Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (16 page)

“Shut it down? What do you mean?”

“I mean they might kick out all the media and release an official statement denying any knowledge or evidence of paranormal activity.”

“You don't want them to kick out the media?” The corners of his mouth twitched. “You'd miss that guy from
Ghost Slayers,
wouldn't you? I could see you checking him out.”

“No, you idiot, you!” I yelled in exasperation. “I don't want them to kick you out!”

“You don't? You mean you'd be upset if I left? If we couldn't live on the boat together?” he asked carefully.

“Well, of course! I don't want to go back to living with Ashling. If they kick you out, I'm off the boat too. And I can't go back to Ashling. I just can't.”

Garrett's smile faded. “Oh, right. Yeah. Ashling. Of course,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah. Obviously.” I shot him a funny look, but he didn't notice. An oddly loaded silence hung between us.

“You're going to the Fourth of July Lobsterfest fireworks thing, right?” I eventually asked, to break the silence.

“Of course,” he said stoically. “Everyone in Camden Harbor goes. I've gone every year since I was born. I don't see why this year should be any different.”

“Oh, that's right,” I mused. “I always forget that you grew up here. And Cam did too, right?” Shoot. I hadn't meant to mention the C-word, because Garrett seemed to tweak out whenever it came up. But it just popped out.

“Technically, Cam grew up in the greater Rockport area,” Garrett said, clenching his jaw, which I was beginning to recognize as the sign of a seriously pissed-off Garrett, “but basically, yes. All the towns in the county feed into the same regional high school. He was in my sister's class.”

“The one who was in
Oliver!
?”

“Uh, yeah.” He seemed surprised that I remembered. “She just graduated from Tulane. And to the delight of theatergoers everywhere, she is
not
pursuing a career on the American musical stage.”

I laughed, which seemed to jolt him slightly out of his ill humor.

“Sun's setting.” I nodded in a westerly direction. No red sky tonight, just the sun dipping straight down into the water.

“I guess I'd better get ghost hunting.” He sighed.

“I wouldn't mind bringing Madam Selena with us, would you?” I asked. “I like her. And maybe her patchouli would clean out some of the fishy smell in the galley.”

“Maybe.” He laughed. “I don't know how we could bring her in and leave out the other ones, though.”

“True.” I mulled it over. “I really don't want seventy-five ghost hunters in here.”

“Regardless, tonight it's just me.” He pushed off the rail he'd been leaning against and straightened. “Down into the hold.”

“Can I come with you again?” I asked tentatively. “This time I'll be quieter, I promise. Well, I promise to try,” I said truthfully.

“Really? You want to come again?” We went belowdecks.

“Garrett, I'm gonna be honest.” I sighed. “It's really creepy being all alone in the fo'c's'le. And yes, it's creepy in the dark galley too, but you're there, you know? So it's not so bad.”

“Yeah.” He pulled out our camping lanterns. “I'll be there.”

Garrett switched on the light, illuminating the darkness. We shone.

Was there no end to the humiliation Roger the publicist would force me to endure? I was starting to think the man had a personal vendetta against me. To man the pie table, he'd dressed me as Betsy Ross. And I don't mean as a nice, historically accurate Philadelphia upholsterer. No, I had on a giant mobcap and a white-starred blue dress with layers of red and white ruffled sleeves and a red and white striped overskirt with huge panniers. It looked like America had thrown up on me. When Ashling spotted me, she almost choked on her own bile, eyes bugging out of her head, before she ran off, presumably to tell off someone in charge. This time I could hardly blame her. Seriously, this was a travesty, particularly for any aspiring historian with a modicum of self-respect.

I tucked an escaping curl back under my mobcap. How was it the Fourth of July already? It felt like summer was speeding by.

A customer claimed my attention, jolting me out of my daydreaming. As I'd predicted, the pie table had been quite popular, second only to my next-door neighbor, the lemonade barrel, which Suze had somehow been coerced into running. I cut a slice of blueberry lattice top and handed it over on a not-so-historical patriotic paper plate.

“Hey, Suze, can I have some lemonade? It's really hot today.” I fanned myself with a ruffle, but it didn't help. I was just stuffed into too many layers.

“Of course.” She handed me a patriotic paper cup. “It
is
hot.” She wiped some sweat away from under the brim of a small, jaunty tricorn hat festooned with red, white, and blue cockades.

Roger had dressed Suze as Molly Pitcher—get it? Lemonade? Pitcher? The wit of Roger never ceased to amaze me—the semi-folkloric woman who'd given water to Washington's troops and manned her husband's cannon in the Revolutionary War. Her outfit was a lot less unfortunate than mine. It involved a long blue skirt and a red and blue militia jacket tailored for a woman. It was pretty cute, actually. But Roger had forced her tote around one of those long sticks used to stuff cannons, so it was pretty much a lose-lose situation.

The various vendors—us, beer, ice cream, candy, souvenirs—were ringed in a circle around the town green, leaving the middle open for everyone to mill around. The lobsters, roasted corn, and clambake were under a giant tent filled with long picnic tables on the beach. I think Ashling was pounding crabs with a hammer down there, but I hadn't asked Suze for specifics. We chatted as the afternoon passed, dispensing pie and lemonade to a large, spirited crowd of holiday revelers.

“Excuse me,” said a thin, balding, redheaded man with wire-framed glasses after he took a contemplative bite of apple pie. “Is that a hint of cardamom I detect in the crumb topping?”

“Why yes—yes, it is,” I stammered, taken aback.

“Unusual. It's an inspired choice.” He continued chewing. “And I'm going to say . . . cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and ginger—fresh grated ginger—in the filling.”

“Yes.” Oh my God. Red hair. Glasses. Way too informed about spices. Could it be?

“A lard-based crust, now there's something you don't see every day.” He smiled fondly at his forkful of pie. “But it produces a uniquely flaky crust and tender crumb. It might be time for lard to make a comeback.”

Dev, if he was still alive, would not be pleased.

The man finished his pie and put the empty plate down. “I'm Frank Sinskey,” he introduced himself.

“Emily's dad?” I shook his hand.

“Yes.” He chuckled. “Slight family resemblance, huh? And you must be Miss Libby.” I nodded. “Did you make this pie?” Again nod. “It's good. Really good.”

Frank Sinskey rubbed his jaw, thinking, which was lucky for me, because I'd gone slack jawed and had lost the ability to produce coherent thought, so I couldn't have answered a question if he'd asked one.

“I think I'd like to do a piece on classic—really classic—American desserts. I'll pitch it to the magazine after the holiday weekend.” He handed me a business card—the words
Bon Appétit
glittered in the sun. “Call me when you have a minute to talk.”

Oh my God. Oh my
GOD!!
He liked my pie!
Bon-
freaking
-Appétit
liked my pie! I waved mutely as he walked off, mouth hanging open in a dopey grin. This was a Fourth of July miracle! I mean, yes, there was a chance that this was part of an enormous Mono Corps conspiracy, and they were just using another of their magazines in an evil plot to eradicate everything Dev held near and dear. But more likely, the man just liked my pie.

“Hey, sweetie pie.” It was Cam, leaning against the table. I hadn't even noticed him approach, enveloped as I was in a hazy
Bon Appétit
–induced glow. “Get it? Sweetie pie?” I nodded, grinning dumbly. “You got any sweetie pies for your sweetie pie? On the house?” he asked sweetly.

Not even conscious of moving my arms, I somehow cut a slice of blueberry crumb top.

“You okay? You seem weird.” He eyed me askance, taking a giant bite.

“
Bon Appétit
likes my pie,” I said dazedly.

“Uh, okay.” I don't think he had any idea what I was talking about. “Listen, when do you get off?”

“After the sun goes down. Just in time for the fireworks.”

“Right.” He started looking around the green. “I'd love to stay and keep you company here, babe, but I can't.” He pulled a frown. “So I'll come watch the fireworks with you, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Yo, Scrubs!” he shouted suddenly at someone across the green. “This shit is good! Come have some pie! What? Yeah, yeah! Beer me!” He kissed my cheek. “Later, Libs.” He went off to join the mysterious Scrubs, whom I'd still never seen, making his way through the crowds across the green.

“Libby, that's unbelievable,” Suze said quietly.

“I know, right? I don't think Scrubs is a real name either. It all seems a little fishy to me.” I looked around the green, searching for this “Scrubs” character.

“No, Libby, I meant
Bon Appétit.
” She shook her head. “That's incredible. You should be really proud.” She smiled. “Now I've really got to try a piece of that pie. Cut it.”

We split a piece of apple, watching as the crowd gathered around a small clearing dead center in the town green.

“Here ye, here ye!” President Harrow bellowed over the microphone. “Welcome, one and all, to the celebration of the birth of our great nation! Hip, hip, huzzah!” The crowd
huzzah
ed right along with him. Appropriately enough, President Harrow was dressed as our nation's father, the first president, George Washington. His white periwig was too big for his wrinkled head and kept sliding around, and he was trying to talk through what looked like an actual set of fake wooden teeth. Ah, what a great day to be an American.

“I'm very happy to welcome you all here today, and right now I'm especially happy to be out of my office!” The crowd laughed, well aware that the Paranormal Enthusiasts of Maine were still camped out outside the president's office. Beardy and the Ghost Slayers, however, had decided to join in the fun. At the moment they were nibbling corn on the cob and drinking beer. The sound guy had traded out his boom mike for a giant red balloon.

“Before we kick things off with a bang”—the president gestured to the Revolutionary militia now standing in formation in the middle of the green—“I have a few brief announcements. First, fireworks begin at sundown! Don't miss 'em! Second, if you wish to order the full New England Clambake Dinner, please place your orders now. And finally, the End-of-Season Costume Ball will be upon us before we know it, so I hope you've all started working on your getups!”

“Getups?” I repeated.

“The focus of the Costume Ball is on period clothing,” Suze said. “I mean yes, of course, there's music and dancing, but a lot of it is more like a fashion show or costume contest. Any style from the latter half of the eighteenth century is permissible. I think there's a costume rental shop in Rockport, but most of the hard-core historians sew their own clothing using period patterns and techniques.”

“They make their own clothes? Seventeen hundreds style? That's insane,” I whispered. “People actually do that?”

“Ashling's already started hers.”

“Of course she has.”

“She's using a whalebone needle and everything.” Suze raised her eyebrows.

Well, I was no Ashling. There was no way I could have sewn a ball gown by hand. Frankly, I wasn't totally sure I could sew a ball gown even with a sewing machine, my sewing strengths being more of the decorative-craft variety, so at least I had the renting option to fall back on. Because nothing was going to keep me from that ball.

President Harrow tapped on the microphone for attention. “And now that we've dealt with that ball, let's have fun with some more balls!”

A pack of Squaddies hanging out by the beer vendor roared with laughter. I was too far away to see, but I could've sworn President Harrow winked.

“Musket balls! Cannonballs! Not that any balls will actually be fired, of course,” he assured us. “Just loud noises and puffs of smoke! No deaths by accidental shooting this year!” Suze and I exchanged glances. “Men of the Seventy-second Maine Light Infantry, our very own Revolutionary reenactment militia, take it away!”

Boom!
Shots rang out across the field, covering us all in a haze of smoke, as a fife and drum corps started up. Playing a spirited “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” the fife and drums appeared at the edge of the town green and marched in a ring around it. Suze and I clapped our hands in time to the music. Between this and the sea shanties, colonial Americans must have been really peppy. This stuff made Britney Spears sound downright glum.

“Yes, my romantic little Pisces! Dream to the music! Release your creative subconscious! See with the third eye!” Madam Selena had drifted over to our table, grooving along to the fifes.

“Hi, Madam Selena.” I smiled. “Happy Fourth of July!”

“Oh, I don't celebrate the holiday,” she said airily. “I was merely drawn to the profusion of positive energies congregating here.” She drew a circle in the air with one turquoise-ringed finger. “I haven't seen such a large golden aura in years.”

Suze looked confused.

“Would you like a piece of pie, Madam Selena?” I asked. “It's on the house.”

“Why, yes, thank you.” She inclined her head. “May I read your tarot in exchange? As a barter? A brief reading only.”