Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink

by Stephanie Kate Strohm

  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

  Acknowledgments

  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!”

  He may have been a totally genius fashion designer and the best BFF a girl could ever ask for, but he still hadn’t mastered the concept of the inside voice.

  “Okay, one, feet off the table—that’s just rude.” I tapped his boot with my pink glittery gel pen until he removed it. “Two, I just found this amazing Civil War diary online, and I do not want to be distracted right now; three, this is a library, so shhh,” I admonished Dev. “And, four,” I concluded, “what on earth are you doing in here? I’ve never seen you in the library. Not once. Not ever. Not since you were stopped at the door freshman year for having a contraband iced caramel macchiato. So what on earth could possibly bring you in here?”

  “That’s how you know it’s important. Because only something serious could bring me back to this iced-coffee desert of freakish silence,” he insisted. “Hey, you’re wearing the kilt I made you!” he noticed excitedly.

  In addition to supplementing my school uniforms, Dev had turned exploiting the loopholes in the St. Paul Academy dress code into an art form. Sure, they said boys had to wear black or gray pants, but they never said they couldn’t be suede. Today he wore a distressed black blazer over a sheer white shirt tucked into skintight leather pants; his striped uniform tie hung loosely around his neck.

  “You look kind of like a preppy rock ’n’ roll pirate,” I told him.

  “Libby!” Dev clapped his hands together with glee. “You just get me. Skirt looks great, btw. And speaking of exquisite tailoring,” he continued, “you remember the jaw-droppingly chic ensembles I pulled together for your little shindig last summer?”

  “Of course
,” I said, nodding. “How could I forget?”

  They had been truly magnificent. Last summer, when I worked as an intern at Camden Harbor’s Museum of Maine and the Sea, Dev had made the most beautiful historical costumes imaginable for the end-of-the-season costume ball. It was a total dream come true: I’d finally felt like I’d jumped back in time, like I’d been able to really live history. Sure, not everyone dreams of cast-iron cookware and corsetry, but it had been the perfect summer for me.

  “So, naturally, I’ve been thinking about the success of my colonial couture,” he said, stroking his chin, “and while I had never intended to be a historical fashion designer, I must admit, there are certain advantages. Some of it is very appealing: Exaggerated silhouettes. Huge skirts. Over-the-top fabulousness. I mean, hello!” He sat up very straight. “I am over-the-top fabulous!”

  “That you are,” I agreed.

  “So, naturally, it was a very small step from colonial couture to . . .” He held up two flailing jazz hands. “Confederate Couture! Ta-da!”

  “Ta-what-now?” I asked, confused.

  “Confederate Couture!” he repeated, more enthusiastically.

  “Do Confederates even wear couture?” I asked skeptically. “And I’m really trying to read right now.”

  “Ba baaaaaaaaaaa ba baaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,” he sang grandly, to the tune of the theme song from Gone with the Wind. “We’re goooooooooooooooooing sooooooooooouth.”

  “Shhh!” A very angry girl in oversize hipster headphones looked up from her computer and tried to incinerate us with a glare.

  “Can we sing along later?” I asked. “This diary I’m reading is really cool! I promise. Seriously. Listen.” I had to read him what I’d found. I was always trying to get Dev more interested in history, and this might just be dramatic enough to spark his interest.

  “What did you say it was—some girl’s diary? Snooze.”

  “Um, hello, no snooze at all.” I read him the quote I’d found, and from the moment I read “Mr. Yankee,” he did seem to perk up considerably. “See? Cool, right? There are actually a lot of misconceptions about women in the antebellum South. Lots of them went hunting and fishing, participating in what we think of as stereotypically masculine pursuits. I mean, look at what a badass Sarah Morgan was! They weren’t all sitting around, flirting and fluttering their fans.”

  “Nothing wrong with flirting. But my belt could use a carving knife,” Dev said contemplatively. “Why are you so into this diary, anyway?”

  “Well, this is the closest I’ll ever get to experiencing the Civil War, right? To really understanding what it would have been like for a girl my age to live through that.”

  “Hmmm.” Dev stroked his chin methodically, the fluorescent lights glinting off his perfectly buffed nails. “What if there was a way for you to actually live through the Civil War?”

  “Keep talking.”

  “This is what I’ve been trying to tell you, Libby!” he said, sighing with exasperation. “Have you heard of this Civil War reenactment thing? You know, like in Sweet Home Alabama?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of it. I’ve even met some people who do it.”

  “Eeuw, really?” Dev made a disgusted face. “Super lame. It’s, like, almost as bad as LARP-ing. People running around, having fake battles, and pretending to be soldiers. Wearing uniforms they never wash and eating something called ‘hardtack,’ which is not as much fun as the name might first lead you to believe.”

  “It’s really not that lame! It’s cool,” I countered. “People take these reenactments very seriously. This is about as close to total historical accuracy as you can get.”

  “Total historical accuracy: the Libby Kelting dream,” he said, smirking. “Hence, we are going south. I’ve already rented a sutler’s tent with the Fifteenth Alabama Volunteer Infantry!”

  “What’s a sutler?”

  “Oh, Libby, I’m disappointed.” He shook his head. “Who’s the history nerd now? A sutler is a civilian merchant who sells provisions to an army in the field, in camp, or in quarters.” He smiled like the cat that had just caught the canary.

  “I don’t know everything.” I blushed.

  “I know that you don’t know everything. I just never thought I’d get you to admit it.” He grinned. “Anyhoo, sutlers set up tents at reenactments and sell stuff—hats, clothing, canteens, what have you. And let me tell you, these reenactors are super specific about their uniforms.” He rolled his eyes. “Beyond boring! No creative license! Everything has to be exactly the same as it was back then, down to the thread count and button holes. So naturally, I decided to cater to the ladies—because even civilian reenactors deserve to look fabulous! So we’ll be selling ball gowns, tea dresses, day dresses galore! All at Dev’s Confederate Couture. I scored us a super-sweet gig, following around the Fifteenth Alabama, giving them a very minor percentage of the profits in exchange for transportation to the battlefields and a tent.”

  “Let me get this straight: You want to go to Civil War reenactments and sell nineteenth-century women’s costumes.” I gave him my best skeptical look. “Do you have nineteenth-century women’s costumes?”

  “I have something better,” he said smugly. “Connections. You remember my uncle Raza?”

  “The one you stayed with in New York last summer?”

  “Yes! He has a sari store in Murray Hill and mad connections in the Garment District. So he’s gonna hook us up! Bargain prices on top-quality fabrics. We’ll make a few samples, take measurements, and have our clients fill out order forms. Easy-peasy. I’ll sew ’em when we get back. Custom Confederate Couture. So pack your bags! We are ready to go, baby!”

  “I don’t know if I’m ready to go,” I said doubtfully.

  “Libby, you’re my model. I neeeeed you,” he whined. “To model my fashions. Did you not hear what I just said about specializing in women’s wear? Plus, you can deal with all the boring nerd stuff. Lend me some nice historical accuracy. Cute sticker,” he said, tapping the pink cupcake on the back of my computer.

  “Oh, Dev, I don’t know. I—”

  “Stop protesting. I have a beyond-perfect business model. What are your concerns?”

  “Your mom’s okay with this?” I asked skeptically. “With you rolling around Alabama totally unsupervised?” Dev’s parents were pretty strict, and Dev could find a way to get into trouble at a maximum-security prison run by nuns.

  “Libby, we’re mere months away from college. To put it plainly, our lives are basically no longer supervisable. It’s time for us wee baby birds to fly from the nest. Besides, both my parents applauded my ingenuity and economic ambition,” he said, preening. “And your mom’s fine with it too.”

  “What? How do you know that?”

  “Duh, I called her. You know I always enjoy a good chat with Mrs. K. And she gave you the go-ahead. I only had to slightly exaggerate the adult supervision factor.” He flashed me a thumbs-up. “All the mommies are onboard. We’re ready to roll.”

  “Wait a minute, I’m still not—”

  “Don’t even pretend you don’t want to go.” He picked up a pen and starting doodling stars in my margins. “You were waxing rhapsodic about the charms of olden times like two seconds ago.”

  “Well, yes, I mean, it would be amazing to go,” I said somewhat wistfully. “But . . . I had planned to spend the summer with Garrett and—”

  “Don’t play the boyfriend card,” he interrupted. “Don’t you dare. First of all, I’m not even sure someone who lives six states away even qualifies as a boyfriend.”

  “Hey!” I protested. “That’s so not fair. We talk every day!”

  “Okay, you have an electronic pen pal that you made out with a couple times.” Dev rolled his eyes. “Congratulations.”

  “Just because you don’t believe in long-distance relationships—or relationships, for that matter,” I amended, as Dev glared, “doesn’t mean they can’t work out.”

  “Fine, boyfriend, pen pal, whatevs.�
�� Dev held up his hands in surrender. “It all boils down to this: Do you want to go to the Civil War, yes or no?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “Then your cerebral swain will understand, I promise you. If I know geek boy, he’ll start spouting off about intellectual opportunities and chasing the dream or something.”

  “Well . . .” I hemmed and hawed. “I have to at least talk to him about it.”

  “Thought you might say that.” Dev nimbly swiped my computer, turned it to face him, and banged on the keyboard until my laptop started emitting a shrill ring.

  “You cannot use a phone in here!” I whisper-screamed, horrified.

  “This place has so many rules,” Dev complained. “And it’s not a phone.”

  Before we got kicked out of the library, I managed to hustle Dev and my ringing computer into the relative safety of the adjacent computer lab. It was empty except for a group of guys clustered in the corner playing World of Warcraft. As soon as Dev slid the computer onto an empty table, the screen filled with the face of my boyfriend, Garrett McCaffrey.

  He looked just like he did almost a year ago when he’d pulled me out of an apple barrel: unruly dark hair, thick plastic-framed Clark Kent glasses, and an adorkable comic-book T-shirt. I still couldn’t believe it had taken me an entire summer to realize that he was the Mr. Darcy to my Elizabeth Bennet. How could I ever have thought he wasn’t totally cute and the only boy for me? I must have had a fit of temporary insanity. It may have taken a ghost, Northanger Abbey, and a nineteenth-century whaling vessel to bring us together, but at least I’d come to my senses eventually.