Confederates Don't Wear Couture (23 page)

“No, we have not,” I agreed, as Beau began unloading things out of the truck bed.

“Knew all it needed was a good run at the thing, whatever it was. Why bother figurin' out what it was doin' there when you can just get rid of it?”

“Dunno,” I muttered awkwardly, looking away, sidestepping that vague barb at Garrett. My eyes wandered to the front of the truck, where something that hadn't been there before was fluttering under a windshield wiper. “Beau, did you get a ticket?” I asked quizzically. “How could you get a parking ticket on a plantation?”

“Dunno. That's odd.” He scratched his head under the brim of his kepi cap. “We just got here.”

Beau hauled the last bag out of the truck, then we walked around to the front to see what it was.

“Not a parking ticket,” I said, as Beau lifted it out from under the windshield wiper. It looked like some sort of old parchment, not like a ticket at all.

Beau scanned the note quickly. “Aw, hell,” he muttered, then crumpled the paper and threw it to the ground.

“Hey!” I protested. “I wanted to read that!” I squatted awkwardly, my enormous skirts billowing about me, reaching forward to retrieve the note. Hastily, I uncrumpled it and read aloud: “Anderson: You've Been Warned.” I looked up at Beau. “This—this looks like it was written in blood, too.”

“We don't know that,” he said stubbornly. “Might've just been a red pen or somethin'. Anyway, it doesn't matter anymore, does it?”

“How does it not matter?” I asked, rising and smoothing my skirts.

“Well, you and Dev figured it out. It's no ghost. Just some weird girl in a costume.”

“That doesn't mean that whoever's doing this isn't dangerous!” I said somewhat shrilly, folding the note into neat, perfect quarters, with more force than necessary. “This . . . this woman, whoever she is, has targeted you from the beginning. She destroyed your jacket. Who knows what she'd do to you? Anyone who'd write notes in
blood
is clearly deranged!”

“Why, Libby.” He stepped toward me, speaking softly. “You worried about me?”

“Of course I'm worried about you!” I threw my hands in the air. “You're being stalked by a psychopath! Frankly, I would've felt better if it were a ghost! A ghost can't hurt you!”

“You don't want me to get hurt?” He moved closer.

“Of—of course not,” I stuttered.

“So you must care about me, at least a little,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

“Beau, I—”

“Oh, Libby.” Beau sighed softly, pushing a curl off my face and tucking it gently behind my ear. “Give me somethin' to hope for.”

He leaned in, slowly, and I watched him come closer. But before I put my hands up to stop him—

“What the hell!” Tires screeched, I heard a car door slam, and I jumped away from Beau, turning around. A frighteningly livid Garrett had parked next to us and was storming out of his car, right toward Beau. “Seriously, man, what the hell!”

“I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't use that kind of language in front of a lady,” Beau said stiffly.

“Yeah, well I'd appreciate it if you and your bullshit southern chivalry backed the hell away from my girlfriend,” Garrett shot back sarcastically.

“You lost the right to call her that,” Beau replied, his accent thickening as he got increasingly upset.

“Garrett—” I started.

“Really, Libby?” Garrett turned to face me. “This is how you end it? Letting Bo Duke feel you up next to the General Lee?”

“How dare you talk to her like that!” Beau interrupted. “Considerin' how—how—deplorably you've conducted yourself.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Jethro Bodine?” Garrett said snidely.

“Hannah,” I whispered. Both men immediately silenced and turned to face me. Garrett looked paler than I'd ever seen him; he was nearly translucent. “I saw you with her,” I said softly. “I know, Garrett. I saw you kiss her.”

An excruciatingly long silence descended on the three of us.

“I'll, uh, leave you two to it,” Beau muttered quietly, and walked off toward the reenactment.

“How did—I don't understand—I—I didn't,” Garrett said finally, shaking his head. “Libby, what?”

I sighed heavily. “Dev and I took Beau's truck. Because he wanted coffee.”

“Starbucks,” Garrett said quietly.

“Starbucks,” I confirmed. “We saw you through the window. We saw the two of you together. We saw you—”

“Hug her,” he said firmly. “That was all that happened. I didn't kiss her. I would never, Libby, never. I swear.”

“Why did you even see her?” I whispered, blinking back tears. “And why didn't you tell me?”

“Well, she—she's doing a summer internship at Duke.”

“I know,” I said.

“You know?” he asked.

“Um—never mind,” I said quickly. “Long story. Go on.”

“Well, she saw on Facebook that I was in North Carolina—”

“You're still Facebook friends?!” I burst out. “Really? She
cheated
on you, and you didn't defriend her?!” Garrett shot me a look. “Sorry, not the point right now. Keep going.”

“Anyway, she messaged me. Said she wanted to talk about what happened. Apologize. That she felt really bad about the way she'd treated me. That she'd feel a lot better if we could talk.”

“And you went?”

“I don't know, Libby—I felt bad!” He ran his hands through his hair. “Honestly, I thought it might make me feel better too. I was still so angry at her. Still hurt. I thought it might help . . . lessen that.”

“Oh,” I said in a small voice. “Did it?”

“Actually, yeah.” He nodded. “It did. The hug was just a hug. Nothing more. An ‘I'm sorry, I forgive you' kind of deal. That was it. And now it really feels over.”

“And you didn't tell me—”

“I didn't tell you because it didn't matter. She doesn't matter to me anymore.”

“I'm so relieved.” I smiled, and squeezed his hand. “It was just a misunderstanding. Just like you thought Beau and I—”

He shook my hand off, scowling. “I don't think I misunderstood anything,” Garrett said darkly.

“Wait—what?” I gasped.

“You heard me,” he said tersely.

“Don't you see how unfair you're being?” I cried. “If I can believe you, you should be able to believe me!”

“I've seen the way he looks at you,” he said quietly. “And even worse, I've seen the way you look at him.”

“Garrett, stop, you're being ridiculous—”

“I'm not,” he said, anger darkening the edges of his voice. “There are parts of you he understands in a way I never will. He's part of this fantasy world you want so badly to be a part of, a world I have no interest in belonging to.”

“You could be a part of it too,” I said tentatively. “Maybe—maybe you could come to the ball tomorrow night?”

“Come to the ball?” He laughed hollowly. “Are you kidding? This place . . . this place is disgusting.”

“What are you talking about?” I shook my head in disbelief. “This place is stunning.” I gestured to the mansion. “Look at it!”

“Come with me,” he barked, then turned on his heels and started walking briskly toward the back of the house. I followed, trotting on my impractical heels, trying to keep up.

“Look,” Garrett announced, when we arrived in back of the mansion to face rows and rows of tiny, poorly constructed brown cabins. They were little better than shacks.

“Are these the slave quarters?” I asked quietly.

“This is what built everything ‘stunning' you see out there,” he said somberly. “Didn't even notice, did you?” He pointed to the row of cabins. “Bet you had no idea this was back here.”

“I just got here!” I protested.

“See, Libby? It's fake. Everything here is fake. This is the reality—people suffering, in shitty, crumbling cabins. That big, glamorous façade out there is just that. A façade. It's not real, Libby.” He ran his hands through his messy hair. “Nothing here is real.”

“It's just a dance, Garrett,” I said shakily.

“Is it?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes, it is. A dance. Just a dance.” I took his hand. “Where I want to dance with you.”

“I don't want any part of that,” he said, wriggling away. “You want the perfect façade—he's right out there waiting for you.”

“Maybe you're right.” I stepped away. “You don't understand me. At all.”

Fighting back tears, I turned, picked up my skirts, and ran, away from him, back to the big house, where things were far less complicated.
I will not cry,
I told myself silently, breathing deeply.
I will not cry.

By the time I reached the field, all of the tents were set up. I spotted ours easily, the Confederate Couture sign twinkling in the evening light out front.

“Helloooo!” Dev chirped as I poked my head into the tent. He and Luke were sitting on Dev's cot in our tent, their laps full of yarn. “I'm teaching Luke how to crochet!” Grinning, the two of them held up their needles to display identical partially completed socks.

“Could the two of you please be a little less cute right now?” I complained good-naturedly. They exchanged glances.

“Man troubles, darlin'?” Luke said seriously, setting down his sock. “You decided to let that cousin of mine sweep you off your feet yet?”

“You thrown that rat bastard out on his ass yet?” Dev flung his sock aside.

“Still not sure, and, well, it's over.” I plunked down on my cot.

Luke made a sympathetic clucking noise with his tongue.

“About damn time,” Dev muttered. Luke elbowed him in the ribs. “I mean”—Dev rested his chin on his hand—“how are you feeling?”

“Fine, fine, I'll be fine.” I flopped back on the cot, resting my head on my thin pillow. “Carry on with your crocheting.”

“Well, tomorrow you'll be more than fine,” Dev sang out gaily, “as in ‘damn fine.' As in ‘Damn, guuuuurl, you fine!'”

“What are you talking about?” I rolled over to face the crocheting couple.

“Ball tomorrow!” Dev scolded. “Where's your head at?”

“Head's on a pillow.” I rolled back over. “Going to sleep.”

“Um, it's like mad early—”

“Going to sleep,” I repeated.

Despite the fact that it was, as Dev had pointed out, “mad early,” and despite the fact that I was still fully clothed and corseted, I fell asleep. I woke up the next morning feeling like I was inside a strange, clouded fog. Were Garrett and I really not together anymore? How was that possible? I rolled over and went back to sleep, desperate to shut out reality.

And yet, somehow, hours later, I was standing in the middle of our tent, clad in silks and satins.

“Who else has a fairy godmother who just keeps on improving?!” Dev patted himself on the back. “Helloooooo, Cinderella! Stunning!” He twittered around me like an excited sparrow, picking and fussing and fixing and straightening.

I didn't care what I looked like. I was sure the dress looked beautiful, because it was a stunning dress. It was a shade of blue so pale it was nearly a silvery white, and it shimmered when it caught the light. The low-cut neckline was trimmed with unbelievably intricate lace, and the skirt ballooned around me in a perfect arc. I had agreed to five petticoats for tonight.

“Smile, honey,” Dev commanded as he pinned silver silk flowers into my hair. “There. You're perfect.”

I wasn't perfect. I would never be perfect. And I was starting to realize that perfect might have been the last thing I wanted to be.

I had been looking forward to the Boone Hall Plantation Ball all summer, but now that it was here, I couldn't have cared less. All I could think about was the one person who wouldn't be going to the ball. Was he telling the truth? I wanted to believe him, but I was scared. And I was telling the truth, but it didn't seem possible for him to believe me.

“Hello!” Dev snapped his fingers in front of my face. “The boys will be here in, like, two seconds. Stop zoning out!”

As if Dev had summoned them, a sweet southern drawl called out, “Are y'all ready, or what?”

“Luke, you should've knocked, not hollered at 'em,” Beau reprimanded.

“Knock on what? It's a tent!”

“Keep your trousers on, boys, we're coming!” Dev yelled back. “Oops, wait, fan.” He shoved a white lace fan into my fingerless-gloved hands, pulled the tent flap back with a flourish, and pushed me through.

“Holy-Mary-mother-of-God,” Beau whispered, all in one breath. At his heels, Willie barked twice. He seemed to approve.

“Has the South risen again?” Dev smirked.

“Hush, you.” Luke rapped his knuckles. “Behave. There's a lady present.”

“You look . . . stunning,” Beau said, as he walked toward me and picked up one fingerless-gloved hand. “You sure stunned me.” He bent to kiss my hand through the white net lace, eyes locked with mine as his lips lingered on the back of my hand.

“Um, hello, have I not stunned anyone?” Dev demanded, hands on the hips of his perfectly tailored black suit, jacket with tails open to reveal a pale blue silk jacquard brocade vest and a giant white floppy cravat.

“You stunned me the minute you walked into my life in that devastatin' mornin' frock coat,” Luke said mistily, enveloping Dev in a giant bear hug and holding him close.

“Wrinkles!” Dev shrieked, wriggling away. “Don't wrinkle the suit!” Luke rolled his eyes good-naturedly, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek. “Much better.” Dev patted Luke fondly. “You can wrinkle me all up after the ball,” he added cheekily.

“All right, Martha Stewart, let's get you in there wrinkle-free,” Luke said, taking Dev's hand. “Shall we?”