New Uses For Old Boyfriends (16 page)

“Be fair—I had two glasses, and they were generous pours.”

“Wow. You must have won all the drinking contests in college.” He ushered her down around the side of the building to the parking lot and opened the door to his Jeep. “Get in the car. You're going home.”

She complied, blowing out a loud, huffy breath. “Fine. But don't ever call me ‘chief' again.”

“Buckle your seat belt, please.” He got into the driver's seat with an air of resignation.

She folded her arms and crossed her legs. “I will consider complying with that request when you ask politely.”

He reached across the passenger side and buckled her in himself. Then he pried the Tori Richard dress out of her hands, tossed it behind his seat, and started the car.

Lila wrenched her neck as she tried to follow the garment's trajectory. “Ow. Hey, can you do something with that dress? Can you turn it into a jacket or something?”

He looked offended she'd even ask. “You know I can.”

She rolled her eyes. “Okay, then,
will
you?”

“You know I will.” He turned onto Main Street and headed for her neighborhood. “But we don't talk about it, remember?”

“Right.” She tried to look very serious. “Our dirty little secret.”

“Right.”

She let her sensibilities segue back into tipsy. “Speaking of dirty . . .”

He waited.

“I fixed a faucet today. Well, that's not entirely true—my mother fixed a faucet while I watched YouTube videos and yelled
instructions. I've never done that before.” She lowered her voice and confided, “I've never called a boy, either.”

“Ever?”

She shook her head. “It's desperate. Unseemly.”

He nodded.

“But I called you tonight.” She watched his reaction closely. “And the day we met out by the Dumpster.”

“Glad I could be part of your milestone.” He pulled up in front of her house and turned off the ignition.

She hopped out of the car, humming a happy tune. “I have a good feeling about all this. Things are really starting to turn around.”

He climbed out of the driver's side and walked her to the front door. “Don't forget to drink some water before you pass out tonight.”

She gestured grandly toward the ocean. “So I guess our date thing or whatever is off.”

He stopped walking. “What? Why?”

“Because I'm all . . .” She indicated her sloppy ponytail and paint-spattered clothes and bare face. “And also, I called you. Twice.”

He started walking again. “Are you trying to get out of it?”

She shook her head so vehemently, she nearly lost her balance. “No.”

“Good.” He steadied her with a hand on her shoulder. “Because as soon as I fix your dress, we're going.”

“But I don't even have lipstick on,” she reminded him.

He looked at her lips.

“And I'm needy and desperate.”

He kept looking at her lips.

“And I look like
this
.” She threw out her arms.

They had reached the front door. He made his stand on the
welcome mat and held her face in both his hands. “Lila. It's not about what you look like.”

She wrapped her fingers around his wrists. “Then what is it about?”

The door opened, and they both dropped their arms.

“Lila Jane, there you are. I've been—” Daphne broke off as she noticed the tall, broad-shouldered man on her porch. “Well, hello.”

“Hi, Mrs. Alders. I'm Malcolm Toth.” He offered a handshake and a disarming smile.

“Malcolm, of course. How are you?” She beamed. “It's been a while, but I never forget a face.”

“I'm fine, thank you.” He was working a whole officer-and-a-gentleman routine that left Lila stunned and a little tingly.

Daphne glanced from Lila to Malcolm. “You brought Lila home from a date once, didn't you?”

“Mother!” Lila groaned.

“Didn't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He inclined his head. “Lila's sophomore year.”

“I thought so. I have an excellent memory.”

“Stop talking,” Lila hissed.

“Don't be rude to your mother,” Malcolm said.

Lila shot him a death glare.

Daphne glowed. “Thank you.”

“I'll be finished with that project we talked about in a few days.” Malcolm turned and headed back to his truck. “Don't forget to hydrate.”

“Well, well, well. Your ex-boyfriends just get better and better with age,” Daphne said to Lila.

“Good night.” Lila ducked inside and retreated into the foyer.

Daphne stayed right on her heels. “I'll bring you a bottle of water. What a nice young man.”

Lila snorted. “He's not that nice.”

“He drove you home, he told you to drink water. . . .”

“He used to be a military SWAT team leader, Mom. His own sister said he could kill someone with a paper clip.”

Daphne fanned her face. “That just makes him even more attractive.”

Lila dashed up the steps, swaying a bit on her feet. “See you in the morning.”

“We'll talk more about Malcolm then.”

Lila looked over her shoulder at her man-eating, ex-model mother. “You don't want to hear what I have to say about him.”

“Why not?”

“Because in addition to hanging out with him looking like this, I call him. He never calls me; I always call him.”

Daphne looked queasy. “Oh, dear.”

“And that's not all. I show up at his house unannounced. Late at night.”

Daphne clutched the balustrade for support.

Lila delivered the coup de grâce. “And I badgered him into meeting me at a gas station Dumpster in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Why?” Daphne's voice was barely audible. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.” Lila faced forward and continued up to the second floor.

“Well, if you've been acting like that and he still wants to see you,” her mother yelled after her, “that means he only wants one thing.”

Lila did a little shimmy as she rounded the corner into her room.
“Good.”

“Excuse me?!”

“I said, ‘Good night'!”

T
rue to their word, Ben's work crew pulled off a miracle and finished renovating the storefront in a matter of days. They painted the walls, replaced the worn carpeting with hardwood, and made sure all the faucet handles were secure. Then Daphne took charge of the decorating, arranging the display cases and commissioning a local artist to paint “Unfinished Business” on the building's exterior.

While the construction team saw to the final details, Lila spent fifteen-hour days selecting and prepping the inventory from Daphne's and Pauline Huntington's collections, making countless trips to the dry cleaner, and learning how to use the computer software and cash register.

Daphne, who deferred to her daughter about most of the financial and merchandising decisions, showed unexpected moxie when it came to designing the window displays and outfitting the in-store mannequins.

“You'd never even heard of Ceil Chapman or Odicini or Samuel Winston until mere weeks ago.” Daphne shooed Lila away from the piles of dresses in her bedroom. “Go sit in the corner and look pretty.”

“Actually, I hadn't heard about Samuel Winston until right this very moment.”

“Don't flaunt your ignorance.” Daphne deliberated about her options for a moment, then draped a blue silk gazar strapless gown onto a dress form.

“I have to admit, your taste is impeccable,” Lila said. “Who made that one?”

“Givenchy Haute Couture. It's numbered.”

“Like an art print?”

“That's right. Because it's art.”

“Okay, that gown is art; that I will grant you. But this?” Lila held up a garish checkered pantsuit. “What hellish cocktail of hallucinogenic drugs were you on when you bought this?” She shook her head at the matching shirt and pants, both of which were patterned in a huge red and white gingham check. The pants were hemmed with a three-inch cuff, and the top was cut to reveal an inch or two of bare midriff.

Daphne's whole face lit up when she saw the garments. “The gingham pantsuit! I forgot all about that! Isn't it fun?”

“It's . . .” Lila trailed off as words failed her. “It's like Lady Gaga meets
Little House on the Prairie
.”

“Don't blaspheme, sweet pea; it's French. High-concept.” Daphne pointed out the label sewn into the waistline of the pants.

“What was the concept?” Lila's eyes hurt from looking at the print. She spread the shirt out on the bed. “We put a bowl of potato salad and a few watermelon slices on this thing and it's a Memorial Day barbecue.”

“You know what your problem is?” her mother asked.

“So many answers, so little time.”

“You lack creative vision.”

Lila laughed. “How can you say that? I can taste the potato salad and smell the charcoal!”

“Such a literalist.” Daphne rolled her eyes. “You only see what's right in front of you.”

“That's true—I can't see what's behind me or on the other side of solid walls,” Lila allowed. “Guilty as charged.”

Her mother shook her head in despair. “I mean, you only see what's on the hanger. If you want to be successful in the fashion business, you need to be able to imagine what an outfit will look like on an actual woman.”

Lila eyed the gingham monstrosity, doing her best to envision it on her body. “I'm imagining what this will look like on me. And it makes me ashamed and afraid.”

“Well, obviously.” Daphne sniffed. “You're not the right person to wear this. You're too petite. This ensemble was designed for a tall, willowy figure. A woman with striking bone structure and a certain sense of panache.”

“Whatever.” Lila sat back in her chair. “We're not putting this out on the sales floor because no one's going to buy it.”

Daphne ignored this. “A woman like . . .” She pursed her lips, considering.

“Mary Ann from
Gilligan's Island
?” Lila suggested.

“Ingrid,” her mother concluded.

“Ingrid
Jansen
?”

“Yes, your friend Summer's stepdaughter.”

“Well, technically, Summer's not—”

Daphne waved this away and handed Lila her phone. “Call her up and ask her to come over. We'll have her put on this so-called Memorial Day barbecue and you'll see. You'll see!”

*   *   *

“Well, damn.” Lila stood next to her mother's vanity table, watching Ingrid model the red and white pantsuit. The slouchy, scowling teenager had wriggled into the cropped top and skintight
pants and somehow pulled the whole thing off. “I have to admit, Mom, you were right.”

“Of course I'm right.”

Ingrid crossed her arms over her chest. “Can I take this off now?”

“I suppose,” Daphne said. “But since you're here, I have a few more things I'd like you to try on. Just to get an idea of how they fit.”

Ingrid appealed to Lila with her earnest gray eyes. “Do I have to?”

“No.” Lila shot her mother a look.

“Yes.”
Daphne gave Ingrid a thorough once-over, her expression shrewd. “How tall are you, dear?”

“Um, five eight.” Ingrid scrunched her shoulders up. “Okay, five ten.”

“Excellent.” The older woman circled the teenager, nodding and muttering to herself. “Nice shoulders, tiny waist, not too busty . . .”

“I know, I know, I'm flat as a board. Can I please change now?”

“You're model material,” Daphne concluded.

Ingrid burst out laughing. “Yeah, right.”

“You are. Listen to me—I know what I'm talking about.”

“I don't even have a date for prom,” Ingrid said.

“And someday, all the boys in your class will look you up on Facebook and weep with regret,” Lila promised.

“I can't be a model,” Ingrid protested. “I can't even put on eye shadow right. And also, I love doughnuts and Simone de Beauvoir.”

“We'll pay you,” Daphne offered. “You can come in once a week and try on new pieces so we can get an idea of how to style them. Now, I'm thinking we'll put this pink Chanel suit on display right by the register.” She picked up a pink and black bouclé skirt. “Here, Ingrid, be a good girl and go put this on.”

Ingrid looked to Lila for help, but before Lila could intervene, the doorbell rang.

Daphne rummaged through the closet in search of coordinating shoes. “Who could that be?”

Lila froze with the sudden, unfounded fear that creditors had come for her mother and would begin a round-the-clock campaign to harass them for money. That whatever she did to help her mother and herself, it would never be enough. Her recent attempts to take control of her own life were too little, too late.

While Daphne ignored the disturbance and Lila succumbed to an anxiety attack, Ingrid wandered out to the stair landing and peered out the window above the front door.

“Oh, no.” The teenager scurried back into the bedroom and closed the door. “It's
her
.”

“Her?” Lila whispered. “Her who?”

Ingrid made a face. “Mimi Sinclair.”

Lila tried to recall what Summer had said about the seasonal resident. “The mean girl with the mean-girl daughter?”

Ingrid scrunched up her nose. “The whole family is awful.”

“Why in heaven's name is Mimi Sinclair here?” Daphne waved a red patent belt threateningly. “I don't like that woman, never have.”

“You know her?” Lila asked.

“It's impossible not to. She fancies herself some sort of high-society matron. Your father built her summer home fifteen years ago and she was insufferable even then.” Daphne brandished the belt with both hands. “She thinks that just because she hired him to build her house, she has more money than we do.”

“She probably does have more money than we do,” Lila pointed out. “Everybody has more money than we do.”

Daphne gasped and turned to Ingrid. “Don't repeat that.”

Ingrid held up both palms. “I won't.”

The doorbell rang again and everybody looked at Lila.

“You'd better get that, sweet pea.”

“Don't tell her I'm here,” Ingrid pleaded.

“Why not?” Lila asked as she headed for the hallway.

“Because. She's always trying to weasel information out of me because I'm the mayor's little sister.” Ingrid shuddered. “And she's always
inviting
me places.”

“What a bitch.” Lila laughed as she hurried down the stairs to the foyer. She opened the front door to find a tiny, tight-faced, perfectly coiffed woman decked out in pearls and a tweed blazer. A black Town Car idled in the driveway behind her.

“Hi.” Lila extended her right hand. “I'm—”

“Lila Alders, of course I remember you, darling,” Mimi said in a tone that suggested she did not find Lila darling at all. “Your mother and I have been friends for years. I was sorry to hear about your father; I trust you got the flower arrangement we sent?”

Lila summoned a vague memory of a vase full of lilies. “Oh, yes, they were lovely.”

“Good. I'm so relieved to hear you received them.” Mimi cleared her throat. “Since I never got a thank-you note, I wasn't sure.”

Lila took a tiny, inadvertent step back. “Well, we—”

“Anyway, I can't stay long, but my dear friend Summer Benson mentioned that you and your mother were opening a consignment store down by the boardwalk?”

“Actually, it's more of a—”

“I'm always happy to help out Summer and Dutch—my husband and I are
very
close with them, you know—so I've brought some of my old handbags for you.” She indicated two paper shopping bags on the step behind her.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair, that's very—”

“They're in excellent condition.” Mimi touched her fingers to her pearl necklace and laughed. “Except for the fact that they're last season, of course.”

“Thank you so much.” Lila finally managed to complete a sentence. “We aren't really operating on a consignment model, but I'll have my mother give you a quote if you like—she's the expert.”

“Whatever you think is fair,” Mimi trilled. “I'll swing by the store when it opens and you can give me a check. Oh, and be sure and tell Summer I dropped by. We'll all have to get together for lunch at the club.” And with that, the mean-girl matron of Black Dog Bay pivoted and disappeared into the depths of the Town Car while her driver held the door for her.

Lila lugged the shopping bags up to the bedroom. “That woman
really
loves Summer.”

“Told you.” Ingrid had changed into a chartreuse sequined cocktail dress.

Daphne peeked inside the shopping bags and examined the contents. “What on earth are these?”

“Her fancy designer handbags. She wants to unload them because they're from—gasp!—
last season
.” A note of judgment crept into Lila's voice before she realized that, just a few months ago, she, too, would have refused to tote a year-old handbag.

Daphne looked up, confused. “But she's okay with carrying knockoffs?”

Lila's jaw dropped.
“What?”

“These are fakes, sweet pea. All of them.”

“No
way
,” Ingrid breathed.

“No way.” Lila's mind flashed back to Mimi's smug, superior smile and huge, lustrous pearls. “She has a summer house and a chauffeur and a diamond ring that could gouge your eye out.”

Daphne held up what appeared to Lila to be a mint-condition
Balenciaga. “Look at the hardware—cheap and light. Feel the canvas and the leather. See what I mean?”

Lila ran her fingers along the side of the bag. “No.”

“It's obvious.” Daphne pulled out a logo-printed satchel and examined the straps. “These handles are the wrong color. The cowhide should develop a lovely, golden, honey-colored patina, but this . . .” She made a face as she indicated the dull shade of brown. “That's a slap in the face to God, man, and handbags everywhere.”

“Mimi Sinclair carries fakes,” Ingrid murmured. “Up is down and black is white.”

“Maybe it's just a fluke,” Lila argued. “Maybe the salt in the air out here affects leather in some weird way.”

“Don't be naive.” Daphne examined a black quilted leather flap bag. “Here, look. This one seems fine at first glance, but see how the stitching lines up—or, rather, doesn't line up—above the pockets and middle seam?” She opened the flap and inspected the lining. “And the material in here is cheap—listen.”

Lila and Ingrid fell silent while her mother rubbed folds of material together.

“Hear that? Sounds like paper rustling. That's the mark of poor quality. And . . .” Daphne brought the bag closer to a window so she could get a better look at the interior. “Aha! Look at the tag here. It says ‘Made in Paris.'” She crammed the purse back into the paper bag. “If it had actually been made in Paris, the tag would say, ‘Made in France.' Authentic labels list the country, never the city. Everyone knows that.”