Confederates Don't Wear Couture

by Stephanie Kate Strohm

  “No.” Dev shook his head. “Because no other southern state boasts its very own Reese Witherspoon rom-com. Obvi.”

  “Seriously.” I followed him toward the baggage claim, winding our way through airport halls that had white Corinthian columns in them, like a plantation porch. “We’re spending the summer in Hades because of Sweet Home Alabama?”

  “But of course,” he said, as we parked ourselves in front of the baggage claim. “All signs pointed to Alabama. Reese Witherspoon played a fashion designer—hello! It was like a cosmic sign! Plus that movie is bursting with cute guys. And there’s even a gay one,” he finished triumphantly. “What other southern state has all that?”

  “Sweet Jesus,” I muttered. My bag vibrated against my hip. “Service!” I shouted gleefully. “It’s back!”

  Dev gave me one of his looks as the baggage claim started up a slow chug-chug and began spitting out luggage, one piece at a time. I dug around for my phone and hastily flipped it open.

  There was a text from Garrett waiting in my in box:

  HOPE YOU MADE IT SAFELY SOUTH TO THE RED STATES—IS IT TOO LATE TO GO BLUE? OR ARE YOU ALREADY WHISTLING DIXIE?

  I grinned. Despite my many lengthy treatises on the differences in Southern and Northern nineteenth-century fashion, Garrett could not understand why on earth we didn’t want to be Yankees. Or why we wanted to spend the summer in a state that hadn’t been carried by a Democratic presidential candidate since 1976.

  “You know I’m a Yankee at heart. I’m just a pushover for a hoop skirt,” I texted back. Which was true. I mean, obviously I understood all of Garrett’s many arguments on the ethical ramifications of participating in the glorification of a society that condoned the ownership of human beings, but Dev reminded me that a passion for fashion was a higher calling. One above silly things like politics or morality. “How’s your first day at the Daily Planet, Clark Kent?” I added.

  Garrett wasn’t actually working for the Daily Planet, of course, that being the fictional newspaper that employed Superman. He was so excited about interning at the Boston Globe this summer, he’d created a countdown calendar to his first day of work. Which would have been lame if it wasn’t so cute.

  “Okay,” he texted back. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  Okay? Just okay? Huh. That was certainly not the glowingly enthusiastic response I’d been expecting.

  “A little help here, Textarella?” Dev grunted, heaving an enormous bag off the conveyor belt. We had just barely squeaked under the baggage weight restriction, as each of our suitcases was stuffed to the gills with “Confederate Couture.” Dev assured me that we had enough outfits to last the two of us all summer, but he wouldn’t hesitate to sell the clothes off my back if a prospective customer was interested. As for the rest of the fashions, earlier in the week I’d helped him lug a few enormous boxes down to FedEx, where we shipped them off to a mysterious address in Pine Level, Alabama. I dropped my phone back in my bag, shrugging off Garrett’s less-than-thrilled response, and ambled over to help Dev. He’d already muscled my pink behemoth of a suitcase off the conveyor belt, but luckily his zebra-striped monster wasn’t too far behind. Together, struggling, we pulled it to the floor.

  “Jesus,” I said, wiping some sweat off my forehead. “If all those Southern belles had carried their wardrobes everywhere, they would have been ripped.”

  “I know, right?” Dev extended the handle on his suitcase, ready to wheel it away. “We should have started lifting last semester. Good thing we’re in the land of chivalry, and hopefully you can just bat those baby blues and get some good ol’ boy to heave ’em around from now on.”

  “That sounds like a much better plan,” I agreed, as Dev started to head toward the exit. I wheeled my suitcase behind him. “Um, where are we going?” I had just realized a fatal flaw in Dev’s plan. “How are we getting all the way out to the camp? Taxi? We can’t rent a car or anything; we’re too young …”

  Our first event was an instruction camp at Confederate Memorial Park, which was a ways outside the city. If Garrett knew I was spending the night at a place called the Confederate Memorial Park, or that one even existed, he probably would have popped a gasket.

  “Not to worry, it is all taken care of.” Dev lowered his sunglasses and strode confidently into the sunshine. I followed and wilted immediately. This heat would be the death of me. My obituary would be something tragically embarrassing like “Teen Girl Dies; Too Pale to Function. ‘I Knew She Should Have Been a Yankee,’ Boyfriend Says Sadly.” Maybe they’d arrest Dev for being my de facto murderer, and at least my spirit would be avenged.

  A bright teal minivan pulled up to the curb and parked directly in front of us. I shot Dev a quizzical look.

  “I knew that big ol’ suitcase had to be you!” Paula Deen’s doppelgänger was barreling out of the driver’s seat toward us. “Who else in the Montgomery Regional Airport would have a zebra-striped suitcase, I swear! You are somethin’ else, dumplin’.” She pulled him close to her magenta-colored bosom, enveloping him in a giant hug. Someone wearing more pink than I was? I was starting to like Alabama already.

  “Mrs. Anderson, I presume?” Dev asked once he’d extricated himself.

  “Please, I’m Tammy, hon. And this must be Libby!” She hugged me tightly, before holding me at arm’s length. “Now, let me get a good look at you. My goodness, you’re even prettier than Dev said you were!”

  Dev smirked. I blushed.

  “Did he not tell you I was comin’, darlin’?” Tammy asked me. “You look plumb rattled. Oh, land sakes.” She rolled her eyes fondly at Dev, who shrugged good-naturedly in a “Who, me?” kind of way. “I’m Tammy Anderson, civilian coordinator of the Fifteenth Alabama Volunteer Infantry.” Her chest puffed up with pride. “Welcome to ’Bama!”

  “Thanks.” I smiled.

  “Now, why go on an’ keep her in the dark?” She swatted Dev’s arm playfully. “Men, huh?” She turned to me for sympathy. “Good for nothin’ but openin’ pickle jars and liftin’ heavy things,” she said. “Speakin’ of …” She eyed our bags. “I’ll be right back. Don’t y’all dare lift a finger. Ladies don’t need to lift nothin’.”

  She left, presumably in search of a gallant young man.

  “Isn’t she fantastic?” Dev gushed.

  Tammy returned not a moment later, gallant young man in tow. He easily loaded our suitcases into the back of the minivan, before touching his hand to the brim of his Auburn Tigers cap and telling us to have a nice day.

  Dev raised an eyebrow. “I could get used to this southern charm thing,” he whispered. “See? I knew Reese Witherspoon wouldn’t steer us wrong. It’s like a recipe for a rom-com down here with all these scruffy square jaws.”

  “Now, y’all gonna keep flappin’ your gums, or y’all gonna get in the van?” Tammy called, waiting in the driver’s seat.

  “SHOTGUN!” Dev screamed, and rocketed into the front seat.

  I rolled my eyes and clambered in back.

  “Sir, you are no gentleman,” Tammy admonished him.

  “And you, miss, are no lady,” he replied.

  “Don’t I know it!” She laughed and drove out of the airport.

  Granted, we were driving away from the city, but the minute we left the airport, things got real rural, real fast. We passed fields with weather-beaten split-rail fences and big old trees, horses grazing in knee-high grass, and, yes, a pickup truck rusting by the side of the road. There was no question about it—I was south of the Mason-Dixon Line.

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” Dev said, as he checked his reflection in the mirror by the sun flap, fixing his hair so it spiked up jauntily.

  “I know, darlin’, I know.” Tammy patted his knee with her non-driving hand. “We are so lucky to have snapped you up! Most sutlers don’t agree to spend the whole summer with the reenactors, livin’ in the tents and all like they do, but I swear it will triple your profits. Authenticity is the name of the game,” sh
e said wisely, “and nothin’ says authentic like a belly full of hardtack and a tent full of mosquitoes.”

  I shot Dev a worried look. I mean, I love authenticity too, but I’m not exactly used to … roughing it. And Dev had the highest thread-count sheets of anyone I knew. Seriously. As I learned from an old episode of MTV Cribs, they were the same as Kanye West’s.

  “That’s me,” Dev said, “authentic all the way.” I could practically hear the dollar signs going off in his head as he chanted quietly, “Triple the profits.”

  “And talented!” Tammy added. “Have you seen this boy’s work?”

  I nodded.

  “I swear, the minute he e-mailed me the pictures of his dresses, I went straight to the captain and said we have got to snap this boy up!” She snapped for emphasis. “I watch that Project Runway; I know a top designer when I see one.”

  Dev preened.

  “And, you”—she kept right on going, looking at me in her rearview mirror—“just as pretty as any of them models! Beau’s sure gonna be sorry he couldn’t come and pick y’all up at the airport.”

  “Beau … ?” Dev asked, one eyebrow raised, a sure sign that his interest had been piqued.

  “Beauregard. Beau, for short. My son.” She rifled around in her purse—her one-handed driving skills were truly impressive—and handed Dev a small snapshot. “He’ll be drivin’ you from battle to battle, totin’ all your stuff in the back of his truck, but he had to get the camp all sorted out this morning.”

  “Has it started already? Did we miss anything?” I asked anxiously.

  “Nothin’, nothin’ at all, darlin’, don’t you fret,” Tammy reassured me. “This was for officers only.”

  “Quite a good-looking boy, Tammy!” Dev appraised the photo, clearly approving of what he saw, which must have meant that Beau was cute, because Dev was nothing if not picky. He showed it to me, but I was too far back to get anything but a glimpse of a cute auburn-haired blur in a football uniform.

  “Well, I sure think so, but I’m biased. And he just got promoted!” Tammy said proudly. “That’s why he wasn’t here. Youngest officer in the Fifteenth—in Fifteenth history, as a matter of fact! Well, except for during the actual … unpleasantness,” she said, swallowing. “But the youngest in the history of the Fifteenth Volunteer Infantry. Course, he’d shrug it off and say he’s the lowest-rankin’ officer there, and nothin’ but an NCO.”

  “‘NCO’?” I asked.

  “A non-commissioned officer,” she explained.

  “I don’t even know what a regular commissioned officer is,” Dev piped up.

  “Well, in the real army, commissioned officers, like generals and things, were trained at West Point, or other military schools, and given authority from the government,” Tammy explained. “They get their command straight from the top. It’s a little bit different in a reenactment. You work your way up from the ranks, and when the present captain retires, the first lieutenant is promoted. And the first lieutenant’s appointed by the captain, so he picks his successor. And so on and so on, down the line.”

  “And NCO?” I asked again.

  “An NCO is an enlisted member of the armed forces who’s given command by a commissioned officer, not by the government itself. In military reenactments, they’re elected by the other soldiers in the company. That’s how corporals and sergeants get chosen in the Fifteenth Alabama. Ain’t as prestigious maybe, but I think it’s wonderful to know that the men you’re fightin’ with have faith in you. Trust you. Respect you. To be chosen by your peers, you know?” She smiled. “I’m awful proud.”

  “So kind of like a People’s Choice Award instead of an Oscar?” Dev mused as he gently placed the photograph back in her cavernous purse.

  “Sure, darlin’, whatever floats your boat,” Tammy replied evenly. She took a particularly sharp turn, and the silver angel charm hanging from the rearview mirror swung wide and hit Dev smack in the forehead.

  “Oooh, sorry, darlin’!” she called.

  “No worries.” Dev picked it up and read off the charm above the angel, “‘Never Drive Faster Than Your Guardian Angel Can Fly.’”

  “Cute, huh?” Tammy grinned. “I keep trying to get Beau to put one up—the way that boy drives, he needs it.” She chuckled fondly. “’Specially in that rusty old heap of his. ‘Beau,’ I said to him, I said, ‘Beau, I don’t care what your name is, you ain’t on the Dukes of Hazzard, and that old truck ain’t no General Lee,’ and he said, ‘Mama, I have no idea what you’re on about—I don’t watch movies with Jessica Simpson in them.’ Jessica Simpson!” She laughed. “Don’t that boy just beat all?”

  “I’d let him beat my—”

  “So where are we going?” I interjected. “Up to the battlefield? To the park?”

  “Park’s up in Marbury,” Tammy answered, “and we’re headed that way. Not too far off now. But first, we’re stoppin’ off at my place. It’s in Pine Level, right on the way. Because we sure can’t have y’all showin’ up lookin’ like that!” she said, laughing.

  Ouch. I looked down. Okay, maybe I was a little bedraggled after all our flight time, but my baby blue lounge pants weren’t exactly schlubby sweats—they had a pin-tucked front and ballet pink ribbon drawstring, and the color scheme was echoed in my vintage print Alice in Wonderland tee, for Pete’s sake!

  “She means we need to wear period costumes,” Dev drawled. “I saw where your mind went.”

  “Oh, no, honey, you look fine,” Tammy assured me as we drove past a sign proudly proclaiming PINE LEVEL: THE BEST LITTLE PLACE TO LIVE!

  Dev snorted.

  “It’s just that those old goats will crucify you if you show up in any kind of pants. Or anything that came into vogue any later than 1864,” she said with a smirk. “And you can’t come back from that. First impressions are everything with these old judgie-wudgies.”

  “I always make an impression,” Dev said grandly.

  “Honey, of that I have no doubt.” Tammy turned down a driveway, passing a swinging white sign that read SWEET HOME-AWAY-FROM-HOME ALABAMA BED AND BREAKFAST.

  Around the corner, a gorgeous pale pink Victorian complete with wraparound porch, turrets, and gingerbread on the eaves materialized out of the trees. We pulled up right in front, under another SWEET HOME-AWAY-FROM-HOME ALABAMA sign hanging over the front porch.

  “Oh, how beautiful.” I sighed. “It looks just like my old dollhouse!”

  “That’s exactly what I was goin’ for.” Tammy turned off the car. “Welcome to Pine Level’s best B&B!”

  “Dev, which suitcase should we open?” I asked as we all climbed out of the minivan.

  “None.” He patted his carry-on with assurance. “I planned ahead. Everything we need is in here.”

  “Come on in, y’all, come in!” Tammy called from the porch. We scampered after her.

  Inside it was just as cute—a vision in soft butter walls and rose-printed curtains. We stood facing a little checkin desk that opened onto a parlor with overstuffed couches and stacks of board games on a mahogany coffee table. Another door, cracked open, led to a formal dining room.

  “Southern chic!” Dev approved. “Love it.”

  “Now, the house has been in the family since it was built in the 1880s, but it was me and Mr. Anderson—God rest his soul—who converted it into a B&B. Not too long before Beau was born, matter of fact,” Tammy explained, as she led us up the stairs. “Not too many guests here right now. Any, actually. Gets quiet in the summer. Not surprising.” She chuckled ruefully. “Most folks aren’t brave enough to face ’Bama in this heat!”

  “I fear nothing,” Dev proclaimed.

  I feared heat stroke just a little bit. But I decided to keep that to myself.

  “Fearless. Just like me.” She smiled. “I knew we were gonna get on great. A boy after my own heart. Now,” she said, stopping at the top of the stairs, poised before the threshold of a door bearing a hand-painted sign with a picture of a big pink flower on it. “This here
’s the Camellia Room.” She indicated the door. “State flower of Alabama!” she added proudly. “Y’all can change in there. There’s a screen, honey, so you can have some privacy.” She smiled at me. “Now, most importantly, y’all ever had sweet tea? Real sweet tea?”

  We shook our heads.

  “Oh, y’all are in for a treat!” She clapped her hands. “I’ll fix us some while y’all freshen up. Come on down to the parlor when y’all are set.”

  Tammy headed down the stairs, and I pushed open the door to the Camellia Room. It must have been the room inside the turret, because the pale pink walls curved around us. Lace curtains fluttered at the window and hung down from the canopy bed. I flung myself onto it.

  “I think this is what heaven looks like,” I said, sighing.

  “Libby Kelting heaven, maybe,” Dev replied. “I think heaven is a flock of male models skinny-dipping in a sea of iced coffee.”

  “Let’s just stay here forever,” I said, stretching out. “This bed is really comfy. And everything’s so pink. This would be much better than a tent. Let’s just stay.”

  “Can’t do that.” Dev set his carry-on bag down next to a white wooden end table bearing a porcelain pitcher decorated with painted camellias. “Eyes on the prize, Libby.”

  “And what is the prize again? Because this bed deserves a prize.”

  “Gucci, Pucci, Dior, and more,” he recited as he started unpacking, laying out items of clothing over the back of the camellia-covered armchair by the window. “Just keep repeating that to yourself. That’s what I do. I’m making enough money so I can start college looking like I spent the summer in effin’ Milan ripping clothes off the backs of runway models. And that makes all the tents, cots, and mosquitoes in the world worth it. You can spend your share on whatever you want. Even on a … I don’t know …” He cast around for an idea. “A spinning wheel.”