“Uh, no.” He adjusted his glasses. “Definitely not dancing.”

“Oh, come on, don't be lame,” I wheedled. “Maybe later?”

“Maybe later,” he agreed, but I sort of doubted he meant it.

“Well, I can't wait for later!” Dev cried. “Away we go!”

Dev and I hopped onto the end of some sort of reel-type dance, as Garrett went off, probably in search of the punch bowl or something equally antisocial. Neither Dev nor I really had any idea what we were doing, but we tried to follow the rest of the couples. And as always, we compensated for our lack of skills with enthusiasm and flair.

“Jazz hands, Libby! Jazz hands!” Dev shouted during a rigadoon. Yes, we certainly had a style all our own. Three minuets later I was almost ready to see if I could coax Garrett into dancing, when . . .

“You!” Ashling shrieked, barreling down on me, every flounce on her beribboned ball gown aquiver with rage, and towing a skinny, gangly guy in glasses. “Look what your influence has wrought!”

I followed her pointing finger to the corner of the ballroom, where Suze and the Dread Pirate Travis, for once not looking ridiculous but rather very dashing in his costume, were vigorously making out.

“Awesome!” I shouted. “You go, girl!” Yeah, I can't pull that off. But I meant it.

“This is all your fault!” she said.

“I wish I could take credit for this, but I really had nothing to do with it.” This was so out of left field, I think the only person to blame was Cupid. That sneaky little devil.

“Princess, can we please dance this minuet?” the gangly guy interrupted.

“Why, Martin Cheeseman, as I live and breathe!” I exclaimed with delight. “I was beginning to think you were a myth!” It must have been him. I mean, who else could it have been?

“No, I am no mythological beast! Neither nymph nor satyr I, merely a mortal LARPer,” he said with a grin.

“LARPer?” I asked.

“Live Action Role Play,” he explained excitedly. “Oh, you'll like this. Working at a living history museum and all. And we're always looking for more girls! Have you heard of the Alliance? We are one of the largest medieval live-action fantasy role-play games in the Americas, dedicated to recreating the Days of Legend as we would like them, not as they actually were, per se—”