by Molly Harper
“I am,” I promised him. “I’ve wanted you since that day at the Derby when I finally had a real conversation with you. I probably wanted you before then, but that was only because you’re crazy hot, and I don’t want you to think I’m superficial.”
“Nice,” he snickered, nuzzling his forehead against my neck. “So we’re agreed. No dating. No Fun Time, naked or otherwise. Until after the state fair.”
“Wait.” I held up one finger to hold off his final word. I pressed my mouth to his, teasing it open with my tongue to claim him for my own. I was leaving my mark. These lips now belonged to me. God help anybody who tried to poach between now and August. “Okay.”
It was going to be a long damn time until that August deadline. “One more,” I said, kissing him all over again. Josh’s hands shook a little as they slid around my waist, pulling me firmly against his lap. I reluctantly broke away from him, panting. “Okay. I’m good.”
Josh’s mouth had followed mine like a magnet, as if he weren’t quite ready for the second round to be over. “You’re sure?”
“Mmmhmm.”
“ ’Cause we can put the decision off for a few more minutes,” he said.
“Oh, no, I have to preserve my sexy integrity,” I promised, holding my hand up in a mockery of the Girl Scout salute.
He sighed. “I knew that was going to come back to bite me.”
In Which I Lose My Bloomers
8
Once again, I was reminded that I was not tough enough to be a woman in the days of corsetry and smelling salts.
I pulled at the collar of the Civil War–era nurse’s uniform I was wearing, praying for some cool air to make its way under the multitude of layers. I should not have let Kelsey pick out the costumes for the Columbus-Belmont summer encampment. She was clearly still a little pissed at me about the previous fall’s hoopskirts.
Still, I was rather proud of the encampment campaign Josh and I had put together under our new ceasefire agreement. We ran with the recruitment theme for brochures, flyers, Internet banner ads, and a radio spot narrated by one of the chief reenactors. We picked a final shade of blue without coming to blows. We used a careful pro-con system to determine revisions on printed materials. I’d even managed to write the copy for the radio spot with a minimum of fussing from Josh. He added unnecessary semicolons, but I don’t think he could stop himself from making some changes.
The state park coordinators had enjoyed our efforts so much that they made us promise we would visit the summer event as a staff. Instead of, say, relaxing and enjoying the encampment like normal people, we were there as volunteers. Our office had worked as support staff at the fall event for so many years that it was sort of a tradition. Our tradition was that we stayed at a motel just down the highway, worked ourselves to exhaustion, and then made questionable late-night nutritional choices at Denny’s each night. There was no reason we couldn’t do that in July. The event was sponsored and run by the state park staff and county officials so we were mostly there to run errands, answer general questions, and occasionally help out with the workshops.
Kelsey and I tried different costumes every year and had learned the previous fall that elaborate hoopskirts did not combine well with negotiating the uneven ground surrounding the camp. Or at least, with clumsy people. There was an incident involving a campfire that will not be discussed under terms of the “sacred assistant-supervisor oath.” (Kelsey insisted that was a real thing.) So this year, Kelsey had strapped herself into the circa 1861 equivalent of a tavern wench costume, and I was a not-so-naughty nurse. I was wearing a dark gray wool dress covered by a thick white apron with a lovely matching cap.
On its own, the dress wasn’t terribly uncomfortable. However, Kelsey, who had her own collection of corsets for reasons I preferred not to think about, insisted that I be historically accurate down to the bloomers and cincher. When she found me leaning against the pole of the canteen tent, having a claustrophobic fit and pulling at the boning of the short “active wear” corset, she told me to suck it up.
“You know, I refuse to take fashion criticism from someone dressed as a nineteenth-century cocktail wench,” I told her, eyeing her blowsy costume top.
That was the moment when I looked up to see Kelsey’s stunned expression, then followed her line of sight. Josh was walking across the encampment, framed in the kind of golden morning light Hollywood divas had written into their production contracts. He was wearing a Union officer’s uniform, complete with saber and dark cowboy-style Hardee hat.
Oh, and apparently Charlie was standing next to him.
Who knew?
I waved a hand in front of Kelsey’s glazed-over eyes. No response. We were both going to need some knee support if we were going to make it through the day. Josh was not making this whole delayed-gratification, no-dating thing easy at all. How was I supposed to be professional when he walked around taunting me with his hotness? He was an unrepentant taunter.
“This is so unfair,” I whimpered.
Kelsey wiped at her chin, where I detected a trace of drool. “Tell me about it.”
Josh and I were still keeping our potential maybe-feelings for each other under the radar. The good news was that routing all of my mental energy to the “behaving appropriately” portion of my brain provided a respite for the creative portion, and I finally came up with a solid idea for my state fair campaign. Ironically enough, it was based on something Josh said about “making the differences work.” My title was “Kentucky—Not What You Expect.” It took several all-nighters, but I had just enough time to arrange the photo shoots for Kelsey and put a plan together before the printer’s deadline.
It seemed that kissing coworkers was the best way to reset your noggin. And all of my mental progress was being undone by the sight of my pseudo-work-boyfriend dressed up like something out of a historical romance.
“You promoted yourself to sergeant, huh?” I said, nodding at the gold chevrons on Josh’s sleeves as he and Charlie approached.
“The officer’s uniform came with a sword,” he said, unsheathing the prop and holding it up proudly. “I thought I was going to have to pull rank on Charlie to get it. But he’s just excited to be here.”
He nodded toward Charlie, who was talking animatedly with Kelsey about the various reenactor groups involved in the encampment. He made lots of swooping arm movements, which I could only assume were descriptions of how the individual units would flank each other.
“We try not to let him out this much. We’re afraid that if he realizes there is life outside of the office, we’ll lose him to the real world,” I said.
I noted that despite Kelsey’s low neckline, Charlie kept his eyes on her face, which made me like Charlie just a little bit more. Kelsey was smiling up at him with this sweet, puppy-eyed expression that I never saw from my sardonic little assistant. It made my heart ache for her. She liked him so much, and yet she stayed with her dink of a boyfriend because she thought that was all she deserved.
For the thousandth time since they’d started dating, I mentally catalogued the ways I could make Darrell’s death look like an accident.
“Completely clueless, isn’t he?” Josh asked, nodding at them.
“No, I’ve made it pretty clear to Darrell that no one would find his body,” I mused.
Josh’s sandy eyebrows flew up to his hairline. “Sorry?”
I shook myself out of my murderous musings, cheeks flushing. “Nothing. What were you saying?”
“Charlie; he’s clueless that Kelsey’s nuts about him.”
I gave an unladylike snort. “I think she could bedazzle ‘Take me, I’m yours’ across her forehead in rhinestones, and he would ask her what she meant.”
“I would get involved, but I’m focusing all of my energy on behaving myself around you,” he said, fingertips hovering ever
so close to my wrist, one of the few exposed areas of my body. “And to be honest, Kelsey scares me.”
I chuckled. “She should.”
“And what’s with your outfit?” he asked. “It’s not that you don’t look adorable, because you do. But you have the opportunity to dress like Scarlett O’Hara, and you go for Florence Nightingale?”
“Florence Nightingale was British.”
“I’m just saying, Bonnie’s dressed up in some cute Little Bo Peep deal and you picked something that would let you fade into the background,” he said, his tone disappointed. “You don’t have any trouble standing out when we’re at the office.”
“Previous experience. We need to be able to maneuver around quickly and quietly if something comes up.”
His bottom lip stuck out a bit, giving him a petulant look. “I was just looking forward to seeing you all corseted up.”
I leaned in so my mouth just barely brushed his ear. “Who says I’m not wearing a corset?”
He cringed, raising his eyes heavenward. “That was mean.”
“Are you pouting on me, Vaughn?”
“Men with swords don’t pout,” he retorted.
“What do boys with plastic props do?” I asked.
“Do you always have to have the last word?”
I shrugged. “Not really.”
“Stop that!” he cried.
• • •
While the guys led small groups along the walking trail and prevented small children from getting too close to the bluffs, Bonnie gave regular dramatic monologues from the perspective of the wives left behind as soldiers from both sides marched off to war. Kelsey ended up explaining the root-beer-making process to rotating groups of middle-school kids, but thanks to her nerd herd, she was able to give a fact-filled, easy-to-understand explanation of the science behind the brew.
I ran back and forth between the headquarters tent and the various activity tents, carrying bottled water and first aid kits to the staff and being a general dogsbody. The problem with this year’s costume was that people assumed I was an actual nurse, so I had to stay away from the medical tent or be subjected to blisters, scrapes, and other ickiness I was not qualified to handle.
Josh and his sword were a big hit with the kids. It was fortunate that he’d read up on the location’s history, allowing him to construct believable stories when they stopped him to ask what it was like in the “old” war. Eventually, the kids were giving him referrals, telling their playmates to find him and ask for a story. Bonnie was so impressed that she planned to ask him to join her on her next Daniel Boone Trail traveling exhibit. I wished her luck with that.
It was a long, exhausting day, but it was a lot of fun. It was nice being an assistant rather than running the show. And I learned new things about Kentucky history, which was always a plus. While I had known that both Lincoln and Confederate president Jefferson Davis were born in Kentucky, I’d had no idea they were born within a hundred miles of each other, in LaRue and Christian counties, respectively.
The only problem was the corset. I was expected to wear it all day and then attend the bonfire dance that evening, but I didn’t anticipate how much the new style would cage in my poor aching ribs. I hated this confined, squeezed feeling, like being strangled by a really weak python. My plan was to make a polite effort at dancing a few before we made our excuses and headed back to the motel for some well-deserved grease-based late-night breakfast. At the moment, I could barely move enough to do the electric slide, much less a reel.
Most of the reenactors were sleeping in period-appropriate tents nearby and wandered back to our area after their own cookouts. The crowd had thinned considerably to just the reenactors and the hard-core enthusiasts. The more experienced reenactors led us through basic dances and floor patterns while the band warmed up their fiddles.
The dance was an informal affair, the dance floor consisting of a hard-packed dirt circle surrounded by rough-hewn pine benches. For lighting, we had Mason jar lanterns strung around the perimeter. The lanterns’ battery-powered LEDs weren’t period accurate, but the state’s liability officer would have had a stroke if the staff had strung tiny fireballs just above the guests’ heads. We all seemed a little worse for wear, tired from our long day out in the sun. But I figured that the people of the time period were probably rumpled and less-than-perfectly groomed, so it just added to the authenticity.
I’d taken a few period-appropriate dance classes over the years, because that was Ray’s twisted idea of a team-building exercise. He’d found a guy who taught folk- and square-dancing classes professionally and invited him to boss us around for two days. For months, when an employee acted out, all Ray had to say was “Virginia Reel” and they’d straighten right back up.
And for the record, those YouTube videos were entirely Kelsey’s fault. I didn’t even see her set up that tripod.
Josh was out of his element, but didn’t seem to care. He stepped out of turn and went the wrong direction more than once, but he also laughed his head off the entire time. The fiddle player knew what he was doing, playing lively tunes that kept the feet moving. The closest we got to a slow jam was going to be the occasional waltz. I took pity on poor unpartnered Charlie, who had lost Kelsey to some burly older guy in buckskin pants. Charlie lost his footing twice and nearly took me down with him before he finally decided to sit out. I made my way over to the refreshments table, where the organizers were serving tart, ice-cold hard cider in Mason jars. I’d had two glasses before my wallflower time was cut short and Josh pulled me to his side.
“Help me,” he whispered frantically, blue eyes darting wildly around the dance floor. “That woman in the pink dress keeps pinching my ass!”
I looked over his shoulder to see a rather horse-faced woman in period costume eyeing Josh’s backside hungrily. When she realized I was looking at her, she sneered at me. I stifled a snicker. “Well, what am I supposed to do about it?”
“I told her you were my wife.”
I set my jar of cider aside. “Why is it that every time things get rough, we let people believe that we’re a couple?”
“Because you always have that exasperated look on your face when you’re near me, which makes it believable. Please be my human shield, one more time?” he begged, pressing my hand to his chest. The brass buttons of his uniform glinted dully in the battery-operated lights. And I could smell the clean scent of his cologne wafting up from his collar. Over his shoulder, I could see Ray watching us, mouth pressed into an inscrutable expression. My lips twitched upward, but I tamped them down into a stern, straight line.
“This is the last time,” I told him. He gave me one of those million-watt boyish grins, took my arm, and we were flying.
Josh clutched my arm as we wove through the other couples, bobbing and ducking under the bridges formed by joined arms. The cider must have had a bit more kick than I thought, because I went from sober to giddy and dizzy within a few minutes. The music grew louder, beating a happy tattoo inside my head as I threw myself into the movements with abandon. I tripped on my skirt a few times and Josh had to brace my elbow to keep me from face-planting in the dirt. He took a more proactive approach, looping his arm around my waist and holding me close. Rather than the polite clasp of hands, he laced his fingers through mine, his thumb resting across my wrist. Could he feel my pulse racing? Could I play it off as the exertion of dancing in seven layers of clothes?
The music ended with a flourish and Josh bowed over my hand. “I should have chosen a better dancer for my pretend wife.”
“Be nice,” I told him, “or your pretend wife will develop a sudden case of the vapors and you will be left to fend for yourself.”
Josh cast a nervous glance over my shoulder, where I assumed Pink Dress Lady was still ogling him, and shuddered. “I take it back, you’re a lovely dancer. Please don’t leave
me.”
• • •
We crawled out of Bonnie’s van, exhausted and disheveled. But because the locals were accustomed to the reenactments, three Civil War soldiers and three women in varying stages of period undress wandering into the motel lobby didn’t merit a second look. Bonnie and Kelsey had elected to share a room this time around, so I was left with a single. The group had been assigned to random floors of the Easy Rest Inn, so we split up at the front desk. Josh and I were in the same wing, on the third floor, and limped our way to our doors side by side.
“I’m going to shower forever,” I grumbled, swaying a bit from exhaustion and the influence of the cider. “I smell like a combination of campfire and fry bread.”
“You know, I think that’s a combination that could work for a lot of guys. The outdoor, he-man types could be into it,” he said, sniffing my hair appreciatively. “Maybe we could bottle it and call it Blue Moon Babe.”
“That’s incredibly wrong on many levels. Get your face out of my hair. I don’t remember anything in the pretend-marriage agreement about hair smelling.”
“So this was fun,” he told me as we rolled to a stop in front of my room. “I’m starting to understand why you love going on these outings.”
I grinned at him. “I’m glad . . . that I’ve pulled you over to the dark side. The rumor is we have cookies.”
He barked out a laugh. “Good night, Florence.”
“Good night.” And once again, we found ourselves in the awkward position of not knowing how to bid each other good-bye. Did nondating coworkers shake hands in situations like this? (Were there other situations like this?) Did we one-arm hug? I stared at him, the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes never left my face. I forced myself to lean away from him, to take a step back. I would not do this. I would not engage in inappropriate behavior with Josh when he was dressed like an extra from Gone with the Wind. At a semi-work function. Just a few yards away from our soon-to-retire boss, who expected to leave the office in one set of our capable hands. I hadn’t had that much cider. I gave him a perfunctory smile while I jiggled my key card into the digital lock. “Good night.”