New Uses For Old Boyfriends (10 page)

Lila glanced up from the photo. “And you're
sure
I went out with him?”

“According to him.” Whitney paused, an impish grin on her face. “He only sews now if I guilt-trip the heck out of him. We'll
both be in trouble if he finds out that I blabbed.” She became pensive. “He probably could kill both of us with just his pinkie finger and a paper clip. He did do all that badass, supersecret Marine stuff.”

“I'm the soul of discretion.” Lila exclaimed a few more times over how cute Kyrie was, then said good-bye to the Realtor and got back to her busy schedule of
taking action
—with maybe one little detour along the way.

*   *   *

The Ramones' “I Wanna Be Sedated” was blasting on the Whinery's sound system while Jenna wiped down the bar. Summer was sitting front and center, tapping away on her laptop.

“Hey.” Summer lifted her glass of lemonade in greeting. “Working from my satellite office today.”

“You look troubled.” Jenna poured a glass of ice water and slid it across the bar to Lila, Old West saloon–style. “Sit down and spill your guts.”

“I need tech support.” Lila took a seat and positioned her stool so she wouldn't be blinded by the afternoon sunlight reflecting off the crystal chandelier. “I want to sell one of my mother's Diors on eBay, but my computer skills are pretty much limited to looking up my old classmates on Facebook and weeping bitter tears.”

“I've been there.” Jenna blew out her breath. “Existential angst, red wine, and Facebook do
not
mix.”

“Hold up.” Summer tapped her fingernail on the bar. “So these Diors—your mother has more than one?”

“Her attic is crammed full of couture,” Lila said. “Plus the guest room, most of the closets, and at least two storage units that she'll admit to.”

“That's a lot of fancy old clothes.”

“Yes, it is. And everything must go, because she needs to downsize, like, yesterday.”

Summer kept tapping her nail. “Know what you should do? You should rent out a storefront for the summer season.”

Lila seized on this idea and got all excited—for about three seconds, after which reality set in. “We don't have the cash flow to open a business right now. In that we have no cash at all. That's why we're selling the Dior gown in the first place.”

“You have to spend money to make money,” Summer declared with supreme authority. “Go big or go home—words to live by.”

“I can't even figure out how to put together an eBay listing,” Lila protested. “How am I supposed to open a retail business?”

“You just do it,” Summer assured her. “It's amazing how much shit you can get done when you don't stop to think about the consequences.”

“Everyone comes to Black Dog Bay for a reason,” Jenna said. “Maybe this is your reason.”

Lila considered this for a moment, then shook her head. “You have to remember, I grew up here. This is the opposite of a fresh start. I'm up to my eyeballs in old mistakes and ex-boyfriends and unfinished business.” She paused to laugh. “That would be a good name for the vintage boutique: Unfinished Business. Appropriate on so many levels.”

“That boutique is going to happen,” Summer predicted. “Mark my words.”

“But how?” Lila turned up her palms. “I don't have any money or business experience, and my mother will fight me on every single sale.”

“Put it out to the universe and wait for a sign,” Jenna advised.

“I'd need a pretty clear sign,” Lila said. “Like, flashing neon right in my face.”

“Then throw that out there and see what comes back. In the meantime, let's get you up and running on eBay.” Summer made a little moue with her lips as she reviewed their tech support
options. “Let's see, Dutch is in meetings all day; Ingrid could probably help, but she has science Olympiad after school. We need someone smart and reasonably computer literate, with too much free time on their hands.” She snapped her fingers and grabbed her cell phone. “I know just the guy.” She dialed the phone and held it to her ear. Instead of greeting the other party with “Hello,” she yelled, “Proof of life, Sorensen! Where the hell have you been? Did you
die
?”

Jenna clapped both hands to her heart. Lila glanced around in confusion.

Summer turned her back on them and walked outside to finish her conversation. Two minutes later, she was back on her barstool. “We're all set,” she told Lila. “Jake Sorensen's on it.”

“Who's Jake Sorensen?” Lila asked.

“The hottest guy to ever walk the streets of Black Dog Bay.” Jenna twisted up a pink dish towel. “Everybody's dream man.”

Summer rolled her eyes at this. “He's pretty hot. He's also emotionally crippled, too rich for his own good, and suffering from a terminal case of ennui.”

“Like I said.” Jenna nodded. “Everybody's dream man.” She looked longingly at the cell phone. “Did you tell him I love him?”

“I don't have to, honey. He knows. Ooh, I love this song.” Summer did a little chair dance as Dierks Bentley's “Drunk on a Plane” came on.

“Jake Sorensen,” Lila repeated. “Never heard of him. He must have moved here after I left.”

“He only lives here part-time,” Summer said. “No one knows what he does for the rest of the year. He's very inscrutable. It adds to the whole Jake Sorensen mystique.”

“As do the bedroom eyes and the bone structure of a Michelangelo sculpture,” Jenna added.

“Mark my words: One of these days Mr. Inscrutable is going
to meet his match, and all his money and mystique won't mean jack. But until then, he might as well make himself useful.” Summer, still chair dancing, put her hands in the air and waved them like she just didn't care. “E-mail some pictures of the dress to me. I'll forward them to him, and he'll take care of everything.”

“H
oly crap.” Five days later, Lila sat at her father's desk, staring at the winning bid for the white Dior dress. “Mom, check it out!”

Daphne peered over Lila's shoulder at the computer screen. “Did someone buy my gown?”

“Yeah—for about ten times what I expected.” Lila skimmed the message from the winning bidder. “The buyer wants to know if we have any more pieces similar to this one.”

“No.”

Lila kept reading the buyer's note. “She says the seam construction and appliqué work look meticulous. And check out her signature—she's a member of some online vintage clothing forum.”

“Stop clicking!” Daphne cried as Lila started to investigate the forum. “No good can come of this.”

“Are you kidding me? Cash money can come of this, Mom! We're sitting on a gold mine full of silk and cashmere and Chantilly lace.” Lila bookmarked the online discussion board.

“I don't care for that look in your eyes,” Daphne said.

“Look how many bidders we had.” Lila pored over the analytics
that eBay provided. “Look how many page views we got for this one item! There's a real market here.”

“For the last time, it's not merely an ‘item'; it is a one-of-a-kind couture original. It has a history. It was designed and created by artisans. And you sold it to the highest bidder like a soulless mercenary.”

“You say ‘soulless mercenary'; I say ‘financially solvent.'” Lila mulled over her options. “You mentioned you were friends with Cedric Jameson back in the day?”

Daphne's expression flitted between brassy and bashful. “Oh, we were a bit more than friends, sweet pea. I was his muse. His obsession.”

“I remember you saying that.” Lila cleared her throat and pulled up some bio information. “But Cedric Jameson is gay, according to Wikipedia.”

Daphne waved one hand. “Who are you going to believe, me or Wikipedia? Besides, the relationship between artist and muse can't be reduced to base sexuality.”

“Whatever. Wikipedia also says he has a cult following in the fashion world and his older pieces are extremely rare and valuable. Do you still have anything of his?”

“I have hand-sewn, made-to-measure originals. They're not even dresses; they're labors of love.” Daphne narrowed her eyes. “And you may not lay a finger on them, so don't even think about it.”

“Too late.” Lila jumped to her feet. “People will pay for old clothes. And hats and handbags and luggage. Anything with the right label.”

“Stop right there!” Daphne threw up her palm. “No one touches my Louis Vuitton luggage. Not now, not ever. And the fact that you think this is about labels shows how ignorant you are. The labels
aren't what matter to a real collector. What matters is the stitching, the fabric, the style.”

“My mistake. So back to the original question: Any chance you're still in touch with your old buddy Cedric?”

Daphne gazed out the window. “He's been a recluse in Brussels for the last twenty years. One of those tortured artistic geniuses.”

Something in her mother's tone stirred Lila's suspicions. “I didn't ask if he was a recluse, Mom. I asked if you're still in touch with him.”

Daphne hesitated for a long moment. “We exchange letters every few years.”

“Uh-huh. And what does he do when he's not wasting away in a garret somewhere in Brussels?”

“I'm not entirely sure.” Daphne gestured vaguely. “I believe he travels.”

“Interesting.” Lila loomed over her mother. “And where do these travels take him?”

Hemming, hawing, and throat-clearing ensued. “I couldn't really say.”

“I see.” Lila nodded. “Well, get out your pen and your fancy engraved stationery, because we're inviting your tortured genius of an ex-boyfriend to come do a special appearance for his die-hard fans at the fanciest vintage couture shop on the eastern seaboard.”

Daphne stopped feigning confusion and focused on Lila with laserlike intensity. “What are you talking about?”

Lila grinned as excitement coursed through her. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt so energized. “The boutique we're going to open this summer.”

“We don't have a boutique,” Daphne pointed out.

“You mean we don't have a boutique . . .
yet
,” Lila corrected.

Daphne's laugh gave way to an expression of horror as she
realized Lila was serious. “We're
never
having a boutique. We can't afford it, for one thing.”

“A few more eBay sales like that and we'll have enough for a deposit on a short-term lease.” Lila left out the part where they'd be raiding her mother's climate- and moisture-controlled storage units for inventory.

Daphne wasn't going to give up without a fight. “And for another thing, we're targeting a very specialized market. Your average tourist is not just going to walk in off the street and drop a thousand dollars on a cocktail dress.”

“Excuse me? You've been to the boardwalk in July. Plenty of those tourists are filthy rich, not to mention the summer residents.” Lila tapped her temple, feigning confusion. “Now why are they summer residents, again? Oh, that's right—it's because they have enough money to buy
summer homes
on the beach.”

“Just because they have money doesn't mean they have taste,” Daphne argued. “Civilians want brand-new, mass-produced ‘style' from the mall, not a Louis Féraud maxidress from 1965.”

Lila laughed. “Civilians?”

“The general public,” Daphne clarified. “Tragic, banal
non
visionaries who wear whatever the magazines tell them to.”

“We'll just see about that.”

“No, we won't! There's nothing to see!”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Lila squared her shoulders and looked out the window at the overcast sky. “I'm waiting for a sign.”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, as Lila parked the FUV between two vacant spots at the very back of the grocery store parking lot (she'd given up hoping that her spatial skills would improve with practice), the clouds literally parted and golden rays of sun broke through the fog.

She stumbled over the folding metal running boards
again
while trying to get out of the driver's seat. Her purse went flying and her keys, sunglasses, wallet, and phone scattered across the pavement.

Lila snatched up her phone and hit the power button. “Live, damn it, live!”

While she stared down at the screen, a manicured hand offered up her sterling silver key ring.

“You okay?” asked a warm-eyed, middle-aged woman with a burnished copper bob and a slight Boston accent.

“Yes, thank you.” Lila sighed with relief as her cell phone screen lit up and demanded her password. “This car and I are battling to the death, and I let down my guard for a second.”

“You're going up against three tons of metal and glass and you're wearing those heels? Good luck, girl.”

While Lila scooped up her sunglasses, wallet, and lipstick, the other woman located a travel pack of tissue, a tin of breath mints, and a tube of tinted sunscreen.

“I think that's everything.” Lila frowned down at the fresh scratch on her sunglasses lens.

“Wait, is this yours?” The woman dashed two parking spaces over and picked up a scrap of silver.

Lila recognized the metal flower comb her biggest fan had given her at the engagement ring boneyard. “Yes, thank you.”

The woman handed over the mints and the sunscreen, but held on to the hair comb. “This is beautiful. Is it vintage?”

Lila nodded. “Almost two hundred years old.”

“I love it. Where'd you get it?”

Lila summarized her encounter with Marilyn at the estate jeweler. “It's one of a kind.” A little stab of guilt shot through her. She'd promised to love this little piece of steel as it deserved to be loved. And here she'd been schlepping it around at the bottom of
her bag amid loose change and lint, nearly abandoning it in a grocery store parking lot.

The woman held the metal prongs up in the sunlight, examining the comb from different angles. “Is it silver?”

“Steel,” Lila corrected.

“That is so cool.” There was a note of wistful longing in the woman's voice. She saw something in this little metal flower that Lila could not.

“Keep it,” Lila said.

“Oh, I couldn't—”

“Please. I insist. The original owner wanted it to be worn and appreciated.”

“Are you sure?”

Lila nodded. “I'd forgotten it was in my bag, to be honest. And you just saved it from getting run over by a minivan. You and this comb are meant to be together.”

“Thank you.” The woman fixed the comb in her hair, checking her reflection in the FUV's windshield. “This is exactly what I needed—something beautiful and brand-new. Well, it's technically old, but you know what I mean. I'm staying at the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast, and I burned half my wardrobe last night in a bonfire.” She lifted one eyebrow. “Including my Birkin.”

Lila recoiled, clutching her chest as if shot. She finally understood how her mother must have felt, listing the eighties Dior on eBay. “You . . . you
burned
a Birkin bag?”

“It had to be done,” the woman said, her expression grim. “Frankly, a lot of unpleasant things have had to be done lately. The Birkin was the least of it. And now, I want to start over with accessories that
aren't
tainted with lies and guilt and deception.”

“I know how you feel.” Lila put her hand on the woman's cashmere coat sleeve. “I just got divorced, myself. It's like your soul has been strip-mined.”

“Yes. Thank you. You get it.”

“But just so you know, there's a bar called the Whinery right down the street from your hotel. They have a box where you can drop off any other unwanted Birkin bags. Or you could just call me, and I'll take them off your hands.”

“I'll bear that in mind.” The woman touched the facets of the little steel flower, looking happy. Looking victorious.

Lila remembered how she herself used to feel, back when she still had the means to shop her way through emotional crises. That sudden surge of yearning, the sense of
having
to have something. She didn't feel that way anymore—not about clothes or furniture or cars, at least.

But she did feel that way about her new idea for a summer storefront. Maybe this whole thing with the hair comb was her sign. Maybe not.

Either way, she decided to take action.

She leaned back against the FUV, pulled out the real estate agency's business card, and dialed the office number. “Hey, Whitney, it's Lila. . . . No, I'm actually not calling about the house today. I'm wondering if you deal with commercial real estate at all? . . . Great, because I may be in the market to lease a storefront for the next few months. Do you happen to know if there's anything available near the boardwalk? . . . Oh, really? And it just came on the market today? Well, what a coincidence.”