Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink (23 page)

 

I couldn't sleep. I didn't sleep. Not a wink all night. I moved onto the deck to watch the sun rise, hugging my knees to my chest and wondering how something that seemed so good could have gone so wrong so quickly.

On my way to work, I called Dev. Screw the cell phone rule. I was done with Camden Harbor. Quickly, trying not to cry, I explained the situation.

“Well, screw him!” Dev yelled over the phone. “You are so out of his league, it's not even funny. He effed up the best thing that ever would have happened to him! Let's skip town.”

“Really?” I sniffled.

“Really. I'm thinking . . . Quebec,” he decided. “You, me, and some French-speaking hotties. I'll make it work. Go clean up your homestead thingy, and I'll pick you up this afternoon.”

“Okay.” I sniffled again. Dev had already hung up, ostensibly to set plans in motion. My parents probably wouldn't be too pleased about me running away to Canada, but by the time the news reached them in the cell phone dead zone known as Moose Lake, I'd probably be back on my way to Minnesota.

“Libby.” Parasol in hand, Ashling—or rather, Susannah Fennyweather—was waiting for me outside the gate to the Bromleigh Homestead. “Hey, Ash, er, Miss Fennyweather,” I said, trying to be accommodating.

“No, Ashling's fine.” She scuffed the toe of her boot along the fence. “Well, I had a long talk with Martin after . . . after what, um, happened yesterday.” She couldn't quite bring herself to say the words
Sno Ball.
But I knew what she meant. “And, well, this summer, if . . . if I came off as overly harsh, I'm sorry,” she muttered quickly, and very quietly, all in one breath.

My jaw dropped. “Oh, um, that's okay.” I was so shocked, I could barely string together a sentence.

“I just . . . I just take this really seriously. It means a lot to me.”

“I understand. History means a lot to me too.”

“I know that now, I think.” She nodded slowly. “We just see things differently, and I thought that meant you didn't care about any of this and wouldn't take it seriously, but I think maybe you just care about it differently. Anyway,” she said, shrugging, “Martin thought I should talk to you about this.”

“Martin seems really nice.”

“He is.” She smiled, and it transformed her whole face. I think it was the first time I'd seen her smile all summer. “And he reminded me that nobody's perfect.”

We grinned, both thinking the same, hot pink, coconut-covered thought.

“We'll have to keep in touch,” she said. “Listen, are you on Facebook?”

I couldn't have been more surprised if she'd asked me if I was into S&M. I assured her that I was (into Facebook, that is, not S&M), and we parted on somewhat neutral terms, having reached a fragile peace. I watched Ashling go, like Italy in 1915, having joined the Allied forces against all the odds. Well, stranger things had happened.

 

Even with the Ashling truce, I spent a miserable day, sweeping, dusting, and washing—waiting for the minutes to tick by until the afternoon rolled around and Dev would come rescue me.

“Well, what do you know.” Dev walked into the homestead, sipping from something that looked like a Frappuccino with an enormous dollop of whipped cream. “Pilgrims
do
wear pink.”

I looked down at my favorite pink flowered dress. “Like I said, Dev, not a pilgrim.”

SLAP.
The
Camden Crier
hit the table in front of me.

“I'm not going to read that, Dev.”

“Read it, Libby,” he said seriously. I kept wiping the table. “Libby. Look at me.” I did. Dev was more solemn than maybe I'd ever seen him. “I am asking you, as your friend, to please at least look at the article.”

“Fine. Okay? Fine. Whatever.” He
had
to play the friend card. I huffily flipped it open, searching for Garrett's byline. Oddly enough, it was buried way in the back, in a small paragraph at the bottom of the page. I hastily skimmed the article: “ . . . several different sightings . . . blah, blah, blah . . . Can neither confirm nor deny veracity of reports of paranormal activity . . . blah, blah, blah . . . Perhaps some things are better left a mystery.”

Stunned, I looked to Dev for answers.

“He didn't write the article.” He shrugged.

“He didn't write the article,” I whispered, tears in my eyes.

Something Madam Selena had said came back to me: “Love is a force that makes you choose and decide.” Garrett had chosen. And now it was my turn.

“You know what that means, don't you?” Dev said as he slurped up a blob of Frappuccino. “That six-foot-two bundle of dork—”

“Loves me,” I finished for him. “He loves me,” I said breathlessly, beaming.

“I was gonna say ‘wants your cookies,' but sure, that'll work too.”

“I have to find him.” I started banging cabinets open, recklessly flinging about cleaning supplies so I could leave the homestead. “Do you know where he is?” I asked as I put away the last of the dishrags.

“He was at Camden Coffee, downtown, when I got my Caramel-Coco-Choco-Mocha-Nutaccino, extra whipped. Dunno if he's still there, though . . .” Dev trailed off.

I stopped and stared at him, stricken.

“Go.” Dev sighed, exasperated. “Go get your man! I'll clean up here.” I gawked. “Yes, you heard me right, I offered to clean.” He rolled his eyes. “Now
go.
”

“Thank you, Dev!” I called as I hitched up my skirts.

“Run, Libby, run!” he shouted.

The kitchen door slammed behind me, and I was off. I sprinted through the garden gate, down the lane, and out of the museum grounds, running down the sidewalk toward downtown Camden Harbor. Cars honked at the crazy blond chick in colonial dress, but I didn't care. I just needed to make it to that coffee shop as fast as humanly possible. Around the time I passed the CVS, I got a second wind and practically flew down Main Street, past the Dairy Bar, the toy store, and a lot of very confused tourists. I skidded to a stop in front of Camden Coffee's large front windows but instead of stopping, I just kept skidding, until I pitched forward and fell flat on my face. My palms scraped against the sidewalk, and my petticoats ballooned up around my waist. As I tried to gather myself up, flopping around on the sidewalk, I heard the bell tinkle as someone opened the door to the coffee shop. I struggled to a sitting position and looked up.

Garrett was standing above me, book in hand.

“I fell,” I said. It was sort of self-evident. But it just popped out of my mouth.

“I can see that.” Garrett crouched down to join me and gingerly reached over with his free hand to push a curl out of my eyes. “I didn't catch you.”

“I don't—I don't need you to catch me,” I said, and as I spoke the words aloud, I realized they were true. I didn't need a hero. Or a rescuer. Or someone to catch me when I fell or to sweep me off my feet. I'd been chasing this dream of a fairy-tale romance, only to find that so much of what I thought I'd wanted was an illusion. I knew now that I didn't need a hero. I just needed him.

“I know you don't need me to catch you.” Garrett took my hand and turned it over. My right palm was bleeding where I'd broken my fall. “I probably couldn't, anyway. I'm pretty uncoordinated.” He set his book down, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a Band-Aid. As he unwrapped it, I realized with a shock that it had Hello Kitty printed on it.

“Hello Kitty Band-Aids?” I squeaked out. “Did you—did you get those for me?”

“No, they're mine,” he deadpanned. “Of course they're for you. I've been carrying them around for weeks. Libby, within two minutes of our meeting, you fell in a barrel. I was pretty sure it was only a matter of time before you fell again.” He tenderly stuck the Band-Aid over my cut. “Maybe I can't catch you. But I can help you pick yourself up when you fall.” His hand lingered over mine. “You don't need me to catch you or to fight your battles, Wonder Woman. Cam learned that the hard way.” He grinned, clearly relishing the memory of when I'd punched Cam at the ball. “That's one of the things I like most about you. To name just one of a million.”

I blushed, looked down, and noticed the cover of his book.

“Is that—is that
Northanger Abbey
?” I knew he'd borrowed it, but I couldn't believe he'd actually read it. Just because I'd said it was my favorite.

He nodded. “Just finished it. I have to say, I didn't much care for it.”

“Um, okay, I—what? Why?”

“I couldn't stand the way Henry was always lecturing Catherine, talking about how ignorant women are, and going on and on and
on
about politics and landscaping and all sorts of random crap.” He ran his hands through his hair, messy as ever. “I think, in the end, Henry Tilney actually learned a hell of lot more from Catherine than she learned from him.” He smiled wryly, tentatively.

Was this a metaphor? Was I Catherine? Was he Henry? Did this mean . . . ?

“Catherine learned a lot from Henry too,” I said carefully. “Catherine made a lot of mistakes. A lot. She was wrong about almost everything.” I looked up nervously into his eyes, afraid that I'd made too many mistakes. Afraid that it was too late. But I saw nothing in his soft brown eyes but warmth.

“Henry made a lot of mistakes too,” he said gently. “But in the end, he finally got it right.”

“You didn't write the article,” I blurted out.

“I couldn't do it.” He shrugged. “Libby, you care about the museum. And I care about you,” he said simply. “Once I thought about it, it was the easiest decision I've ever made.”

I could feel myself light up. Garrett was better than Mr. Darcy, Rhett Butler, and Henry Tilney combined. Because he was real. And now I knew that he really, truly cared about me. And that feeling was worth a thousand sonnets.

“You know,” I said, glowing, “a very wise psychic once told me that love is a force that makes us choose and decide.”

“All that paranormal astrology stuff is ridiculous,” he said dismissively. “But just this once”—his tone softened—“that very wise psychic is right.”

He leaned in, and there, right there, sitting on the sidewalk, in the dirt, on Main Street, Camden Harbor, in perhaps the least romantic spot in the universe, Garrett kissed me.

I didn't know if I believed in “happily ever after” anymore. I mean, I didn't know what would happen tomorrow, let alone for forever and ever after. But I did know that I was happy, right there, right then, with him.

And that was all I needed to know.

 

THE END

Two years ago I was an actress with a blog who never imagined I'd have a book published. Without all of these people, I never would have.

Thanks to my amazing editor Amanda and the Doe Coover team for taking a chance on me, and for all your help throughout multiple revisions. Thanks to my fantastic editor Bethany Vinhateiro and everyone at HMH and Graphia for bringing
Pilgrims
to life, and for ridding it of all the unnecessary em dashes.

Thanks to my Spice Girls, my Dreamgirls, and my Sex and the Valley girls—you make me laugh and keep me sane. Thanks to all my friends who read my stuff in its early days—you guys are the reason I kept writing. Thanks to the Pepper to my Salt for inspiration, to Caitlin for understanding the importance of cake time, and to Lorelei the wonder pup for snuggles. Max, when I started writing
Pilgrims,
I never imagined I'd have a boyfriend even better than Garrett by the time it was published, but apparently miracles do happen. Thank you for everything.

Thanks to my little sister, who gave this book her hard-won approval; to Mom, who didn't even need to read it to know she loved it; and to Dad, who read every word I ever wrote, every step of the way.

 

 

 

 

Prologue

 

“Ah! Mr. Yankee!” I read. “If you want to know what an excited girl can do, just call and let me show you the use of a small seven-shooter and a large carving-knife which vibrate between my belt and my pocket, always ready for emergencies.”

Whoa. This Sarah Morgan Dawson was no simpering Southern belle. I tucked a few blond curls behind my ear and kept reading. I couldn't believe I'd stumbled upon this treasure trove of nineteenth-century Southern diaries. The University of North Carolina had digitized them, and they felt like my own personal window to the past, just a few clicks away.

A cloud of Gucci Pour Homme so thick I could almost see it swirled into the library, heralding the arrival of my favorite person at St. Paul Academy: my best friend, Dev.

“
Who's
the cutest girl in the library?” Dev boomed as he flung his skinny frame into the seat across from me, propping his chunky black motorcycle boots up on the wooden table. “Only Mother Nature can do highlights like these, people!”