Confederates Don't Wear Couture

by Stephanie Kate Strohm

  “I know,” I said.

  “You know?” he asked.

  “Um—never mind,” I said quickly. “Long story. Go on.”

  “Well, she saw on Facebook that I was in North Carolina—”

  “You’re still Facebook friends?!” I burst out. “Really? She cheated on you, and you didn’t defriend her?!” Garrett shot me a look. “Sorry, not the point right now. Keep going.”

  “Anyway, she messaged me. Said she wanted to talk about what happened. Apologize. That she felt really bad about the way she’d treated me. That she’d feel a lot better if we could talk.”

  “And you went?”

  “I don’t know, Libby—I felt bad!” He ran his hands through his hair. “Honestly, I thought it might make me feel better too. I was still so angry at her. Still hurt. I thought it might help … lessen that.”

  “Oh,” I said in a small voice. “Did it?”

  “Actually, yeah.” He nodded. “It did. The hug was just a hug. Nothing more. An ‘I’m sorry, I forgive you’ kind of deal. That was it. And now it really feels over.”

  “And you didn’t tell me—”

  “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t matter. She doesn’t matter to me anymore.”

  “I’m so relieved.” I smiled, and squeezed his hand. “It was just a misunderstanding. Just like you thought Beau and I—”

  He shook my hand off, scowling. “I don’t think I misunderstood anything,” Garrett said darkly.

  “Wait—what?” I gasped.

  “You heard me,” he said tersely.

  “Don’t you see how unfair you’re being?” I cried. “If I can believe you, you should be able to believe me!”

  “I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” he said quietly. “And even worse, I’ve seen the way you look at him.”

  “Garrett, stop, you’re being ridiculous—”

  “I’m not,” he said, anger darkening the edges of his voice. “There are parts of you he understands in a way I never will. He’s part of this fantasy world you want so badly to be a part of, a world I have no interest in belonging to.”

  “You could be a part of it too,” I said tentatively. “Maybe—maybe you could come to the ball tomorrow night?”

  “Come to the ball?” He laughed hollowly. “Are you kidding? This place … this place is disgusting.”

  “What are you talking about?” I shook my head in disbelief. “This place is stunning.” I gestured to the mansion. “Look at it!”

  “Come with me,” he barked, then turned on his heels and started walking briskly toward the back of the house. I followed, trotting on my impractical heels, trying to keep up.

  “Look,” Garrett announced, when we arrived in back of the mansion to face rows and rows of tiny, poorly constructed brown cabins. They were little better than shacks.

  “Are these the slave quarters?” I asked quietly.

  “This is what built everything ‘stunning’ you see out there,” he said somberly. “Didn’t even notice, did you?” He pointed to the row of cabins. “Bet you had no idea this was back here.”

  “I just got here!” I protested.

  “See, Libby? It’s fake. Everything here is fake. This is the reality—people suffering, in shitty, crumbling cabins. That big, glamorous façade out there is just that. A façade. It’s not real, Libby.” He ran his hands through his messy hair. “Nothing here is real.”

  “It’s just a dance, Garrett,” I said shakily.

  “Is it?”

  I took a deep breath. “Yes, it is. A dance. Just a dance.” I took his hand. “Where I want to dance with you.”

  “I don’t want any part of that,” he said, wriggling away. “You want the perfect façade—he’s right out there waiting for you.”

  “Maybe you’re right.” I stepped away. “You don’t understand me. At all.”

  Fighting back tears, I turned, picked up my skirts, and ran, away from him, back to the big house, where things were far less complicated. I will not cry, I told myself silently, breathing deeply. I will not cry.

  By the time I reached the field, all of the tents were set up. I spotted ours easily, the Confederate Couture sign twinkling in the evening light out front.

  “Helloooo!” Dev chirped as I poked my head into the tent. He and Luke were sitting on Dev’s cot in our tent, their laps full of yarn. “I’m teaching Luke how to crochet!” Grinning, the two of them held up their needles to display identical partially completed socks.

  “Could the two of you please be a little less cute right now?” I complained good-naturedly. They exchanged glances.

  “Man troubles, darlin’?” Luke said seriously, setting down his sock. “You decided to let that cousin of mine sweep you off your feet yet?”

  “You thrown that rat bastard out on his ass yet?” Dev flung his sock aside.

  “Still not sure, and, well, it’s over.” I plunked down on my cot.

  Luke made a sympathetic clucking noise with his tongue.

  “About damn time,” Dev muttered. Luke elbowed him in the ribs. “I mean”—Dev rested his chin on his hand—“how are you feeling?”

  “Fine, fine, I’ll be fine.” I flopped back on the cot, resting my head on my thin pillow. “Carry on with your crocheting.”

  “Well, tomorrow you’ll be more than fine,” Dev sang out gaily, “as in ‘damn fine.’ As in ‘Damn, guuuuurl, you fine!’”

  “What are you talking about?” I rolled over to face the crocheting couple.

  “Ball tomorrow!” Dev scolded. “Where’s your head at?”

  “Head’s on a pillow.” I rolled back over. “Going to sleep.”

  “Um, it’s like mad early—”

  “Going to sleep,” I repeated.

  Despite the fact that it was, as Dev had pointed out, “mad early,” and despite the fact that I was still fully clothed and corseted, I fell asleep. I woke up the next morning feeling like I was inside a strange, clouded fog. Were Garrett and I really not together anymore? How was that possible? I rolled over and went back to sleep, desperate to shut out reality.

  And yet, somehow, hours later, I was standing in the middle of our tent, clad in silks and satins.

  “Who else has a fairy godmother who just keeps on improving?!” Dev patted himself on the back. “Helloooooo, Cinderella! Stunning!” He twittered around me like an excited sparrow, picking and fussing and fixing and straightening.

  I didn’t care what I looked like. I was sure the dress looked beautiful, because it was a stunning dress. It was a shade of blue so pale it was nearly a silvery white, and it shimmered when it caught the light. The low-cut neckline was trimmed with unbelievably intricate lace, and the skirt ballooned around me in a perfect arc. I had agreed to five petticoats for tonight.

  “Smile, honey,” Dev commanded as he pinned silver silk flowers into my hair. “There. You’re perfect.”

  I wasn’t perfect. I would never be perfect. And I was starting to realize that perfect might have been the last thing I wanted to be.

  I had been looking forward to the Boone Hall Plantation Ball all summer, but now that it was here, I couldn’t have cared less. All I could think about was the one person who wouldn’t be going to the ball. Was he telling the truth? I wanted to believe him, but I was scared. And I was telling the truth, but it didn’t seem possible for him to believe me.

  “Hello!” Dev snapped his fingers in front of my face. “The boys will be here in, like, two seconds. Stop zoning out!”

  As if Dev had summoned them, a sweet southern drawl called out, “Are y’all ready, or what?”

  “Luke, you should’ve knocked, not hollered at ’em,” Beau reprimanded.

  “Knock on what? It’s a tent!”

  “Keep your trousers on, boys, we’re coming!” Dev yelled back. “Oops, wait, fan.” He shoved a white lace fan into my fingerless-gloved hands, pulled the tent flap back with a flourish, and pushed me through.

  “Holy-Mary-mother-of-God,” Beau whispered, al
l in one breath. At his heels, Willie barked twice. He seemed to approve.

  “Has the South risen again?” Dev smirked.

  “Hush, you.” Luke rapped his knuckles. “Behave. There’s a lady present.”

  “You look … stunning,” Beau said, as he walked toward me and picked up one fingerless-gloved hand. “You sure stunned me.” He bent to kiss my hand through the white net lace, eyes locked with mine as his lips lingered on the back of my hand.

  “Um, hello, have I not stunned anyone?” Dev demanded, hands on the hips of his perfectly tailored black suit, jacket with tails open to reveal a pale blue silk jacquard brocade vest and a giant white floppy cravat.

  “You stunned me the minute you walked into my life in that devastatin’ mornin’ frock coat,” Luke said mistily, enveloping Dev in a giant bear hug and holding him close.

  “Wrinkles!” Dev shrieked, wriggling away. “Don’t wrinkle the suit!” Luke rolled his eyes good-naturedly, leaned in, and kissed him on the cheek. “Much better.” Dev patted Luke fondly. “You can wrinkle me all up after the ball,” he added cheekily.

  “All right, Martha Stewart, let’s get you in there wrinkle-free,” Luke said, taking Dev’s hand. “Shall we?”

  Beau still had my hand. He squeezed it gently, and we followed Dev and Luke away from Sutlers’ Row and toward the mansion, with Willie trotting along behind us. When we got there, however, it looked like a bunch of gophers had beat us to it. The lawn had been torn up, and soldiers with shovels were hastily trying to beat it back into submission.

  “Um, eeuw, who was in charge of the landscaping for this event?” Dev shuddered. “This is heinous. What is the theme here, early World War I trenches?”

  “Naw, they had a bit of a problem earlier with Ol’ Spookie.” Luke chuckled. “Had to get her last warnin’ in—”

  “Luke,” Beau warned.

  “What’s going on?” I clued in to the conversation for the first time. “The ghost is back? What did she do? And what did it have to do with the lawn?”

  “Easy there, Nancy Drew,” Dev muttered.

  “Nothin’, really,” Beau said, patting my arm. “Really nothin’ to get worried about at all. Nothin’ to worry anyone about.” He looked meaningfully at Luke.

  “Yeah, Ol’ Spookie just tore up part of the ground with a shovel, jes’ like some kid playin’ in the sand, writin’ out a message—”

  “What did it say?” I asked sharply.

  “I come for you tonight,” Luke answered in an eerie tone.

  “Luke!” Beau warned again, more forcefully this time.

  “Aw, come on, cuz, she’s a big girl; she can handle it.” Luke shrugged nonchalantly. “Doesn’t matter. Jes’ some idiot playin’ in the dirt.”

  “Exactly. It doesn’t matter,” Beau said firmly.

  “Doesn’t matter? She’s coming for you! Tonight!” I said, my voice getting increasingly shrill.

  “And she’s a crazy bitch with a shovel!” Dev added gleefully.

  “Libby, really, it’s nothin’ to worry about.” Beau squeezed my arm. “Let’s just enjoy the ball, all right? Hey, now, look over there.”

  I followed his gaze to a small tent just off to the side of the mansion with a small group of people clustered around it. Blinding flashes of light emitted from it at sporadic intervals.

  “OMG, is that a paparazzi station?! Like at a red carpet event?!” Dev started bouncing up and down, clutching at Luke’s arm. “Can we go? Can we? Can we?!”

  “Kind of,” Beau explained, as we moved closer to the tent. “They’ve got a really well-done replica of a camera from the 1860s in there, and they’re takin’ photographs. Just like Mathew Brady.”

  “‘I’m your biggest fan, I’ll follow you until you love me,’” Dev sang, completely off-key as always.

  “Darlin’, please don’t butcher the Lady.” Luke winced, covering his ears, as Willie whined before collapsing to roll around in the grass.

  Dev stuck his tongue out at Luke as the four of us waited in line at the photography tent. Once it was our turn, Luke and Dev scampered up first, Dev flinging his arms up to pose in front of his handsome boy in uniform. The photographer raised an eyebrow but said nothing before disappearing under the black cloth to take their picture. Luke pulled a reluctant Dev out of the spotlight, and Beau gently led me into the center of the tent.

  “What a perfect couple.” Dev sighed, clutching Luke’s arm with glee. “Doesn’t she look beautiful! Libby, you look so beautiful!”

  I didn’t feel beautiful. I didn’t feel anything. I was empty. Hollow. Numb. A beautiful glass bubble. I painted on my smile and stared vacantly out at the photographer. I could feel heat radiating from Beau’s arm where my hand rested elegantly on his jacket, but it didn’t reach me. I was cold all the way through.

  Light exploded with a blinding flash.

  “You all right?” Beau patted my white-gloved hand with his. “You don’t seem quite yourself tonight.”

  “Oh, I’m fine,” I reassured him. “Just fine.” I squeezed his arm and smiled shakily as we walked up toward the house. Willie stopped his rolling and jumped up to follow us in.

  “Stay here,” Beau ordered Willie, once we’d climbed the steps of the porch and our canine companion showed no sign of abandoning us. Willie whined in response. “I mean it, now,” he said more firmly. Willie whined one more time, then resigned himself to his fate, lying down on the porch and resting his head on his paws. “Good boy.” Beau scratched his ears. “Shall we?”

  Beau led me inside. It was stunning. The barbecue at Twelve Oaks didn’t hold a candle to this shimmering golden whirl of Technicolor silks and satins. Soldiers in blue and gray mingled, laughing, the war put on hold for tonight.

  “I think I’ve died and gone to taffeta heaven!” Dev pretended to swoon. “Where can a nice boy like me get a drink in a place like this? Take me to the punch, soldier!”

  Dev and Luke disappeared into the world of whirling couples.

  “Well, Libby,” Beau said, turning to face me, as the couples applauded the end of a dance. “It’s what we’ve been waiting for.” He bowed while the orchestra tuned up for what sounded like the beginning of a waltz. “I think they’re playing our song.” He grinned and held out his hand.

  I took his hand, and he led me into the center of the floor, pulling me into him, his hand warm and strong on the small of my back. As the orchestra began to play—a waltz, just as I’d thought—he steered me around the room with easy confidence. But despite the fact that Beau was dancing beautifully, that even I was dancing beautifully for once, I couldn’t stop searching for a familiarly awkward, lanky frame. Every time I spotted the top of a brown, curly head, I looked for glasses, but it wasn’t him. He wasn’t coming. He was never coming.

  “Air,” I said. “I think I need some air.” The dance had stopped, but the couples hadn’t stopped spinning. The room wouldn’t stop spinning. What had I done? Had I really lost Garrett? And what was I doing here, in this room, in this place where nothing was real, dancing like nothing mattered, while I was losing the person who mattered most to me? Losing something real?

  “I knew you weren’t all right.” Beau grabbed me by both shoulders, steadying me on my swaying feet. “How ’bout a cold drink? I’m gonna get you a lemonade. A lemonade, all right?” I nodded mutely. “Head out onto the terrace and get some air. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Nodding, I walked shakily toward the back of the ballroom, toward the terrace, the cool night air pulling me onward like a beacon. It was completely empty out there, and I clung to a wrought-iron railing, shining in the Carolina moonlight. Beau returned mere moments later, clutching a glass of lemonade like a life raft.

  “Here you go.” He held out the cup, and I took a small sip. “Libby, tell me. What’s going on?” he asked searchingly, his eyes locking with mine. “Is there somethin’ I can do?”

  “No.” I shook my head, setting my lemonade down on a curve of the banister. “No, t
here’s nothing you can do. Nothing more, I mean. Because you’re perfect.” I paused, taking a deep breath. “But I’m not looking for perfect. I’m looking for the opposite, actually. I’m looking for real. And that’s the opposite of what this is. Because none of this is real. Not even … us, I don’t think.”

  “Libby,” he said, taking my hands. “Just ’cause I’m not wearin’ my Crimson Tide T-shirt and you’re not wearin’ jeans, doesn’t mean what we have isn’t real.”

  “I think it does.” I sighed. “It’s like … It’s like … The Bachelor, or something. You think you feel something, because you’re in this magical world, where everything’s perfect, with fantasy dates and helicopters and hot tubs—”

  “Or horseshit and hardtack,” Beau interrupted. “Crazy romantic.”

  “I’m being serious.” I kept going. “This can’t be real, because this world isn’t real. I don’t think we’d work outside of it. Just like nobody on The Bachelor stays together.”

  “Trista and Ryan,” Beau said stubbornly. “So did Jason and Molly.”

  “I am … stunned that you know that,” I said, my jaw dropping.

  “My mama watches it.” He shrugged sheepishly.

  “Jason and Molly aside,” I continued. “You’re wonderful. But the problem is, no matter how wonderful you are, you’re not—not—”

  “Not him,” Beau finished for me.

  “I’m in love with somebody else,” I whispered.

  “And no amount of horseshit and hardtack is gonna change that,” he murmured.

  “Oh, Beau—”

  “I don’t think I can stop loving you.” He dropped my hands. “But I can let you go. Because I know that’s the right thing to do.”

  “Beau.” I leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “I’m so sorry. And thank you. And—”

  “Go, Libby.” He smiled sadly. “Just go.”

  Giving him one last look, I picked up my enormous skirts and ran down the steps of the terrace, into the gardens in back of the house. I sped through lanes and hedgerows, past roses and fountains, thinking only that I had to find Garrett. Had to fix this. Fix us. Only where would I find him? In his tent at the Union camp, probably.