Confederates Don't Wear Couture (17 page)

“Unlikely.” I folded my arms. “I read your brochure. What you're doing is reprehensible.”

“Offerin' affordable luxury to the fine people of this great nation? That's pretty far from reprehensible in my book.” He gave Garrett a look as if to say,
Women.

Garrett mostly looked confused.

“It's reprehensible if you're building it on top of history!” I continued. “Where exactly are you building?”

“A bunch of minor battlefields. You've probably never even heard of them.” He chuckled softly.

“Try me.” I narrowed my eyes.

“Well, we haven't sorted exactly which—”

“You don't own any land,” I said, with more confidence than I felt, but the look in his eyes confirmed my theory. Thank goodness. It wasn't too late to stop this.

“Not yet,” he hissed. “We're just taking pre-orders now. Gettin' enough start-up capital to purchase every inch of square footage we need. And believe you me, we are well on our way.”

“You will never get enough money. Look at all these reenactors. Some of these reenactments have been happening for decades. There are
people
here already using the land you're trying to buy.”

“People who don't matter,” he said dismissively. “People who don't
own
any of this land.”

“There are hundreds of us here—” I fumed.

“Hundreds of unimportant people,” he interrupted me. “Hundreds of people who don't make the laws and don't have the money to do anythin' about changin' 'em.”

“There are still a lot of us—”

“Not enough to matter.” He chuckled again. “And I'm bettin' there's less and less of you every day. Y'all are a dyin' breed. And if you think I'm gonna let a bunch of freaks stand between me and makin' millions, you are
dead
wrong, missy. So why don't you go home, take off that silly costume, put on somethin' nice, and let your boyfriend occupy your time. Okay? Y'all have a real nice day, now.”

Fuming, I pushed my way out of the tent, with Garrett following me.

“I shouldn't have let him get the last word,” I muttered. “I should've—should've said, ‘This isn't over' or ‘You haven't seen the last of me' or—”

“Or ‘Now I'm going to tell my boyfriend what's going on'?” Garrett supplied helpfully.

“Ugh, Garrett, that horrible man is trying to build condos on top of Civil War battlefields!” I exclaimed, as we reached our previous perch on the hilltop, Southern belle nowhere to be seen. “And no one seems to care enough to do anything to stop him. And we can't let him do it—we just
can't.
”

“Developing on historic land, huh?” Garrett whistled. “You'd think there'd be some kind of legislation to stop that.”

“Apparently not enough,” I said unhappily.

“We'll think of something, Libby,” he said seriously, turning my face to his so I was looking directly in his eyes. “We can find a way to stop this. Or at least do our damn best to try.”

“Are you guys done being gross?” Dev skipped up behind us. “If you're done hand holding and cooing, I'll stay. I need something normal to look at. All the guys here are fug.”

“Fug?” Garrett asked.

“Fug. Fugly. Effin' ugly. Hello?” Dev rolled his eyes with disbelief. Garrett looked blank. “How can you not know what ‘fugly' is? Honestly, I should tutor you in, like, social studies. Like, how to be a normal human social.”

“Hey, I'm the only one who didn't voluntarily come down here to play Redneck Rodeo. For once in my life, I might be the most normal human in a social situation.” Garrett brightened at the thought. “Wow, that's a weird feeling.”

“We have a normal human social reason to be here!” Dev said stubbornly. “It's called cold, hard cash.”

“And not everyone volunteered.” I rolled my eyes. “Just ask Cody.”

“Who?” Garrett asked.

“Cody. Libby's jailbait boyfriend,” Dev answered. “Wait a minute—that might just make you the world's youngest cougar!”

“I am not a cougar!” I snapped. “Cody's that Boy Scout you met last night.”

“Wait a minute.” Garrett pulled out his pad and flipped through it. “That's not the kid who that . . . guy referred to, is it?” Garrett clearly couldn't bring himself to say Beau's name. I decided not to push it. “With the rank issues?”

“No, that's Randall,” I explained. “They're both Boy Scouts. Actually, neither of them likes Beau that much,” I mused.

“Wonder why,” Garrett muttered. “What's not to love about some brainwashed, backwater, red-state, racist—”

“Piece of white trash?” Dev supplied helpfully.

“I wasn't going to say that,” Garrett said mulishly.

“Right. Save it. Say it to his face.” Dev rubbed his hands together.

“Would you please stop trying to turn my life into a
Jerry Springer
episode?” I asked. “Seriously. Stop. Or so help me God, I will tell everyone your first piece of Louis Vuitton luggage was a knock-off.” The color drained from Dev's face. “Yes, you heard me right. Don't think I wouldn't do it.”

“I'll be a very good boy. I promise.” Dev clasped his hands like the little angel he wasn't.

“Thank you.” I sighed. “Now, the only person I've ever heard be openly hostile to Beau was Randall. He's the Boy Scout brevet corporal, and Beau's the unit's second corporal, and apparently they both think that they outrank each other, and they argued about it once.”

“Really.” Garrett looked skeptical. “A twenty-something guy got in an argument with a
Boy Scout
about who has a higher rank in a pretend army?”

“Um . . . yes,” I answered, blushing slightly, embarrassed for Beau.

“Jesus”—Garrett shook his head—“that's pathetic. Do you think that's enough of a motivation for this Randall guy to go after . . . um . . . after him? With the ghost stuff?”

“Probably,” Dev said, shrugging. “These people have, like, no lives. They take this stuff super seriously.”

“They have lives,” I chided Dev. “And, yes, they do take it seriously. But Beau's right—Randall loves this unit. I don't think he'd ever do anything to displease Captain Cauldwell. And he's definitely not happy about what's going on with the ghost.”

“Got it.” Garrett scribbled down a few notes in his book. “And the other one? Cody. You said he doesn't like Beau either?”

“Oh, I don't know,” I waffled, not wanting to explain further. “I—uh—”

“Libby doesn't want to say because she thinks you don't trust her,” Dev interrupted. “Cody doesn't like Beau because Cody likes Libby, and Cody thought Libby liked Beau, and Beau definitely likes Libby.”

“Oh, really.” Garrett's face darkened.

“Um, help,” I squeaked.

“But it doesn't matter”—Dev waggled a finger at Garrett—“because Libby's behavior has been
exemplary.
You hear me?
Exemplary.
”

“Okay, help me less,” I muttered to Dev.

“Hello, I'm defending your honor!” he protested. “She can't help it if half of the Fifteenth Alabama is in love with her. I mean, hello, have you seen the dress?” Dev gestured to me like Vanna White. “It's all my fault, really.”

“He doesn't like me.” I sighed. “Beau. Really, Garrett, he doesn't. We're just friends.”

“You said,” Garrett murmured gruffly. He tucked his notebook back in his pocket. I had a sudden flashback to last summer, when I was explaining to one of my campers that Garrett and I were just friends—no matter what any Jonas Brothers' song said. And look how that had turned out. Despite the hundred-degree heat, I shivered and tried to snuggle in closer to Garrett. He stood as still as a statue, so stony he was almost unrecognizable.

“So, what's the plan now?” I asked tentatively.

“First, talk to the Boy Scouts.”

“Good luck with that,” Dev interrupted. “They're heinous. Faced with children like that, the reason why you breeders insist on reproducing is beyond me.”

“And who's in charge . . . Captain . . . Cauldwell, you said?” Garrett continued.

“Yeah.”

“I'll talk to him next, then,” Garrett added. “Just keep asking around in general. See if I can pick up any more information.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I nodded.

“And . . . so far, everything's been solely directed at . . . Beau, right?” Garrett spat his name between his teeth, like it had a bad taste.

“Except for the time that the terrible ghostie stalked us in the woods,” Dev said, jumping in. “So you'll probably want to do an article on me, too.”

“That's what I was afraid of.”

“Um, what are you talking about?” Dev exclaimed. “I am stop-the-presses front-page material!”

“No, not that.” Garrett shook his head. “If the ghost keeps going after . . . Beau, then it looks like I'll have to sleep out by Beau's tent,” he said grimly.

“Now
there's
a sleepover I'd
love
to get an invite to,” Dev cackled.

Before I could reprimand him, an enormous explosion boomed out over the battlefield, decimating the Rebels in a cannonade of Union fire.

“You know,” Garrett mused, as we watched every soldier in gray fall to the ground, “I might be starting to like this after all.”

As I watched my boyfriend survey the carnage, I had a terrible feeling that the battle between Garrett and Beau might end in serious casualties too.

“Libby,” a whisper of cherry ChapStick-scented coffee breath caressed my face. I'd been having a strange dream in which Garrett was dressed like Han Solo, but seeing as whoever was breathing on me clearly didn't share Garrett's addiction to Wintergreen Ice Breakers, it definitely wasn't him. “Libby.” This time whoever it was shook me.

“What . . .” I groggily opened my eyes to see Dev about an eighth of an inch away from my face, close enough that I could count each eyelash. “Sweet Jesus.” I recoiled automatically. “Too close.”

“Shhh!” he cautioned. “Look!” He pointed out the window.

I leaned over Dev, pausing to dab at a mysterious wet spot on his lapel where I was afraid I'd drooled a little. I had fallen asleep in Beau's truck on the way to the next battlefield. Though I'd hoped Garrett and I could drive to the next battle together and have some time alone to catch up, the Union troops had packed up and left by the time Dev and I woke up this morning. Those Union troops, of course, included Garrett.

I looked out the window. We passed a T.G.I. Friday's, a Red Robin, and a . . .

“Starbucks!” Dev squealed, nearly jabbing me in the eye in his eagerness to point it out. It was nestled in a strip mall on the side of the road, the green mermaid singing her siren song to Dev.

“Where are we?” I asked sleepily.

“Heaven.” Dev sighed.

“Durham, North Carolina,” Beau grumbled.

“What a town, what a state!” Dev rolled down his window. “Hello, good people!” he called out. “I bless you all!”

A group of kids loitering outside the gas station mini-mart flipped him off.

“Delightful rapscallions!” Dev rolled up the window, chortling. “My good fellow,” he addressed Beau, as we rolled to a stop at a red light. “Might we stop in at that dear little Starbucks? I'd be ever so obliged.”

“No.”

That was terse. And clearly not the answer Dev was expecting, as he blinked rapidly at Beau, like he couldn't believe what he'd heard.

“But—but—but we've stopped for coffee before!”

“That was different.”

“You bet your ass it's different!” Dev's voice was getting increasingly high-pitched and panicky. “This is Starbucks. Real coffee. None of that gas station swill or barely passable Yankee mud. I can get something that ends in ‘iatto' and is pumped full of artificial syrups and crowned with a tiara of whipped cream!”

“No.”

“But we're so close—”

“When I said no the first time, I meant it, so stop askin',” Beau snapped. I was sort of taken aback. It was a tone I'd never heard Beau use before, but he'd been in a discernibly worsening mood ever since Garrett had shown up. “I don't mind you gettin' coffee when I stop for gas because I have to stop. I certainly don't mind stoppin' to shower like we did this morning, but I'm not takin' you out of my way to a goddamned strip mall, just so y'all can stop and piss around with all that modern bullshit.”

We sat for a moment in stunned silence.

“So close and yet so far,” Dev whispered, and pressed his nose to the glass, staring mournfully at the Starbucks as the light turned green and we shot by it. I reached over and squeezed his hand, wondering why Beau had snapped at Dev like that. It was totally out of character with his generally sweet disposition.

We drove in uneasy silence the rest of the way to the battlefield, hostility and sulkiness radiating like heat off of Beau and Dev, respectively. I stared ahead uncomfortably, wishing I could just go back to sleep but unable to.

The minute we pulled into another in a seemingly endless series of gravel driveways, Dev flung open the door, leaped out, and slammed it, trapping me inside. Beau turned off the truck and did the same thing. I rolled my eyes and pushed open the passenger door, hopping out after Dev. He was squinting under the broad brim of his white hat, fanning himself vigorously with a round, flat, cambric fan with a wooden handle.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Bennett Place,” Beau answered, as he came around to the back of the truck, slinging his Springfield musket and beat-up canvas duffle over his shoulder.

“I haven't heard of this battle.” I came around to get my lace parasol out of the truck bed and popped it open, shielding myself from the sun.