Confederates Don't Wear Couture Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.
    â€œJesus,” I said, wiping some sweat off my forehead. “If all those Southern belles had carried their wardrobes everywhere, they would have been ripped.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œThat 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.
    â€œNot 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œMrs. Anderson, I presume?” Dev asked once he’d extricated himself.
    â€œPlease, 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.
    â€œDid 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!”
    â€œThanks.” I smiled.
    â€œNow, 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