He shrugged. “She’s got all the wedding preparations in hand, between herself and her mom. There’s nothing for me to do.” He tossed another log on the fire, dodging a spray of sparks. “So you’re making a coat for Colonel Windstrom, eh?” Chris didn’t even try to suppress his smirk. “What do you think of our fearless leader?”
“Fear-inspiring, more like. I’m not sure I’d want to hang around here all day listening to him criticize everyone.”
Chris nodded. “True, he can be kind of a downer. Yesterday he pulled all the infantry aside for a lecture. He told us that if we weren’t shopping at YeOldeReenactors.com, then we were Farbs and not worthy to be in this outfit.”
I laughed. “YeOldeReenactors.com? Sounds like a cross between a New England sweet shop and eBay for history buffs. So are you shopping there?”
Chris gave me a sidelong glance. “’Course I am—what do you think? Wouldn’t want to stand out as a Farb, now would I?” He smoothed his shiny polyester coat with a wicked grin.
“Got it.” I indicated the less-than-authentic coat. “Where did you get this, anyway?”
He leaned in close to whisper behind his hand. “There’s a little costume shop on Baker Street, right next to the Keystone Playhouse. They sell leftover costumes from past shows. The Keystone did the musical The Civil War two years ago, and they wanted to get rid of the old costumes. I lucked out.”
I mentally filed this information, ever on the lookout for leads for my sewing business. Maybe the Keystone would need a seamstress with historical expertise someday.
“There’s a lot of interest in the Civil War these days,” I said. “You know there’s a Civil War movie filming in town right now. Do you guys have any interaction with them?”
“I dunno, they might want to film some of our skirmishes for background shots or something.” He shrugged. “I just go with the flow.”
A line of gray-clad soldiers marched past us, muskets held at the ready. I scanned their uniforms, looking for reassurance that I was on the right track with Colonel Windstrom’s. Their coats came in a wide variety of colors: gray, butternut, and even some faded Union blue. “I don’t get it, Chris. How come you guys are Confederate soldiers? There weren’t any Southern troops in Laurel Springs, were there?”
“Nah, Laurel Springs was straight Union. But you can’t have a battle with just one side, now, can you?” He lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. “In actual fact, Daria, we’re the bad guys.”
Chris could never be the bad guy. He was one of the nicest people I had ever met. He worked in construction and remodeling—always a lucrative business in a town full of homes dating back to the early nineteen hundreds. The recession had slowed business a bit, Chris had told me, but he didn’t think he’d get laid off. “I’m not worried,” he’d said—three words that seemed to sum up his cheerful personality.
“So how come you’re not wearing a hoop skirt?” Chris said. “I’ll bet you could whip up a ball gown in no time.”
I waved a persistent wisp of smoke away from my eyes. “I wouldn’t need a ball dress to hang out with you soldiers, unless I just wanted to watch.” I remembered a picture I’d come across in my research that showed women in long dresses and parasols standing on a hill watching the Civil War soldiers skirmishing down below. “If I wanted to fight for the glorious cause, I’d dress as a man, and you’d never know as long as I didn’t get wounded or captured.”
Chris slapped his knee in delight. “You got that right! In fact—”
Suddenly shouts and curses erupted from a tent about fifty yards away. I jumped and scooched a little closer to Chris.
“Who the hell has been messing with my stuff?” A stocky soldier stomped out of the tent, clutching a haversack in one hand and a small wooden box in the other. “You guys may think you’re funny,” he shouted, waving both arms for emphasis. “If I find out who did this, I’m taking him straight to the general!”
I leaned forward to look at the haversack dangling by its strap from the soldier’s hand. A splash of red paint marred the flap of the small canvas bag. Dripping red letters spelled out the word FARB. The box bore the same message. I looked anxiously at Chris.
He shrugged. “Some guys want everyone to believe that they’re really Civil War soldiers. I guess you could call them fanatics. They’re messing with the guys who don’t live up to their standard of perfection.”
I reached out to touch Chris’s polyester coat. “Are they messing with you?”
“Nah.” He shrugged. “What can they do to me? I’m not worried.”
I looked again at those red letters, paint dripping like blood, and shivered.
The commotion didn’t faze Chris. He merely stood up, brushed some dirt off the seat of his pants, and led me to a cluster of larger, more imposing tents. “I think Colonel Windstrom’s in a briefing with the general, but I’m not sure.”
A smooth-faced sentry stood in front of the colonel’s tent, musket held at the ready.
“Are these things loaded?” I said to Chris, waving a hand at the gleaming musket.
He looked me straight in the eye. “Of course, ma’am. You never know when the enemy might strike.”
I shot him a sharp glance. “Are you trying to be funny?”
“We’re supposed to stay in character at all times,” he whispered with a grin. “I try to keep up appearances when the brass are looking.”
I shook my head as Chris spoke to the sentry. The sentry was short, clearly a teenager. He wore a gray kepi pulled low over his eyes, so I couldn’t see much of his face. No beard or moustache covered his strong jaw. Sandy curls peeked out from the back of his cap—he wore his hair long like boys did in the 1860s.
Chris turned to me. “Colonel Windstrom is busy, Daria. Private Rawlings is going to talk to the sergeant.”
I was about to protest, when the sergeant stepped out of the tent. A tall man with a dark brown beard and moustache, he wore a tidy gray uniform coat over dark gray trousers and shiny black boots. He moved with a quiet military grace that came straight out of Gone with the Wind. When I held out my hand to introduce myself, he took it gently and bowed down to lightly kiss the back of my hand. No one had ever kissed my hand before, not even in jest. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t dressed in silk and petticoats—he saw me as a Southern belle. I could feel a sappy grin creep over my face as he lifted his eyes to mine. He had deep brown eyes, so dark you could barely see the pupils. They were eyes to get lost in.
The sergeant smiled, his whole face lighting up. “I’m Sergeant Jim Merrick,” he said. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
“I’m Daria Dembrowski.” I could feel the blush rising on my cheeks. “I’m making a uniform for Colonel Windstrom. I just needed to take a few more measurements.”
“I won’t hear another word!” a voice thundered from inside the tent. I jumped with a slight gasp. Sergeant Merrick smiled apologetically. “The colonel is busy at the moment. May I show you around until he’s ready?” He held out his arm and tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. I said goodbye to Chris, who headed back to his fireside with a cheery wave.
Jim Merrick walked me slowly through the tents, pointing out the cook tent, the infirmary, and even the photographer’s quarters. “We have a camp photographer traveling with us for a few weeks,” he said. “All the men want to have formal portraits taken to send to their loved ones back home.”
It took me a minute to realize that I was talking to a Civil War soldier, not a twenty-first century man playing dress-up. This reenacting stuff would take a bit of getting used to. But I could play along. “So, it’s the middle of the Civil War, huh? Where’s back home to you?”
Jim flashed me a brilliant smile, obviously delighted by my willingness to get into the spirit of the game. “I hail from Tift County, down in Georgia,” he drawled in a southern accent worthy of Clark Ga
ble. “I’m a wheelwright, by trade. When this war is over, I hope to take up that useful pursuit once more.”
I nodded slowly, chewing the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “A wheelwright? So what’s that? You make wagon wheels or something?”
“Or something.” Jim glanced down to see if I was really interested. “I work with wood, constructing the hub, spokes, and rim of the wheel, which is then reinforced with iron by the village blacksmith. Henry Fleisher and I work as a team, back home in Tifton.”
“And the loved ones, back home in Tifton? Is there a Mrs. Merrick waiting at home for you?” I didn’t usually ask such personal questions right off the bat, but the game seemed to allow it.
“Indeed yes,” he replied. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a worn leather wallet. He fished through it to extract a tiny daguerreotype of a young woman, which he held out to me. “My dear Susannah, that is, Mrs. James Merrick.”
I bent over the little picture, admiring the striking features under the modest ruffled bonnet. With her high cheekbones and dark, arching eyebrows, Mrs. James Merrick was a beautiful woman. A fitting partner for the attractive sergeant by my side. I caught myself feeling an absurd sense of disappointment, as if it mattered to me whether or not Jim Merrick had a gorgeous wife at home. I shook myself mentally. “She’s very lovely.”
He tucked the picture back into his wallet. “Yes, she is.” He extended his arm to me again with a half bow. “Shall we continue our tour?”
Jim steered me away from a smoky campfire on our way back to the officers’ tents. I noticed a small tent off by itself under some trees. I didn’t see a campfire near it, like with all the others.
“What’s that tent over there?”
“Hmm? Oh, that? It’s the isolation tent.” He gave me that apologetic smile again. “You need discipline in any army, you know.”
“You’re kidding. What, it’s like the box in movies, where you lock up the guy for…” My words faltered. I could tell by the look on his face that that’s exactly what it was. “Wow,” I said. “So is it pretend, or are you really disciplining guys in there?”
Jim gave just the hint of a small, mysterious smile.
We returned to Colonel Windstrom’s tent, and Jim murmured to Private Rawlings, who nodded curtly.
“The Colonel will see you now,” Jim said. He removed my hand from his arm and held it for a moment, his deep brown eyes fixed on mine. Then he bowed over my hand and once again kissed it ever so lightly.
My heart pounded. I dropped a little curtsy, wishing I had worn a ball gown, or at least a pretty sundress, instead of my faded blue jeans. Maybe another day…
Jim turned and walked away, leaving me to enter the colonel’s tent alone.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light within. Colonel Windstrom’s tent was crowded with a cot and chipped washstand in one corner, a trunk and traveling chest of drawers in another, and a large folding table surrounded by several camp chairs crammed into the middle. The stuffy smell of warm canvas intensified the claustrophobic feeling of the enclosed space.
Colonel Windstrom was in a foul mood. He stood in the center of the tent breathing heavily, his face a deep, unhealthy red.
“Ms. Dembrowski,” he barked.
“Hello, Colonel Windstrom,” I replied. “I, uh, I realized that I neglected to take your neck-to-waist measurement. If you’ll permit me?” I pulled out my tape measure and squeezed behind him. “If you’ll just stand up straight and hold your arms at your sides?” Of course, that was the way a military man would stand. I hastened to take the measurement and jot it down in the notepad I always carried in my sewing bag.
“Thanks. Sorry to bother you.”
“How is the uniform coming?” Colonel Windstrom asked, a frown darkening his face. I wouldn’t want to be disciplined by him, that was for sure.
“Great,” I said with a big smile. He didn’t need to know that I had yet to cut it out. “It’ll be ready for your final fitting on Tuesday. I’ll bring it here, if you like.”
Private Rawlings poked his head into the tent. His face was white. “Excuse me, sir, there’s been another disturbance.”
“Not again!” Colonel Windstrom exploded. He snatched up his kepi and shoved it on his head, whirling for the tent opening. His eye fell on me. “Are we done?” he snapped.
“Yes, sir. I’ll see you Tuesday at two.”
And he was gone.
I folded up my measuring tape and ducked out of the tent. I was ready to get out of there. As I walked away, I could hear the colonel launching into Jim Merrick, berating him for a lack of leadership and failing to properly control the men. I covered my ears and walked faster. I didn’t want to hear another word.
* * * *
The next morning, as I laid out the gray wool fabric on the floor to cut, a gentle breeze stirred the muslin curtains in my workroom. I did my cutting and sewing in a vacant bedroom on the second floor of the three-story house that was all I had left from the wreck of my last relationship. I loved the place, originally built in the mid-nineteenth century as a two-story Federal-style home. Over the decades, various owners had added a third floor with whimsical dormer windows and a deep front porch. The lacy Victorian gingerbread molding along the roofline clashed with the austere brick façade, but I didn’t care. I loved poking around, looking for hidden passageways in nooks and crannies. My biggest find was a trapdoor in the basement leading to a cramped chamber below. Local lore held that it had been used as a station on the Underground Railroad.
I spent three happy years in the house, as my wedding shop flourished downtown and I started to reap the rewards of entrepreneurship. Then I met a charismatic law student and fell head over heels in love. I encouraged him to move in with me to save on the high cost of law school, and worked hard to support us while he passed the bar and began his legal career as a junior partner in his father’s law firm. I envisioned marriage and a lifetime of happiness. What I didn’t realize was that he was interested in me not as a fiancée, but as a means to finance his law school education.
When he cleaned out our joint bank account, left for New York on a weeklong business trip and never returned, I was left with a mountain of debt. I had to close the wedding shop and sell off my entire inventory to pay the bills. All I had left was my beautiful, quirky house and a lot of bitter memories.
Under the circumstances, I was happy to have a roof over my head, even though I had to share it with an impossible renter. Still, the lead guitarist in a metal band was a sight better than a domineering boyfriend best known for his disappearing acts. But I didn’t want to think about loss and betrayal on this beautiful sunny morning. I pushed the dismal thoughts aside and surveyed my serene workroom.
A varnished wooden door stacked on two chests of drawers served as a desk to hold my new Bernina sewing machine. Grandma’s antique Singer treadle machine occupied the place of honor between the two tall windows. My orange-striped cat, Mohair, lay curled on my worn easy chair, watching my every move. Everything seemed so normal and ordinary that it was hard to believe that I hadn’t imagined the Civil War camp with its shouting and tension.
A loud knock on the front door interrupted my thoughts.
I hurried down the stairs yelling, “Just a sec!” Could it be Marsha? Her fitting wasn’t until tomorrow morning. I’d heard of nervous brides, but that would be ridiculous!
I checked my hair in the mirror over the fireplace in the front hall, smoothing a few stray wisps into the bobby pins pulling my hair back from my face. I always wore my thick brown hair in a severe bun when I was working. It was hardly flattering, but how could I cut out a Civil War uniform with my hair falling into my eyes?
I peeked through the leaded glass of the front door. If it was Marsha, I would have to confess that I hadn’t touched her wedding gown since her last fitting. With any luck, she would
n’t lose confidence in me.
Instead, standing on my doorstep, large as life, was my older brother Pete. I threw open the door.
“Daria!” Pete grabbed me into a big bear hug.
I pushed him away. He looked awful. He’d lost a lot of weight since I’d last seen him. His face was drawn and pale, with something weird about it that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. He wore a plaid flannel shirt unbuttoned over a T-shirt, worn jeans, and an old Phillies cap.
“What are you doing back home?” I said. “I thought you and your movie camera were set up for life in Hollywood.”
“Nice place you’ve got here.” Pete eyed the rosy wallpaper and the sturdy hardwood floor. “Can I come in?”
I held the door open wide. “You can come up and chat, but I have to work. Want some tea? Something to eat?”
Pete shook his head and followed me up the stairs. “You always have to work. You’re the workingest woman I know. What is it this time, a pregnant bride and her whole entourage?”
I gave him a sharp look. Did he know Marsha?
“So why aren’t you in Hollywood?” I countered. “Did you finish filming, what was it, Raiders of the Lost Park?”
Pete laughed. “Park Raiders. It folded, and we all got fired. The producer decided he was bored with the whole thing, and the director was crazy. He was convinced we were all out to get him.” He took off his hat and ran his hands through his wild brown hair. He needed a haircut, or maybe some of my bobby pins. “I’m so glad to be out of it. It’s such a drag to work for a boss who’s paranoid. But you know, Hollywood’s not the only place to work in the movies. There’s so much going on in Pennsylvania right now. I’ve got a union card that opens all kinds of doors. I just walked into an epic film on the Civil War.”
His eyes flicked from the library books strewn on my desk to the gray fabric on the floor, and his face lit up. “Is that what you’re working on—costumes for God and Glory?”
“I wish.” When I had first heard the movie would be filmed in Laurel Springs, I thought it would be the perfect way to break into the historical sewing business. But the film came with its own union shop, and unlike Pete, I lacked that all-important union card. I was left with the Civil War reenactors and their tailoring needs.
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