Confederates Don't Wear Couture by Stephanie Kate Strohm

ma’am. Please pay my associate at the counter.”
    He waved her over to me. I rolled my eyes. Associate?
    â€œSo how is business?” Tammy asked excitedly.
    â€œBooming!” Dev rubbed his hands together gleefully.
    I waited as Mrs. Fourteenth Ohio filled out her shipping information and wrote a check, then placed it with the others in our lockbox.
    â€œKnew it!” Tammy clapped, bouncing up and down on her heels. “Y’all are the talk of Sutlers’ Row. Buzz has been building, spreadin’ all the way to the outskirts of the Union camp. Ran into a lady all the way from
Maine
who was headed to you!”
    â€œGenius!” Dev shrieked. “I am a genius!”
    â€œI knew you were!” she said, and patted his back.
    I thanked Mrs. Fourteenth Ohio for her purchase and sent her on her way, making sure I carefully filed her shipping info with the burgeoning list of orders Dev would have to fill.
    â€œWhat now? Who’s next? Step right up!” Dev addressed the emptying row of tents. “I will sew you a dream! Spin straw into gold! The angels will weep tears of joy at your beauty!”
    Dev had indeed gotten coffee from the Union troops this morning, and I think the sudden influx of caffeine into his system may have been too much for him.
    â€œAw, hon, take a break.” Tammy patted his arm. “Y’all have to, anyway. Everythin’ shuts down for the battle, and it’s just about that time.”
    â€œ
Everything
shuts down?” Dev turned to me, wide-eyed. “The genius wants some kettle corn.”
    â€œWell, I think y’all sure deserve some kettle corn!” Tammy squeezed him tightly.
    â€œLibbeeee,” Dev whined, “will you get me some kettle corn? I’d go myself, only I’m just . . . so . . .
tired.
” He wilted dramatically into Tammy’s arms.
    â€œWhy you poor thing.” Tammy felt his forehead to see if he had a fever and clucked sympathetically. “He’s all tuckered out. Here, Libby,” Tammy said, reaching into the small crocheted reticule dangling around her wrist and extracting a bill. “Get him some kettle corn, and some for you, and some for Beau, if y’all don’t mind findin’ him before the battle.”
    â€œI don’t mind.” I took the money and left, marching down the lane toward the food sutlers. “Don’t mind at all,” I muttered again, once they were out of earshot. “Sure, I’ll get you your kettle corn. Don’t mind at all.” I mean, seriously. What was I, his personal assistant? His kettle corn waitress? Ridiculous.
    It was funny. Most of the soldiers placed so much emphasis on period authenticity, but the minute the camp was open to the public, it was crawling with tourists dripping in grease from Indian fry bread and cracking open Cokes. I mean, the public couldn’t step onto the battlefield, but they mingled in and out among the tents, talking to the soldiers. Which was, I suppose, the point, but it certainly looked strange. A family in matching Mickey Mouse T-shirts and fanny packs was deep in conversation with a particularly grimy Confederate soldier. Certainly something I never thought I’d see.
    Seized with a sudden curiosity, I turned out of Sutlers’ Row and clambered up the hill toward the lone, shiny white tent. It did indeed say “Dixie Acres” in glittery peach script and, strangely enough, was perched just outside the border of the reenactment. I lifted up the tent flap, pushed my way in, and was greeted by a frigid blast of cold air. Was this tent
air-conditioned?
I didn’t even know that was possible!
    â€œHi, there!” a male voice boomed, over a Muzak version of “Tara’s Theme.” It was the man in the starched suit who’d been arguing with Cody. He smiled, displaying more white teeth than I thought was possible to fit inside a human mouth. “For chrissakes,