Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (22 page)

Emily came up next. “Now, Miss Libby, don't forget to send my dad the recipe,” she reminded me for the millionth time as she rearranged my stack to make it lay neater. “As a PDF file, not a Word document, okay?”

“I got it, Em. I don't actually live in the eighteenth century, remember?”

“Hmm.” She looked down her nose at me through her glasses.

Crazy as it was, the recipe for Miss Libby's Colonial Caramel Apple Pie was going to be appearing in an issue of
Bon Appétit
coming soon to a newsstand near you, the centerpiece of a four-page spread on early American desserts. My faith in Mono Corps International had been somewhat restored.

“Goodbye, Mith Libby,” Amanda said sadly as she walked up to get her stuff.

“Oh, Scarecrow,” I said, hugging her. “I think I'll miss you most of all.”

“Why am I a tharecrow?”

“Never mind.” I patted her head. “Let's go to the Welcome Center, one last time.”

I couldn't believe camp was over. I'd be back in the Bromleigh Homestead the next day, to clean everything up and get it ready for normal museum viewing once again. But without the pack of gigglers I'd come to know and love, it just wouldn't be the same. After lots of hugs and a few tearful goodbyes, all the girls had been returned to their parents, to go home to their lives of Twitter and
Twilight.
But maybe, hopefully, somewhere along the way, I'd created a few future historians.

Smiling somewhat wistfully, I made my way quickly back to the homestead, eager to change so I could get back to the
Lettie
and hang out with Garrett. To save time, I took the shortcut through the back field that was home to a pig, which I usually avoided because of the smell. And because the pig must have weighed about four hundred pounds and scared the bejesus out of me.

I know pigs don't eat people, but that thing was a monster. I had no doubt it was only a matter of time before he rammed down the rickety wooden fence that contained him and went on a rampage. Picking my way around the sty, careful not to make eye contact with the pig in case that angered him, I was almost out of the danger zone when I noticed something most unusual.

Ashling was crouched down just outside the fence, obscured almost completely by the giant trough, devouring something hot pink and fluffy. Was that . . . ? Yep. The other one was still in the packaging she clutched in her other hand. It was a Hostess Sno Ball.

My jaw dropped. She froze, a little bit of cream filling on her lip, and stared, like a deer caught in the headlights. I stared back. I couldn't have been more surprised if she'd been shooting up intravenous drugs. I mean,
talk
about historically inaccurate.

“You've, um, got a little something.” I pointed to my upper lip. She wiped off the cream, still mute. “Yeah, you got it.” I walked over to her and crouched down to her level. She watched me warily, like she thought I was going to sound the accuracy alarm and get the history police running in here. “Can I have some?” Wordlessly, she broke off a pink, coconutty morsel and handed it to me.
“Mmm-mmm.”
I swallowed. “Wow, I haven't had one of these in forever. They're good, aren't they? I'd forgotten.” Still silent, she nodded. “Thanks.” I beamed and stood up, brushing the dirt off my skirt. “We should have started these little snack times earlier in the summer.”

Swinging my arms, I strolled jauntily away to the homestead. Could I have ratted her out? Sure. Could I have gloated? A lot? Yeah. Would it have felt good? Probably. But somehow this felt even better.

Once I made it to the homestead, I took the stairs two at a time, changing as quickly as possible. I ran down to the
Lettie,
but Garrett was nowhere to be found. After reading for a while on deck, I watched the sun set, then headed downstairs to hang out in my bunk.

 

“Hey.” Garrett walked into the fo'c's'le, flung his bag on his bunk, and clambered up after it.

“Hi.” I smiled brightly. “What's up?”

“There was a major crisis at the paper involving oversold ad space.” He shook his head. “What a nightmare. We've been sorting it out all day. I am so glad to be out of that office.” He turned to me and smiled. “What are you reading?”

“You don't want to know.” I tried to angle the book into the shadow so he couldn't see the cover.

“Now I really want to know.” He hopped out of his bunk and started climbing up to mine.

“No, no!” I shrieked. “It's too embarrassing!”

“Libby, let me see!” Laughing, he wrestled the book away from me.

“Nooo,” I moaned, collapsing dramatically. “The agony of defeat.”

“
His Reluctant Mistress
?” He raised one eyebrow.

“My secret shame.” I buried my face in my pillow. “I ran out of books and I just couldn't read
Northanger Abbey
five times in a row, and this was all they had in that stupid intern house except for
The Art of Knot Tying.
”

“Aha,” he said with a smirk. “Lady porn.”

“It is not lady porn!” I popped up. “It is historical women's fiction!”

He flipped to the back. “Lord Garrett McCaffrey—renowned rake, skilled seducer, and expert spy—has finally met his match. For singer Libby Kelting may have the voice of an angel, but she will be no man's strumpet—no matter how handsome he is!”

“It does not say that!”

“Close enough.” He shrugged. “Will you be my strumpet?” he asked sweetly.

“I'll strumpet you!” I hit him with the book.

“I'm pretty sure you can't use that as a verb.”

“Don't you dare go all grammar police on me!”

As he started leaning in to kiss me, something clanked outside the fo'c's'le.

“Garrett.” I froze. “What was that?”

“I don't know, a raccoon?” He leaned in. “I thought you were going to strumpet me.”

More clanging.

“Garrett, I think it's the ghost, and I think he's angry,” I whispered, more scared than I wanted to admit.
Clang, clang, clang.
It sounded like the chains used to pull up an anchor. “Oh my God, Garrett, it's the ghost!” I clutched his T-shirt. “It's the ghost, it's the ghost, it's the ghost,” I whimpered.

“Libby, it's not a ghost. There are no such things as ghosts. Um, video evidence to the contrary.”

“Get it, Garrett, please get the ghost,” I pleaded, like it was a spider I wanted him to squish.

“I can't, uh, ‘get it' unless you release the kung fu death grip you have on my shirt, Libby.”

The door creaked open. I screamed bloody murder and buried my face in Garrett's chest.

“All right, that's it.” Garrett pried my fingers away. “If you're not going to strumpet me, I'm going after it.” He hopped out of the bunk. I could hear the ghost clanging away down the hall. Garrett picked up the video camera and took off.

“Oh, don't leave me,” I moaned, hopping out of the bunk. “Don't leave me alone in here! I'm coming!”

I caught up with Garrett instantly. The ghost had a head start but was slower than he had been before, probably because of the chains he was carrying. Which made me think that Garrett was right, and the ghost was definitely human. He was still creepy, though. So I looked down as I ran, concentrating on the ghost's shoes, because shoes weren't scary, shoes are my favorites, and shoes . . . the ghost's shoes . . .

“That's no ghost!” I shouted. “He's wearing right and left shoes!”

“Libby, what the hell are you talking about?! What other kind of shoes would he wear?!” Garrett shouted as we sped after the ghost's retreating back.

“Different shoes for right and left feet weren't invented until 1818,” I said, panting. Man, this boat was big. We'd circled back around and were running through the galley again. Would we
ever
run out of space in the hold to keep chasing this stupid nonghost? “And they didn't become widespread until the 1850s! This ghost was supposed to have died in 1804. So that's no ghost!”

“Well, that's just great, Libby, but we still need to catch it!”

I had a sudden brainstorm. Ultimate Frisbee. The one remotely athletic thing Garrett had ever mentioned he'd been involved in.

“Garrett! Plate!” I picked up a pewter plate off the end of the table in the galley. I handed it to Garrett, who tossed it expertly. He hit the ghost right in the back of the knee, causing it to trip.

“Jesus
Christ! 
” the ghost shrieked as it toppled over, collapsing in a heap of chains and tumbling to the floor. Garrett and I skidded to a halt in front of it. The ghost moaned and righted itself, slumping miserably into a seated position.

“Cam?!”
I said incredulously. “What on earth are you
doing?
”

“Haunting.” He gestured to his white sailor suit, powdered face, and the chains draped over his arms.

“Yeah, I see that. Um,
why? 
”

“Roger's paying me.” He shrugged, setting off another round of clanking.

“Roger?!” I asked, stunned. “As in Camden Harbor publicist Roger?”

“Yeah,” Cam confirmed. “Nobody knows these ships better than me. So I get two hundred bucks a week to ‘haunt' the
Lettie Mae.
That's a nice supplement to my paycheck. And a boat's not cheap, you know. There are ladies in every harbor up and down the Maine coast who need a piece of the Cam-man. That's a lot of sail time. It adds up. Especially in this economy.”

“God, you're gross.” I shook my head in disgust.

“It makes sense.” Garrett nodded thoughtfully. He caught sight of my face. “No, not the ladies-in-every-harbor-Cam-man thing,” he clarified. “Roger. You've got to admit, it's a little unorthodox, but he's doing a hell of a job as a publicist. Attendance has nearly tripled since this ghost stuff started.”

“Just doing my part to help.” Cam flashed us a cocky grin.

“Just doing your part to make quick buck, you mean,” I said. “How's the nose?” His grin transformed instantly into a scowl.

“This is going to be huge.” Garrett pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket.

“What's going to be huge?” Cam asked nervously.

“The story.” Garrett took a quick cell phone picture of Cam in his chains. “I want it ready to go to press tomorrow.”

“Dude, you can't publish this story.”

“If you didn't want me to write it, then you probably shouldn't have been running around the boat draped in iron chains. Brilliant move, by the way,” Garrett said sarcastically. “I can publish it, and I will.”

“Come on, man, I'm gonna look like a jackass!” Cam clanked unhappily.

“Frankly,” Garrett said brusquely, “I have no problem making you look like a jackass.”

“He's right, Garrett—you can't publish it,” I whispered.

“What?” Garrett whirled around to face me.

“Thank you, babe.” Cam grinned.

“Shut up, Casper, this has nothing to do with you,” I snapped. “Garrett, think about what this'll do to the museum.”

“It'll give them more publicity,” he said stubbornly.

“Not in a good way, and you know it,” I argued. “Think about it. Unmasking a publicity stunt like this, orchestrated by a prominent member of the museum staff, will destroy any shred of credibility the museum has! No one will take it seriously anymore. You'll kill the museum.”

“Libby, listen to me,” he pleaded. “If I do this well, there's a chance a bigger newspaper might pick up the story. I might even get a shot at a national byline. A
national byline.
Maybe even something really big. Like the
New York Times.
The
Times,
Libby. It's what I've always dreamed of.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Do you have any idea what this could do for my career?”

“Do you have any idea what this could do to your town?” I said angrily, eyes flashing. “If the museum shuts down, you will destroy, literally, the lives of everyone you grew up with.” He made a noise like he didn't believe me. “Garrett, look at me. You know I'm right. The museum is the main reason people come to this little town, and without the tourist industry, everything in this town will go out of business.
Everything.
”

“I have a responsibility to print the truth.” He looked away from me. “That's what reporters do. It's our
job.
There's nothing more important than printing the truth. I can't compromise my journalistic integrity.”

“Journalistic integrity? Don't you dare try to take the high road with me,” I snapped. “This isn't about journalistic integrity and you know it. This is about your precious
byline,
” I spat out. “God, I thought I knew you. The real you.” I shook my head. “I don't know you at all.”

“If you did know me at all, you wouldn't stand in my way,” he said resolutely. My heart sank. Turned out he was just as smug and self-important as I'd thought he was when we first met. Only he was worse—I hadn't known then that he had no heart. How could he do something that was just so . . . wrong? So purely, horribly selfish?

“Fine. Look, Garrett. I'm not in your way.” I gestured to the empty hallway leading down to the way out of the boat. After a brief, angry pause, he stormed out and off the boat.

“Now that he's out of the way . . .” Cam raised an eyebrow. “We've finally got the place all to ourselves.”

“Oh, get the hell off my boat,” I barked. “Or I really will break your nose this time.”

Cam shrugged, clanking. “Well, it was worth a shot.” I picked up the pewter plate from where it had fallen at my feet and chucked it at his head. “Ow, Libby, ow!” he whined, deflecting the plate with his arms. “I'm going, I'm going.” He left hastily, clanking all the way down the gangplank, and I was left alone in the belly of the ship.