New Uses For Old Boyfriends (12 page)

I
n a futile attempt to distract herself from thinking about Ben, Lila spent the rest of the afternoon taking inventory of the guest room closet, where she discovered a gorgeous leopard-print car coat. The lapel consisted of a series of gently ruffled panels of black wool, the nipped-in waistline featured artfully stitched darting, and the bottom half flared out in a dramatic A-line. When she held the garment up for inspection, she noticed that a few of the buttons had fallen off and been stored in a small paper envelope in the pocket.

She had no idea who had made the coat or how old it was, but she had a feeling it would go fast—and for a high price—on eBay. So she folded the garment over one arm and headed downstairs in search of a needle and thread.

As she prepared to reattach the buttons, Daphne's voice rang out from the hallway.

“Stop right there! What do you think you're doing?”

Lila glanced down at the fabric, then back at her mother. “Sewing on a button?”

“Unhand that coat immediately, young lady. You're not qualified to do any repair work.”

“Relax, Mom. It's just a button.”

“Just a button.” Daphne laughed in disbelief. “Allow me to enlighten you: When it comes to couture, there's no such thing as ‘just a button.' Every seam, every sleeve, every zipper, is expertly placed and stitched.”

“But—”

Daphne shushed her. “You sewing a button onto that Valentino is like me taking a Sharpie to the
Mona Lisa
.”

“Enough with the
Mona Lisa
analogies. There are other paintings, you know.”

“Fine. You sewing a button onto that Valentino is like me taking a Sharpie to the
Birth of Venus
.”

Lila held up the coat. “Are you sure this is Valentino?”

“Yes.”

“How can you tell? There's no label.”

“It's Valentino,” Daphne said. “I'm positive. I'm also positive that you're about to defile a masterpiece, not to mention bring down the resale value considerably. Put that needle down.”

Lila put the needle down.

Daphne paced the perimeter of the rug, thinking. “You know, this is going to be a problem. If we're going to sell vintage pieces, we'll need someone to handle repairs and alterations.”

Lila was so happy that her mother had finally reconciled herself to the idea of selling off her collection that she didn't dare interrupt.

“Where are we going to find a Valentino-worthy seamstress in this godforsaken backwater?” Daphne grabbed the coat and examined the loose bits of thread on the lapels. “Maybe we can find someone in Dover or Wilmington who can come in every few weeks.”

“No need to outsource to Dover.” Lila headed up to her room,
taking the steps two at a time. “We've got the perfect solution right here in Black Dog Bay.”

*   *   *

Another day, another ex-boyfriend.

As late afternoon faded into dusk, Lila knocked on the door of the charming Craftsman-style cottage and waited on the welcome mat with what she hoped was an air of casual confidence. She'd taken great care with her hair and makeup, striving for a balance of pretty and approachable with jeans, a feminine green blouse, and her hair in loose waves. No sweaters tonight. Or sweat. Or thinking about sweat-drenched shirts and the abs underneath them . . .

No one answered the door, so she knocked again.

Still no response.

She listened to the rustle of the wind blowing through the towering pine trees. Whitney hadn't been exaggerating when she'd compared this place to
Walden
. The wooded enclave obstructed the views of the road and neighboring houses, and the atmosphere was peaceful but remote, in total contrast to the close-knit community of the beach properties.

Lila was deliberating whether she should sit down on the stoop to wait when she glimpsed a man jogging along a winding dirt trail. He was tall, imposing, muscular, and, yes, saturated in sweat again.

And just like that, she was thinking about everything she had resolved not to think about.

Malcolm took out his earbuds and slowed to a walk when he noticed her. “Lila Alders.”

“Hi.” She smiled and studied his face, trying to remember any specifics about him. “I'm back.”

“I see that.” He came closer. Despite the perspiration soaking
his T-shirt, all she could smell was the faint trace of laundry detergent.

“We didn't really get to catch up the other night.” She leaned back against the sturdy wooden porch railing, keeping the canvas bag containing the Valentino coat behind her legs. “How've you been?”

He shrugged, leaning over to retie his shoelace. “Fine.”

She shoved the bag back with her heel. “You look very serious and grown-up. I heard you joined the military.”

He straightened up. “The Marines.”

“Were you in the Middle East?”

“Okinawa, Japan. I was in the military police force. SRT.”

“What's SRT?” she asked.

“Special Reaction Team. It's like the military SWAT.”

She blinked a few times. “That sounds pretty intense.”

He finally smiled. “It had its moments. And then I got recruited for one of the intelligence teams in D.C.”

“Which I'm guessing you can't talk about.”

“It sounds more exciting than it is. We mostly sat around talking and using computers.”

“And now you're back in Delaware?”

His smile turned wry. “I guess none of us can stay away, huh?”

“I guess not. I'm here trying to help my mom get back on her feet.” She toyed with the pendant at the hollow of her throat. “So what else are you up to these days?”

“Doing some consulting work.”

“Oh?” She waited for him to elaborate, but he just stood there. “Like what kind of consulting?”

He started stretching his calf muscles. “Cybersecurity, mostly.”

“Oh. And, um, what does that entail?”

“Patching digital holes.” He moved on to stretching his quads.

“Well, if you have a few spare minutes, I could really use your
help.” She opened the bag at her feet and pulled out the leopard-print coat.

He took a step back. “What's that?”

“It's a Valentino coat from the early sixties. Isn't it beautiful?”

He lifted his water bottle to his mouth, took a swig, and spit into the bushes.

Lila kept her TV-host smile fixed on her lips. “I'm hoping you can help me out with it.”

His eyes narrowed. “Help you out with what?”

She pulled the missing buttons out of the pocket. “I need someone to reattach these. Someone who knows what they're doing.”

He regarded her with a mix of silent horror and outrage, so she just kept talking. “Can you work with materials of this quality?”

He set the water bottle down on the ground, crossed his arms, and gave her a stare that made her shiver. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

She lowered her voice and whispered, “It's okay. I know everything. I know about . . .” She waited a beat. “The seersucker.”

Malcolm visibly paled. “I am going to
kill
Whitney.”

“Now, now, let's not go killing anyone just yet.” Lila pushed the coat into his arms. “Let's focus on the topic at hand. Can you fix this?”

He picked up one of the buttons and examined it in the fading twilight. “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

The big, burly former marine looked insulted. “Yes, I'm sure. It's a basic button technique with black upholstery thread.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

He gave her a derisive smirk. “Not surprised. It's not like you ever had to clean up after yourself.”

“You know what? You're absolutely right.” She stepped back
and held her arms away from her body. “I was spoiled and superficial and apparently cursed with a very spotty memory. Go ahead—take your shots. All I ask is that, when you're done, you give me the best button technique you have.”

He mulled this over for a moment. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I'll pay you?” Even as she said this, she realized she had no idea what she should offer. “You just said that your job is patching holes, right? So this is basically the same thing! It's just cloth instead of digital code or whatever!”

He muttered something she didn't quite catch, then asked, “Do you even remember what happened in high school?”

“Um.” She crinkled her nose. “Yes?”

“Stop lying. You have no idea what I'm talking about. I called you at least five times after we hung out. And you never called me back.”

“Well, I would have if I'd known you were so good with a needle and thread!” She threw up her hands. “I was young! I was foolish! I'm paying the price now, if that makes you feel any better.”

He rolled his eyes in disgust. “Just give me that. I have to fix it now, or you'll tell everyone about me.”

“Okay, A, I'm not going to tell anyone anything about you, and B, stop talking about sewing like it's some dirty secret.”

He got a haunted look in his eyes. “It is a dirty secret.”

“Are you even listening to yourself? You're a former SWAT-military-police-whatever who can baste and backstitch. It's the ultimate woman bait. You should be down at the Whinery right now, talking really loudly about how you can bench-press a Volkswagen and then whip up a darling little sailor suit for your niece.” She nodded, considering the implications. “You could put your sweaty hands all over every cardigan in this town.”

At this, his expression went from defensive to confused. And then his gaze intensified with unmistakable, almost predatory interest.

She straightened the neckline of her blouse.
“Anyway . . .”

He folded up the coat and tucked it under his arm.

“Ooh.” She winced. “Try not to get sweat on it.”

He ignored that. “I'll reattach these buttons on one condition, and that condition is, you keep your mouth shut and we both forget this ever happened.”

“Fine.” Lila shrugged one shoulder. “I'll keep this quiet if you want me to, but I have to tell you, you're making a major tactical error here. Do you know how many women would love to find a hot, hunky guy who can sew?”

He spit in the bushes again.

Lila took this as her opportunity to open negotiations. “Look, I'm going to need a lot more repairs and alterations over the next few weeks, so I'd love to officially hire you. Can I put you on retainer or something?”

“No. No more repairs. No retainers. I fix this button and then we go our separate ways.”

“We don't have to agree to any set terms right now.” She set her voice to “soothing three a.m. sales pitch.” “Let's just see how this button goes.”

“I already know how this button is going to go. It's going to go awesome, because I kick ass.” He glanced around to make sure there were no witnesses hiding in the woods. “But you can't come back for more. This is a one-time-only deal.”

Lila crossed her arms. “But what if I need more?”

“You can't have it.”

She tilted her head, noted the stubborn set of his jaw, and decided she'd pushed him far enough for one day.

“And you can't tell
anybody
about this,” he repeated. “I mean ever.”

She crossed her heart and hoped to die. “Don't worry.”

“Ever.”

“It's on lockdown,” she assured him.

“It better be.”

Lila remembered what his sister had said. “Or I'll disappear in the middle of the night and no one will ever find my body?”

His eyebrows shot up. “What exactly am I going to do with your body in the middle of the night?”

The evening was so humid, she could barely breathe. Everywhere she looked, there was sweat and skin and abs and more skin.

“I'm trusting you, Lila.” He glanced down at the Marine Corps insignia on his T-shirt.
“Semper fi.”

She repressed the urge to give an “Oorah!” in response and settled for a bone-crushing handshake.
“Semper fi.”

“S
it down, Lila. Stop prowling around like a panther.” Daphne spent Friday morning curled up on the back porch with a book and a thick woolen blanket. Her cheeks were pink from the brisk spring wind blowing in from the ocean.

“I'm not prowling.” Lila forced herself to stand still and look out at the waves.

“What are you so worked up about, anyway?”

“I need your fashion expertise.” Lila started pacing again, thinking about her dinner plans. “And the most, um,
persuasiv
e dress you have.”

“Ooh, you talked to Ben.” Daphne threw her book aside. “Is there still hope for our retail space?”

“I'm not sure,” Lila admitted. “But I'm going to his house for dinner tonight.”

“You are?” Daphne leaped out of her chair and led the way into the house. “And you're standing around with tangles in your hair and dark circles under your eyes? Get it together, pumpkin; we have work to do. Why didn't you tell me this earlier?”

“Because I didn't want you to react the way you're reacting right now.”

“Chop-chop.” Daphne bounded up the steps to the master suite. “You'll need to shower and shape your brows and touch up your nails. And we'll have to do something to brighten up your complexion—I have a sea salt scrub that works wonders.” She gave Lila a look of reproach. “You know I've been telling you to go for a deep conditioning treatment. And if I may ask, have you waxed recently?”

“You may not ask.”

“But—”

“Next question.”

Daphne sighed but relented. “What are you thinking wardrobe-wise?”

Lila remembered Jake Sorensen's advice about a red dress. “Something that will turn me into Marilyn Monroe, basically. I don't suppose you have anything like that?”

“I've got just the thing.” Her mother snapped her fingers and bustled across the room. “Quick, to the closet!”

*   *   *

“This dress should come with a warning label and a waiver.” Daphne pulled a cherry red cocktail dress from between layers of acid-free tissue. “It's Ceil Chapman from the fifties, and let me tell you, that woman knew how to cut.”

Lila looked at the shapeless swoops of red fabric. “I don't know; it looks a little—”

“Silence.” Daphne pressed the dress into Lila's arms and shooed her toward the bathroom. “I don't want to hear another word out of you until you try it on.”

Two minutes later, Lila couldn't stop staring at her own reflection. Ceil Chapman, whoever she was, did indeed know how to cut a dress. The scarlet silk crepe skimmed her body without
squeezing, and the fabric had been artfully gathered and draped to accentuate her curves.

“Forget Marilyn Monroe.” She opened the door to show her mother. “I could be a double-crossing Bond girl in this thing.”

“I told you.” Daphne handed over some peep-toe nude pumps and tiny sapphire drop earrings. “Now put these on and never doubt me again.”

“Seriously, I don't even know if I can walk down the street in this.” Lila stepped into the shoes. “This dress is ridiculous. It's practically winking and blowing a kiss all by itself.”

“It's not the dress, sweet pea; it's you. My girl's a beauty.”

Lila adjusted the neckline, which started at the outer edge of her shoulders and dipped just low enough to show a hint of cleavage. “What kind of bra am I supposed to wear with this?”

“Well, that depends. Are you going to be leaving it on or taking it off at the end of your evening?”

“Mom!”

“It's a reasonable question! What you wear underneath the dress depends on who will be seeing it.”

Lila hesitated, lacing her fingers together. “And you're not going to judge me?”

“Baby, I modeled in New York City in the eighties. I've got no room to judge anybody. Think of this dress as symbolic of your new beginning. It's . . . oh.” Daphne knelt down and examined the back of the dress. “Uh-oh.”

Lila tried to peer over her shoulder. “What now?”

“Your new beginning needs a new zipper. The old one's literally hanging by a thread.” Daphne collapsed on the floor, deflated. “I guess we'll have to find something else for you to wear. There's no way we can get this repair done before dinnertime.”

Lila held still while her mother helped her disrobe, then pulled her shirt on and said, “Let me make a call.”

“To whom?”

“I cannot reveal my sources.” Lila opened the door and pointed to the hallway. “Clear the room.”

“I demand to know who you're contacting.”

“Demand all you want. I'm not telling.”

“Why not?”

“Remember when you said that I don't get to know every single thing about you? That there's more to you than just being my mother?” Lila opened the door even wider. “Well, that goes both ways. Meet you in the kitchen in a few minutes. Let's make waffles for lunch.”

“Oh, you can't have waffles today.” Daphne looked scandalized. “You're off carbs until you're done with that dress.”

“Bye.”
Lila waited until she heard her mother retreating down the stairs, then spent a moment brainstorming her sales pitch before dialing the phone. “Hi, Malcolm, it's Lila. You know that gas station on Highway One, out by the Black Dog Bay sign? I need you to meet me there in half an hour. Park on the north side of the building by the Dumpster, bring duct tape, and tell no one. It's an emergency.”

*   *   *

“This better be good.” Malcolm was waiting at the designated rendezvous point in exactly thirty minutes. For once, he wasn't in the middle of some long-distance run. He wore jeans and a soft plaid button-down shirt, the cuffs of which he'd rolled up over his strong, tan, nonsweaty forearms.

Lila stepped out of her white FUV clad in the black Catwoman boots, black skinny jeans, a black leather jacket, and black aviator sunglasses. “Did you come alone?”

He rolled his eyes, but nodded. “Nice outfit.”

“You, too.” She lowered her voice to a clandestine whisper. “Were you working when I called?”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“It's fine. I work from home.”

“That's right.” She arched one eyebrow. “And who did you say you work for, again?”

“I didn't.” He glanced at his watch. “You've got five minutes and the clock starts now. Start talking, Alders.”

“Okay.” She paused for dramatic effect, then pulled a brown paper bag from the passenger seat.

He accepted the bag from her, took one look at the contents, and tossed it back. “No way.”

Lila caught the bag in both hands. “I wouldn't ask if the situation weren't desperate.”

He crossed his arms. “No.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Come on! It's just a zipper. Can't you even look at it?”

“We had a deal.” His blue eyes went all steely. “The coat button was a one-time thing. You agreed to those terms.”

“I know, but I'm supposed to wear this dress in a few hours and there's no one else who can fix it.” She took off her sunglasses and moved on to plan B: shameless begging. “Please?
Please!
It's Ceil Chapman.”

“I don't know what that means, and I don't want to know.”

She lifted out the layers of fabric, which were surprisingly heavy. “It's a collector's piece in pristine condition. Or at least, it was until the zipper fell out.”

“Let me see that.” He took the dress from her and ran his fingers over the ruched red silk. “Here's your problem—the edges
of the zipper yoke rotted out. It happens sometimes with old fabric.”

“Well, can you fix it?”

“I can. But I won't.”

“Listen, I know we said that last night was the last time. But this is different. This is urgent.” She put the sunglasses back on. “This is literally a matter of life and death.”

His lips twitched. “Literally? You're telling me that if this zipper yoke doesn't get repaired, a human life hangs in the balance?”

“Fine, it's
figuratively
a matter of life and death. I'm supposed to wear this at eighteen hundred hours.” She paused. “That's six o'clock in military time, right?”

Suddenly, his whole demeanor changed. He stopped acting irritated and became very—almost suspiciously—chatty. “What's the occasion?”

“Um . . . pardon?”

He glanced down at the red dress. “What's the occasion?”

She shoved her hands into her jacket pockets. “I'm just, uh, wearing it to dinner.”

He nodded and leaned back against the FUV. “Tonight?”

“Yeah.” It took every ounce of willpower she had not to fidget. “My mother picked it out.”

His posture relaxed, but his tone was cagey. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere special.” She shifted her weight, repositioning her boots on the asphalt. “Just, you know, a house.”

He let the silence drag on for a few seconds. “This is a pretty fancy dress.”

“It's a dinner.” She knew she was babbling now. “With friends. A friendly dinner.”

“Male or female friends?” He draped one arm along the hood. So casual, so breezy. “Singular or plural?”

She took a step back. “Are you using psy-ops on me? Is this some Marine Corps mind game?”

He turned up his palms. “We're just having a conversation.”

“Then why do I feel like I'm handcuffed to a chair in a room with one-way mirrors?” She patted her hair and tugged on her turtleneck, aware that she was now officially fidgeting.

“This dress is going to be smoking hot on you,” he announced matter-of-factly. “You shouldn't waste it on a friendly dinner.”

She didn't know where to look. She did know, however, that she had started to sweat. She could feel moisture trickling down her back.

He straightened up and loomed over her. “Did you bring a needle and thread?”

“Yes.” She lunged for the sewing supplies in the driver's seat. “Thank you. Thank you. I owe you, big-time.”

“Where am I supposed to work?”

She walked around to the back of the FUV and opened the rear liftgate.

“God, there's enough room for a whole sweatshop back here.”

“I know. Make yourself at home.”

He unspooled a length of red thread and examined it in the sunlight. “This is the wrong kind of thread.”

“That was all they had at the drugstore,” she said. “Can you make it work?”

“Yeah. But I don't like it.” He glanced back at her. “Why did you tell me to bring duct tape?”

“Oh, I just thought it set the right tone.” She grinned. “Plus, I figured if you couldn't get the zipper in with thread, we'd need a fallback.”

He looked stunned. “You'd stick duct tape on sixty-year-old silk?”

“No,
you
would. But only because it's a matter of life and
death. Figuratively,” she hastened to add. “Just do what you can with my substandard thread. It only has to hold for a couple of hours; you can repair it properly later.”

“Wrong. This is the last time we're doing this.” All pretense of breeziness had vanished, replaced with what could only be described as menace. “And Lila?”

“Yeah?”

“This never happened.”