Confederates Don't Wear Couture (15 page)

He held out his hand. I placed my gloved hand in his and followed him in.

“Now, where the hell are we?” Dev blinked into the sun. “Ugh, could somebody please hurry up and invent sunglasses? This is killing me. I'm, like, going blind.”

“If you're waitin' on the invention of sunglasses, you've got a ways to go. Sam Foster didn't invent them until 1929,” Beau commented, as he hammered a post into the ground. “Course, the Chinese darkened eyeglasses by tinting them with smoke back in the 1400s. But they didn't make 'em to protect your eyes from the sun, or reduce solar glare, or correct vision, or anythin'. Judges wore 'em to conceal their eyes while in session in court, so the jury wouldn't have any idea what they were thinkin'.”

“Jesus.” Dev rolled his eyes. “You're worse than Libby.”

I glared at Dev. I mean, come on, that was impressive.

“Sunglasses as we know 'em, glasses made specifically to shield your eyes, are strictly a twentieth-century phenomenon. So like I said, you'd have a ways to wait. And a ways to go. Sam Foster started sellin' 'em up in Atlantic City. Not down here.”

“Which is where, again?” Dev asked. “Where is here?”

“Simpsonville, South Carolina.” Beau shook the pole, to make sure it was sturdy, before adding, meditatively, “The Golden Strip.”

“This is the Golden Strip?” Dev snorted. We stood at the edge of a dirt road and looked down a long green expanse of not much. “Um, why?”

“Low unemployment, or somethin'.” Beau stood up, wiping the dirt off on his pants. “And that's a well-constructed tent right there.”

“With a name like the Golden Strip, you'd think there'd be more boutiques and less . . . dirt.” Dev rubbed his spotless boots with a silk handkerchief until they shone. “Or at least some strippers.”

No boutiques. And certainly no strippers. We were in a field behind the Upcountry South Carolina Historical Society, camping out until the Raid on Hopkins' Farm that weekend. It was a much smaller reenactment, in a much smaller field, with even less to do. Another quiet week under the southern sun.

Dev never got that armed guard. The only people who had volunteered to sleep outside our tent and protect us from the ghost were Beau (whom Dev vetoed, as he was the ghost's primary target and would therefore do more harm than good by attracting the ghost) and Cody (whom I vetoed, for obvious reasons). Even though another Boy Scout had left in the wake of our ghostly sighting, it ended up being for nothing. We hadn't seen so much as a haunted footprint. Nothing even remotely spooky. Not a trace of the ghost.

So there was nothing to do but practice dancing. And I needed all the help I could get. Even by the close of the Friday Night Period Dance, a casual affair in the lantern-lit field, I still wasn't really getting it.

“And one-two-three, one-two-three!” Beau shouted gaily, as we waltzed down the lane. Even though the dance was over, we hadn't been ready to stop dancing. It was one of those perfect summer nights, where everything was bathed in moonlight, and you never wanted the sun to come up. “I said one-two-three! Three, Libby, three! What the hell are your feet doin' down there?”

“I'm trying!” I shouted back. “I told you rhythm is not one of my strong suits.”

“See, Beau, you should have danced with me!” Dev shouted from behind us, as he ambled slowly out of the party, to make sure he hadn't missed any hot prospects. There weren't any in Simpsonville.

“Let's do a spin!” I suggested.

“Aw, you ain't ready.” Beau grinned.

“Twirl me!” I commanded. “Twirl! Twirl! Twirl!”

He did, and I twirled merrily down the lane, careening directly into the last person I expected to see south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

“Garrett?!” I gasped. “What—Wait—What—How?”

“Hey, Libby,” Garrett said warily, eyes on Beau, who had crossed his arms and was looking Garrett up and down, sizing him up. Garrett was taller, but Beau's build reflected a lifetime of football, and Garrett's reflected the approximately eighteen hours a day he spent in front a computer screen.

“What are you doing here?” I regained my composure, getting over my initial surprise, and hugged him tightly. “Oh, it's so good to see you,” I said, melting into his arms.

Garrett looked down at me, and his somewhat stony face softened. “You too.” He smiled, then cupped my face in his hands and pulled it up toward his. “God, I missed you. You have no idea.”

“Me too.” He kissed me, and I clung to him, never wanting to let him go.

“Ahem.” Someone coughed discreetly in the lane. Oh, right. I broke away, somewhat embarrassed. Beau was scuffing his boot, watching it make little eddies in the dirt. Dev was now practically sprinting up the lane, a manic gleam in his eye, clearly beside himself with excitement at the potential for drama rapidly developing in a random field in the South Carolina upcountry.

“Hey, man,” Garrett said gruffly, his already low voice dropping two octaves until it reached a Tom Waits–ian rumble, and slung an arm around my shoulder. “'Sup?”

I shot him a look, as if to say,
Who are you, and what have you done with my boyfriend?
Because I don't think Garrett had ever said “'sup” in his life.

“Ah, yes,” Beau said, nodding. “This must be the reporter.”

Except with his accent, of course, it sounded more like “re-poht-ah.”

Which prompted Garrett to say, “Yep, the reporter.” And hit each
r
so hard, they cut through the air like a knife. Couldn't cut the tension, though. Because Garrett then murmured, so low that only I could hear it, “And this must be the reason you hung up on me.”

The color drained from my face. “
No,
Garrett,” I assured him. “Well, maybe, technically. But not the way you think! Let me explain. It's just that we're not supposed to have cell phones here, and he was about to catch me, so I—”

“So, what brings you to town?” Dev asked cheerily. “Vacationing on the Golden Strip?”

“On the what?” Garrett blinked behind his glasses, confused.

“Welcome to the Glamorous Golden Strip!” Dev flung his arms open wide. “Upcountry South Carolina! The Vacationland!”

“Maine's the Vacationland,” Garrett said. “I'm not on vacation. I'm here to see Libby.”

I'm not on vacation?
I mean, that didn't sound good.

“Wait, is this business or pleasure?” Dev asked for clarification

“Business.”

“Not pleasure?” I asked, panicky.

“Burn,” Dev whispered.

“No, no.” Garrett pushed up his glasses to rub in between his eyes. “The real reason I'm here is to be with Libby. The practical reason I'm here is for work.”

“But you work in Boston,” I said. This was making no sense.

“That is what I was trying to tell you on the phone,” Garrett said, “when you . . . hung up on me.” He narrowed his eyes ever so slightly at Beau. “About the
Tuscaloosa News.
It's owned by the
Boston Globe
's parent company. For weeks now, I've been combing every southern paper that the
Boston Globe
people own, trying to find something, anything, that could get me sent down south, on assignment or on a transfer. And when the
Tuscaloosa News
published that thing about the ghost of Anne Mitchell and the Fifteenth Alabama, I pitched it to my boss. And because I'd gotten the job because of the ghost thing last summer, they agreed to let me cover this.”

“You came all the way down here to see me?” I asked in a little voice, my heart melting. I mean, really, talk about romantic! “You transferred from the
Boston Globe
to the
Tuscaloosa News?
For me?”

“Technically, I transferred to the
Tuscaloosa News
in Alabama,
the
Spartanburg Herald-Journal
in South Carolina, and the
Lexington Dispatch
in North Carolina. I now have a ghost-hunting, Civil War Unsolved Mysteries–type of column in every southern affiliate of the
Boston Globe
's parent company. But, yes,” he said, and smiled, “for you.” I smiled back. “And, well, now I don't have to sit on the floor,” he added wryly.

I looked up at him, this sweet, wonderful, amazing boy I was lucky to call mine, and said, “Oh my God, what are you wearing?!”

“What?!” He took a step back, like I'd splashed water on him. “Libby, what!? Are you serious?! I mean, I know you're not crazy about my clothes, but this hardly seems like the time! I haven't seen you in forever, and I thought we were having, I don't know, a moment, or something.”

“No, no, not that. Actually, that Ironman shirt's not so bad. It's one of your better ones. Is it new?” It really was nicer than his usual T-shirts, kind of cute, vintage print, and . . . argh! Focus! “No. That's not what I mean. I mean the camp is closed to the public, and you can't be here wearing modern clothes. You'll get in trouble. You have to get out of here!”

“Get out of here? Are you joking?” He looked at me with utter disbelief. “I just drove sixteen hours to see you!”

“No, no, I want you here—you just can't wear
that
and stay here! I mean, where were you planning to stay?”

“Uh, here, I guess.” He shrugged. “I need to get to the bottom of this ghost thing, so I'll have to set up a stakeout.”

“I think we've got a fine handle on catchin' the ghost ourselves,” Beau said evenly.

“Yep, you guys have been doing a great job,” Garrett said sarcastically. “Which accounts for that second article about the ghost terrorizing two civilians, so-called ‘close, personal friends of Anderson,' in the woods.”

“There was a second article?” I asked. “How? Who's telling the papers?”

“OMG, we were in the newspaper?” Dev asked excitedly. “Was there a photo? Or a sketch of us? An artist's rendering? Anything?”

“No, Dev.” Garrett sighed.

“Was my name at least in print?” Dev pouted.

“No, Dev.” Garrett sighed again. “But it doesn't matter. Now you'll have official press coverage. And it's not really ‘ketching' the ghost that matters.” He looked levelly at Beau as he spoke. “I'm here to figure out
why
whoever is behind this is doing what they're doing. To figure out what's happening. Not to just catch it. It's a lot more complex than that. It's not like you can just tackle it.”

“Well, actually, I
can
tackle it,” Beau said, implying that Garrett couldn't.

“Okay,” I said, before Garrett could reply. “This is a problem with an easy solution. All you really need is period clothes. I guess you'll just have to join the unit, or something.”

“I'm not joining this unit,” Garrett said flatly. “Not in a million years.”

“What, you got a problem with Alabama?” Beau stepped forward menacingly.

“No, I've got a problem with people glorifying the most obviously evil violation of human rights in the history of this messed-up country—”

“What, you got a problem with America, now?” Beau interrupted. Oh, dear, this was not going well.

“Hey, clown, what're you doin' with your arm around my woman?” Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, Cody charged menacingly up the lane.

“Who are you?” Garrett looked down at Cody, who seemed about as tall as his bellybutton.

“I'm Libby's boyfriend.” Cody puffed up his chest. “Who're you?” Cody looked him up and down.

“Um, I'm Libby's boyfriend.” Garrett shot me the most quizzical look in the history of quizzical looks. One eyebrow had traveled all the way up to his messy hairline, and the other had furrowed so deeply, it was below the plastic rim of his glasses.

“You have got to be kiddin' me.” Cody snorted. “Him? Really? This is some kinda weird Yankee joke.”

“
You've
got to be kidding!” Garrett said. “Libby, if I knew you were doing God knows what with half the army, maybe I wouldn't have come down here at all! I'm almost expecting them to burst out into ‘If You Knew Libby Like I Knew Libby' in three-part harmony or something!”

“Stop it! Just stop! You're not my boyfriend!” I shouted. Garrett's brow furrowed further. “No, no, not you.” I patted his chest reassuringly. “You are my boyfriend.
He's
not my boyfriend!” I pointed at Cody. “I'm not a cradle robber! I don't have a creepy
The Suite Life of Zack and Cody
fetish!”

“This is the best summer
ever,
” Dev cackled joyously.

“And Beau and I are
just friends.
” I stood up on my tiptoes so I was slightly closer to looking Garrett directly in the eyes. “Just friends. There's nothing going on with him or with the midget. The only person I'm involved with is you. The only person I have feelings for is you. The only person I want to be with is you. Okay?”

“Okay,” he muttered. It didn't sound particularly convincing, however.

“Garrett, you trust me, don't you?” I asked, sort of hurt and surprised by how doubtful he sounded.

“Yeah, yeah, I trust you.” His arm was still around me, and he kissed the top of my head, but it still really didn't feel right. Why was he being so weird and suspicious?

“Well, I'm really glad you're here.” I squeezed his hand. “Really, really glad. And I don't want you to leave. So where are you gonna stay?”

“Um, I dunno.” He looked from Dev, to Beau, to Cody. “If I stay here, do I really have to wear a costume?”

“'S not a costume,” Beau muttered. “It's a uniform.”

“Ah, yes, the pretend uniform of the imaginary army for the make-believe war,” Garrett said quietly. “Could a band of fairies weave one for me out of unicorn hair?”