Confederates Don't Wear Couture Read Online Free PDF

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.
    â€œIsn’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.”
    â€œNow, y’all gonna keep flappin’ your gums, or y’all gonna get in the van?” Tammy called, waiting in the driver’s seat.
    â€œSHOTGUN!” Dev screamed, and rocketed into the front seat.
    I rolled my eyes and clambered in back.
    â€œSir, you are no gentleman,” Tammy admonished him.
    â€œAnd you, miss, are no lady,” he replied.
    â€œDon’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.
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œI 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,” she 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.
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œAnd talented!” Tammy added. “Have you seen this boy’s work?”
    I nodded.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œAnd, 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.”
    â€œBeau . . . ?” Dev asked, one eyebrow raised, a sure sign that his interest had been piqued.
    â€œBeauregard. 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.”
    â€œHas it started already? Did we miss anything?” I asked anxiously.
    â€œNothin’, nothin’ at all, darlin’, don’t you fret,” Tammy reassured me. “This was for officers only.”
    â€œQuite a good-looking