Smiling somewhat wistfully, I made my way quickly back to the homestead, eager to change so I could get back to the Lettie and hang out with Garrett. To save time, I took the shortcut through the back field that was home to a pig, which I usually avoided because of the smell. And because the pig must have weighed about four hundred pounds and scared the bejesus out of me.
I know pigs don’t eat people, but that thing was a monster. I had no doubt it was only a matter of time before he rammed down the rickety wooden fence that contained him and went on a rampage. Picking my way around the sty, careful not to make eye contact with the pig in case that angered him, I was almost out of the danger zone when I noticed something most unusual.
Ashling was crouched down just outside the fence, obscured almost completely by the giant trough, devouring something hot pink and fluffy. Was that . . . ? Yep. The other one was still in the packaging she clutched in her other hand. It was a Hostess Sno Ball.
My jaw dropped. She froze, a little bit of cream filling on her lip, and stared, like a deer caught in the headlights. I stared back. I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d been shooting up intravenous drugs. I mean, talk about historically inaccurate.
“You’ve, um, got a little something.” I pointed to my upper lip. She wiped off the cream, still mute. “Yeah, you got it.” I walked over to her and crouched down to her level. She watched me warily, like she thought I was going to sound the accuracy alarm and get the history police running in here. “Can I have some?” Wordlessly, she broke off a pink, coconutty morsel and handed it to me. “Mmm-mmm.” I swallowed. “Wow, I haven’t had one of these in forever. They’re good, aren’t they? I’d forgotten.” Still silent, she nodded. “Thanks.” I beamed and stood up, brushing the dirt off my skirt. “We should have started these little snack times earlier in the summer.”
Swinging my arms, I strolled jauntily away to the homestead. Could I have ratted her out? Sure. Could I have gloated? A lot? Yeah. Would it have felt good? Probably. But somehow this felt even better.
Once I made it to the homestead, I took the stairs two at a time, changing as quickly as possible. I ran down to the Lettie, but Garrett was nowhere to be found. After reading for a while on deck, I watched the sun set, then headed downstairs to hang out in my bunk.
“Hey.” Garrett walked into the fo’c’s’le, flung his bag on his bunk, and clambered up after it.
“Hi.” I smiled brightly. “What’s up?”
“There was a major crisis at the paper involving oversold ad space.” He shook his head. “What a nightmare. We’ve been sorting it out all day. I am so glad to be out of that office.” He turned to me and smiled. “What are you reading?”
“You don’t want to know.” I tried to angle the book into the shadow so he couldn’t see the cover.
“Now I really want to know.” He hopped out of his bunk and started climbing up to mine.
“No, no!” I shrieked. “It’s too embarrassing!”
“Libby, let me see!” Laughing, he wrestled the book away from me.
“Nooo,” I moaned, collapsing dramatically. “The agony of defeat.”
“His Reluctant Mistress?” He raised one eyebrow.
“My secret shame.” I buried my face in my pillow. “I ran out of books and I just couldn’t read Northanger Abbey five times in a row, and this was all they had in that stupid intern house except for The Art of Knot Tying.”
“Aha,” he said with a smirk. “Lady porn.”
“It is not lady porn!” I popped up. “It is historical women’s fiction!”
He flipped to the back. “Lord Garrett McCaffrey—renowned rake, skilled seducer, and expert spy—has finally met his match. For singer Libby Kelting may have the voice of an angel, but she will be no man’s strumpet—no matter how handsome he is!”
“It does not say that!”
“Close enough.” He shrugged. “Will you be my strumpet?” he asked sweetly.
“I’ll strumpet you!” I hit him with the book.
“I’m pretty sure you can’t use that as a verb.”
“Don’t you dare go all grammar police on me!”
As he started leaning in to kiss me, something clanked outside the fo’c’s’le.
“Garrett.” I froze. “What was that?”
“I don’t know, a raccoon?” He leaned in. “I thought you were going to strumpet me.”
More clanging.
“Garrett, I think it’s the ghost, and I think he’s angry,” I whispered, more scared than I wanted to admit. Clang, clang, clang. It sounded like the chains used to pull up an anchor. “Oh my God, Garrett, it’s the ghost!” I clutched his T-shirt. “It’s the ghost, it’s the ghost, it’s the ghost,” I whimpered.
“Libby, it’s not a ghost. There are no such things as ghosts. Um, video evidence to the contrary.”
“Get it, Garrett, please get the ghost,” I pleaded, like it was a spider I wanted him to squish.
“I can’t, uh, ‘get it’ unless you release the kung fu death grip you have on my shirt, Libby.”
The door creaked open. I screamed bloody murder and buried my face in Garrett’s chest.
“All right, that’s it.” Garrett pried my fingers away. “If you’re not going to strumpet me, I’m going after it.” He hopped out of the bunk. I could hear the ghost clanging away down the hall. Garrett picked up the video camera and took off.
“Oh, don’t leave me,” I moaned, hopping out of the bunk. “Don’t leave me alone in here! I’m coming!”
I caught up with Garrett instantly. The ghost had a head start but was slower than he had been before, probably because of the chains he was carrying. Which made me think that Garrett was right, and the ghost was definitely human. He was still creepy, though. So I looked down as I ran, concentrating on the ghost’s shoes, because shoes weren’t scary, shoes are my favorites, and shoes . . . the ghost’s shoes . . .
“That’s no ghost!” I shouted. “He’s wearing right and left shoes!”
“Libby, what the hell are you talking about?! What other kind of shoes would he wear?!” Garrett shouted as we sped after the ghost’s retreating back.
“Different shoes for right and left feet weren’t invented until 1818,” I said, panting. Man, this boat was big. We’d circled back around and were running through the galley again. Would we ever run out of space in the hold to keep chasing this stupid nonghost? “And they didn’t become widespread until the 1850s! This ghost was supposed to have died in 1804. So that’s no ghost!”
“Well, that’s just great, Libby, but we still need to catch it!”
I had a sudden brainstorm. Ultimate Frisbee. The one remotely athletic thing Garrett had ever mentioned he’d been involved in.
“Garrett! Plate!” I picked up a pewter plate off the end of the table in the galley. I handed it to Garrett, who tossed it expertly. He hit the ghost right in the back of the knee, causing it to trip.
“Jesus Christ! ” the ghost shrieked as it toppled over, collapsing in a heap of chains and tumbling to the floor. Garrett and I skidded to a halt in front of it. The ghost moaned and righted itself, slumping miserably into a seated position.
“Cam?!” I said incredulously. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Haunting.” He gestured to his white sailor suit, powdered face, and the chains draped over his arms.
“Yeah, I see that. Um, why? ”
“Roger’s paying me.” He shrugged, setting off another round of clanking.
“Roger?!” I asked, stunned. “As in Camden Harbor publicist Roger?”
“Yeah,” Cam confirmed. “Nobody knows these ships better than me. So I get two hundred bucks a week to ‘haunt’ the Lettie Mae. That’s a nice supplement to my paycheck. And a boat’s not cheap, you know. There are ladies in every harbor up and down the Maine coast who need a piece of the Cam-man. That’s a lot of sail time. It adds up. Especially in this economy.”
“God, you’re gross.” I shook my head in disgu
st.
“It makes sense.” Garrett nodded thoughtfully. He caught sight of my face. “No, not the ladies-in-every-harbor-Cam-man thing,” he clarified. “Roger. You’ve got to admit, it’s a little unorthodox, but he’s doing a hell of a job as a publicist. Attendance has nearly tripled since this ghost stuff started.”
“Just doing my part to help.” Cam flashed us a cocky grin.
“Just doing your part to make quick buck, you mean,” I said. “How’s the nose?” His grin transformed instantly into a scowl.
“This is going to be huge.” Garrett pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket.
“What’s going to be huge?” Cam asked nervously.
“The story.” Garrett took a quick cell phone picture of Cam in his chains. “I want it ready to go to press tomorrow.”
“Dude, you can’t publish this story.”
“If you didn’t want me to write it, then you probably shouldn’t have been running around the boat draped in iron chains. Brilliant move, by the way,” Garrett said sarcastically. “I can publish it, and I will.”
“Come on, man, I’m gonna look like a jackass!” Cam clanked unhappily.
“Frankly,” Garrett said brusquely, “I have no problem making you look like a jackass.”
“He’s right, Garrett—you can’t publish it,” I whispered.
“What?” Garrett whirled around to face me.
“Thank you, babe.” Cam grinned.
“Shut up, Casper, this has nothing to do with you,” I snapped. “Garrett, think about what this’ll do to the museum.”
“It’ll give them more publicity,” he said stubbornly.
“Not in a good way, and you know it,” I argued. “Think about it. Unmasking a publicity stunt like this, orchestrated by a prominent member of the museum staff, will destroy any shred of credibility the museum has! No one will take it seriously anymore. You’ll kill the museum.”
“Libby, listen to me,” he pleaded. “If I do this well, there’s a chance a bigger newspaper might pick up the story. I might even get a shot at a national byline. A national byline. Maybe even something really big. Like the New York Times. The Times, Libby. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “Do you have any idea what this could do for my career?”
“Do you have any idea what this could do to your town?” I said angrily, eyes flashing. “If the museum shuts down, you will destroy, literally, the lives of everyone you grew up with.” He made a noise like he didn’t believe me. “Garrett, look at me. You know I’m right. The museum is the main reason people come to this little town, and without the tourist industry, everything in this town will go out of business. Everything.”
“I have a responsibility to print the truth.” He looked away from me. “That’s what reporters do. It’s our job. There’s nothing more important than printing the truth. I can’t compromise my journalistic integrity.”
“Journalistic integrity? Don’t you dare try to take the high road with me,” I snapped. “This isn’t about journalistic integrity and you know it. This is about your precious byline,” I spat out. “God, I thought I knew you. The real you.” I shook my head. “I don’t know you at all.”
“If you did know me at all, you wouldn’t stand in my way,” he said resolutely. My heart sank. Turned out he was just as smug and self-important as I’d thought he was when we first met. Only he was worse—I hadn’t known then that he had no heart. How could he do something that was just so . . . wrong? So purely, horribly selfish?
“Fine. Look, Garrett. I’m not in your way.” I gestured to the empty hallway leading down to the way out of the boat. After a brief, angry pause, he stormed out and off the boat.
“Now that he’s out of the way . . .” Cam raised an eyebrow. “We’ve finally got the place all to ourselves.”
“Oh, get the hell off my boat,” I barked. “Or I really will break your nose this time.”
Cam shrugged, clanking. “Well, it was worth a shot.” I picked up the pewter plate from where it had fallen at my feet and chucked it at his head. “Ow, Libby, ow!” he whined, deflecting the plate with his arms. “I’m going, I’m going.” He left hastily, clanking all the way down the gangplank, and I was left alone in the belly of the ship.
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.”
“Fin
e. 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.
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