New Uses For Old Boyfriends (6 page)

T
he first person Lila saw when she walked into the Whinery was Tyler Russo, whom she had dated throughout the fall semester of her freshman year of high school. His linebacker physique looked even bulkier now, and she could glimpse the beginnings of a bald patch at the crown of his floppy brown hair, but his face was still boyish and his baggy jeans appeared to be the exact same ones he'd worn to Black Dog Bay High School fifteen years ago.

He put down the cardboard crate he was carrying when he saw her. “Lila Alders, is that you?”

“It's me.” She forced herself to smile and wave, even though she wanted to duck and cover.

Tyler looked her up and down, and for a moment, his eyes flickered with longing and admiration. “I heard you were back in town.”

“Yep, here I am.” She held up her arms.

“Huh. You look different.”

Her whole body screamed for a margarita. “It's the hair. I went blond.”

“No, it's more than that. You look a little . . . tired.”

“That, Tyler, is an understatement.” Lila glanced around at the decor, which was so pink and frilly, it would make a sorority house seem butch by comparison. A sparkling crystal chandelier hung just inside the entrance, little silver candy dishes brimming with chocolates lined the glossy black bar top, the sound system was playing “Walking After Midnight” by Patsy Cline, and a chalkboard advertised a drink special called “Cure for the Common Breakup” in curlicued script.

“You work here?” she asked Tyler, thinking back to the days when he wouldn't even wear red because it was “too girly.”

“Nah, I'm a wine distributor.” He handed her a business card.

“Second Star Spirits and Wines,” she read. “Nice.”

“Yeah. My cousin owns it, but I'm going to buy in as a partner next year.” He pulled a bottle out of the box. “Here. You like Cabernet? This is a great Napa blend.”

“Thank you.” She resisted the urge to pull the cork out with her teeth and guzzle the contents on the spot, opting instead to tuck the bottle into her oversize leather satchel. “So you're doing well?”

“Can't complain.” Nor could he hide the boastful note in his voice. “Went to college in Wilmington; wife's an accountant. We've got a three-year-old daughter who just started preschool.” He pulled up a picture on his phone, and Lila oohed and aahed and counted the minutes until she could politely excuse herself and go have a nervous breakdown in the ladies' room.

“What about you?” Tyler asked. “I heard you were a famous talk show host in New York City?”

Lila leaned over and grabbed a miniature Reese's peanut butter cup from the nearest silver candy dish. “Not exactly. It was a home shopping cable affiliate in Philadelphia.”

“Still, you were on TV. You must be pretty rich, huh?”

Lila didn't even finish the first peanut butter cup before she unwrapped the second one. “Yeah, not so much.”

“Really? But last time I saw your mom, she said—”

The last vestige of Lila's perky politeness disintegrated. “You want to know what I've been doing since high school? I've been marrying the wrong man, selling people overpriced crap they don't need in the middle of the night, and using all the money I earn to buy Botox and personal training sessions and fancy furniture for the humongous house I lost in the divorce.”

Tyler backed away, holding up the box of wine as if to shield himself. “Well, I've got some cases of wine to unload—”

“And now I'm broke and moving back in with my mother so I don't have to live in the SUV that I bought for spite, and the highest hope anybody has for me is that I might get back together with the guy I dated when I was sixteen.” Lila shoved the second peanut butter cup into her mouth and leaned forward to show him her dark roots. “Look at my hair, Tyler. Let this hair be a cautionary tale.”

Glass bottles clinked as he shifted the case of wine. “Uh . . .”

“Remember when we read
Walden
in Mrs. Turner's English class?”

He took another step backward. All the longing and admiration had vanished from his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Remember how Thoreau went on and on about quiet desperation?
That's
what I've been doing since high school. Living a life of quiet desperation.”

She heard rustling on the other side of the bar, and then a female voice said, “Sounds like someone needs a drink.”

Lila looked up to find a tall, willowy woman with choppy platinum hair, sparkling blue eyes, and an unmistakable
joie de vivre.

“Lila Alders, this is Summer Benson. Summer, this is Lila. Bye.” Tyler escaped out the door.

Lila saluted him as he went. “There goes one ex-boyfriend I'll never hear from again.”

“Nice to meet you, Lila.” Summer strolled around to the other side of the bar. “Let me mix you up a glass of something delicious and highly alcoholic.”

“Beat it, Benson.” A petite brunette with curly hair emerged from the back room. “Stop pretending you work here.”

“I do work here,” Summer shot back. “Sooner or later, you'll come to accept that.”

“You know, it's funny, but I don't seem to remember ever paying you a dime. Get out from behind my bar or I'm telling Dutch you violated health code regulations.”

“Go right ahead.” Summer offered up her cell phone. “I violate health code regulations with Dutch every day.”

The bartender laughed and shooed Summer away. Then she offered a handshake to Lila. “Hi, I'm Jenna. I actually own this place, despite what Summer here would have you believe.”

“Hi.” Lila cleaned her chocolate-stained fingers with a pink cocktail napkin before shaking hands. “Sorry, I'm not usually this . . . disheveled.”

“Have some M&M's,” Summer advised as she sat down next to Lila. “You look like I felt when I first showed up in town.”

“Don't exaggerate. No one looks as bad as you did when you first got here.” Jenna addressed Lila. “Think translucent zombie with dead eyes and poor driving skills. Although, you both had the blond-hair-dark-roots thing happening.”

“Rebound Salon, two blocks thataway.” Summer pointed down the street. “Cori and Alyssa will fix you right up. Tell them I sent you.”

Lila nodded, deciding to spare them the whole
Walden
spiel.

“Is this your first visit to Black Dog Bay?” Summer popped a Hershey's Kiss into her mouth. “We'd be happy to show you around.”

“Oh, I'm not a tourist. I grew up here.”

The Whinery's front door opened and a tall, coltish teenager with unruly russet hair poked her head in. “Hey. Stop socializing, you guys. Summer's got to be home at six thirty. Family dinner.”

“That's Ingrid Jansen,” Jenna explained to Lila. “Summer's sister-in-law-slash-stepdaughter. Sort of. It's complicated.”

“It's only complicated because she and my brother insist on living in sin instead of getting married like regular people,” Ingrid informed the room at large. “They're setting a bad example.”

“We're doing family dinner tonight?” Summer checked the calendar on her phone. “Is Dutch home from that conference already?”

“No, but
I'm
home. And I'm making spaghetti squash with marinara sauce, so you'd better be there.” Ingrid gave Summer a stern look.

“Fine. But if this turns out anything like your coconut creamed kale, I'm getting pizza.”

Jenna waved to Ingrid. “Can I get you something, honey? Iced tea? Fresh orange juice?”

“No, thank you. I'm on my way to the bookstore. It's Tuesday, and you know what that means—new release day. Hollis said she has some recommendations for me.” Ingrid leveled her index finger at Summer. “See you at six thirty . . . or else.”

As soon as the door closed behind Ingrid, Summer turned to Jenna. “Break out a new bag of candy. I need to fill up before six thirty.”

“Do you know Hollis?” Jenna asked Lila. “Runs the bookstore down the street?”

Lila shook her head. “Doesn't sound familiar.”

“She's only lived here for two or three years. She used to be in show business, too. You guys should talk.”

“Yeah, she has some deep, dark secrets and scandals.” Summer
tapped her fingernails on the bar. “She hasn't told us everything yet, but we're working on her.”

“Yeah, we'll break her code of silence eventually,” Jenna agreed. “You know how girlfriends are.”

And to her horror, Lila felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She folded her arms on the bar top, laid her face in the cradle of her hands, and cried. Loud, broken, uncontrollable sobs that shook her entire body and drenched her face and forearms. An outpouring of emotion that felt as though it would never relent. She couldn't even compose herself enough to apologize.

But no one seemed perturbed. She heard a slight rustle and felt the brush of a tissue on her wrist.

“Have some ice water,” Jenna advised. “You're going to be dehydrated from all that crying.”

“Drink at least a gallon of water every day,” Summer chimed in. “We're very big on water around here—you'll see.”

“I'm sorry,” Lila choked, lifting her head up for a moment. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I can't stop.”

“Don't be sorry.” Jenna squeezed her shoulder. “We see this kind of thing on a daily basis.”

“But I must look so . . . so . . .”

“You're healing,” Summer said. “It's not a pretty process.”

“Take your time,” Jenna said. “Let it out.”

“Thank you,” Lila said as Summer offered her another tissue. “I don't have a lot of girlfriends anymore.”

“You do now.”

*   *   *

Two hours later, Lila drove home with a stomach full of chocolate and a slightly soothed soul.

The evening was shrouded in thick, wet fog, but she could
hear the ocean as she parked the FUV in the driveway and jogged up the porch steps.

She had to grope for the hall light when she stepped through the front door—the house was silent and dark, and at first, she wasn't sure anybody was home.

“Mom?” she called, wincing as her handbag nearly knocked over an antique crystal vase. “Hello?”

“I'm in here.” Daphne's voice drifted down from the second floor.

Lila went upstairs and found her mother, still dressed in her smart black suit from the appointment with the attorney, in her father's study.

Daphne had overhauled this room at least three times since Lila left for college. The white built-in bookshelves and crown molding contrasted with dark wood chairs and natural planks of wood paneling the walls. Floral-patterned navy and white curtains offset the rustic masculinity, as did a green, live tree in one corner.

Behind the glass-topped desk, Daphne was tapping away at the computer keyboard, pausing every few moments to spoon up what appeared to be ice cream from a dainty china teacup. Lila had to do a double take, because she'd never seen her mother eat ice cream. Ever.

“Mom?” She stepped onto the Prussian blue rug as Daphne took another bite. “Are you okay?”

Instead of answering the question, Daphne put down the cup and turned the computer screen around so that Lila could see the images on the monitor. “Look at this: Sophie Thibodoux just launched her own skin care line.”

“Who's Sophie Thibodoux?” Lila asked.

“She was a model at my agency back in the eighties. Pretty
face, okay body. But she married some Russian oligarch, and now Sephora is stocking her moisturizers and self-tanners. Her clothing line is set to debut this fall at Dillard's.”

“What's an oligarch?” Lila asked, still squinting at the ice cream.

“A filthy rich sugar daddy who makes your father look like a pauper in comparison.” Daphne paused for a bitter laugh and a scoop of ice cream. “Well, you know, before he actually
was
a pauper.”

“Mom—”

Daphne held up her hand and typed in another name. “Gemma Jones, who I beat out for a shoe ad campaign, just opened a spa in Beverly Hills. Cepucine Benoit, who walked with me in my first New York show, married some venture capitalist; now she's on the board of about ten high-profile charities.”

Lila couldn't take her gaze off the little pink smear on her mother's sweater. “Is that ice cream?”

“Yes. It's peppermint, my favorite.”

“I had no idea you liked peppermint ice cream.”

“That's because I haven't eaten it since I was twelve. Empty calories, you know. But after that meeting with the lawyer today, who really gives a damn, right?” Daphne poised her fingers over the keyboard.

Lila lunged to intercept her mother before she could Google again. “No, no. Don't go down this rabbit hole right now. It's a portal to misery and low self-esteem.”

Daphne swatted Lila's hands away. “Leave me alone; I'm on a roll. Let's see . . . Callum Fox, who I broke up with because he was too short, is now heading up a hedge fund in Manhattan. My former booking agent now owns her own agencies in Los Angeles, London, and New York.”