Pilgrims Don't Wear Pink by Stephanie Kate Strohm

had chanced upon a common whore.”
    Ugh! My jaw dropped, but only for a moment.
    â€œWell, one would really appreciate it if one didn’t use language like that in front of the children.”
    â€œI know what a ‘whore’ is,” one of the girls piped up. “It’s a dental hygienist. Like my dad’s girlfriend.”
    â€œThat actually wasn’t what I meant. I was referring to your completely unintelligible syntax, Miss Fennyweather.” I mean really, she sounded like Yoda. I wanted my girls to be grammatically correct. “Good day.”
    I waved her off and returned to the pansies, leaving Miss Fennyweather to shut her parasol briskly and walk, mouth opening and closing like a fish, away down the lane. And the other thing: “Robin, that’s not a nice word. I’m sure your dad’s girlfriend isn’t a whore.”
    â€œBut my mom
said.
”
    I dealt with this the rest of our flower-picking excursion, trying not to dissolve into giggles every time my eyes met Cam’s, as Cam tried not to choke on his cake, shaking as he was with suppressed laughter. Once the girls had picked enough flowers, they filed inside.
    â€œHey.” Cam straightened and dusted the cake crumbs off his hands, making his way over to me. “I should really get back to the ship. I’ll see you at the Showdown tonight. You know where the beach is?”
    â€œNope.” I shook my head.
    â€œThen I’ll pick you up outside your ship—the
Lettie Mae,
right?”
    â€œRight.” I nodded.
    â€œSweet.” Checking that the girls were inside, he kissed me quickly. “Until tonight,” he said, making it sound like a promise—a promise of what, I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t wait to find out.
    â€œTonight.” I breathed in the beautiful words, magical
West Side Story
orchestra popping back into my head. “Tonight, tonight, there’s only you tonight,” I sang softly as I ducked back into the house and Cam hopped the fence.
    Â 
    We had just enough time to get everyone’s flowers in the heavy wooden press before two o’clock rolled around and it was drop-off time at the Welcome Center. On my way back, I heard a familiar voice flagging me down.
    â€œLibby! Libby!” I turned. It was Roger, the museum publicist. “It
is
Libby, right?” He caught up with me, wheezing slightly as he placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
    â€œYes, hi, I’m Libby,” I introduced myself.
    â€œOne of Maddie’s interns, right?” I nodded. “I thought so. But I left a message for you with the other one and I had no idea what she was saying, so I wasn’t sure if you got it.”
    â€œYou mean Ash—uh, Susannah Fennyweather?”
    â€œYeah.” I detected the hint of an eye roll. “Did she tell you about the costumes? For the Sea Shanty Showdown?”
    â€œSort of. I mean, she told me but in her own special way.”
    â€œThat’s what I was afraid of.” Definite eye roll. “We’ve got a pirate wench costume waiting for you down at the shack. I thought we could take some nice publicity shots, for some promotional literature—brochures and stuff—and kind of work the pirate angle. Pirates are fun. People see pirates, they think fun, they think the museum is fun, yadda, yadda, yadda. And the
Camden Crier
is coming to do a piece on it too, so we can get a nice color shot of you in there. You don’t mind, right?”
    â€œUm, no, I guess not.”
    â€œThank God.” He mopped some sweat off his brow. “I was afraid I wasn’t gonna get a wench. The other one wouldn’t do it, but she told me ‘wenching’ would be ‘just your cup of tea.’”
    Jesus. Thanks, Ashling. “Um, just so you know, Roger, I’m doing this to help the museum, not because I have a particular affinity for ‘wenching’ or sundry