New Uses For Old Boyfriends (7 page)

Lila rested her hip against one edge of the desk. “So . . . good for them?”

“Good for them?” Daphne straightened up, her eyes glinting with angry tears. “Really? That's what you're going to say to me right now?”

“It's not like they started their skin care lines to rub it in your face,” Lila pointed out. “Besides, haven't you heard that saying ‘A high tide floats all boats'?”

“No one is floating my boat,” Daphne snapped. “My ship has sailed. Never mind, you wouldn't understand. You have no idea what it's like to have hopes and dreams and a vision for your future and to end up with nothing.”

“Is that so?” Lila snatched up the china cup and shoved a scoop of peppermint ice cream into her mouth. “You think I don't understand? Step aside, Mother. Step aside.”

*   *   *

“Look, here's Becky Young's Facebook profile.” Lila clicked on a photo of the girl who had once cocaptained the cheer squad with her. “She's married, she's got two sons, and she teaches kindergarten.”

Daphne glanced at the profile picture, which featured a beaming family in matching green polo shirts. “Her husband's very handsome.”

“Yeah. Apparently, in addition to being the middle school principal, he also coaches the kids' soccer team.” Lila commandeered the last of her mother's ice cream and scanned through the other search results. “Oh, remember Alex Heath? He was my very first boyfriend in seventh grade?”

“Alex Heath.” Daphne drummed her fingers on the desk. “Was he the baseball player? Or the basketball player?”

“He was the tennis player,” Lila corrected. “Anyway, he's an orthodontist now. Has his own practice in Lewes.”

“Is he single?”

Lila gave up on the spoon and licked the rim of the cup.
“Greta Czerzny, who I used to go shopping with every weekend, is now a NICU nurse. Tim Wallace is vice president of an accounting firm, and Jason Shermer, who asked me to homecoming sophomore year but I turned him down because he wore the wrong brand of sneakers, founded an environmental charity to help preserve wildlife near the bay. All of these people are winning at life. They're getting married and having kids and saving newborns and getting promoted and, like, distributing wine. Oh, that reminds me—I have wine.”

Daphne jumped to her feet and grabbed two highball glasses from the wet bar next to the bookshelf. “What are you waiting for? Open it up!”

Lila did as she was told, pouring out two generous servings of the red blend Tyler Russo had given to her.

She raised her glass to the computer screen. “Here's to sucking at life.”

“But remember, sweet pea,
you
got to be on TV. You got to see the world. All your classmates stayed right here in Delaware.”

“Not Amy Greenbank.” Lila pulled up a LinkedIn profile.

Daphne sipped her wine. “I don't remember anyone named Amy Greenbank in your class.”

“Probably because she was always studying. And look—now she has her MD from Yale. She just joined an oncology research team at some fancy hospital in Chicago.”

“Yes, but you . . . well, I'm sure you're much prettier than her.” Daphne nodded at the keyboard. “Look up Ben Collier.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't have any crack cocaine, and that's what I need to handle Ben Collier's LinkedIn page right now, okay?”

Daphne twisted her diamond earring. “Has he called you yet?”

“No.” Lila pushed back from the desk in despair. “Ben hasn't
called me, Amy Greenbank is literally curing cancer, and what do I have to show for the last ten years?” She took another gulp of wine and made a face. “This wine does not go with peppermint ice cream.”

Daphne put down her glass. “Hang on; I bought fudge ripple, too. It's in the freezer downstairs.”

“You got two kinds of ice cream?” Lila nearly fell off her chair. “Who are you and what have you done with my mother?”

“I have no idea,” Daphne yelled back as she headed down to the kitchen. “No idea who I am and no idea what I'm going to do with the rest of my life.”

Lila grabbed the wine bottle and followed her mother. They both ended up in the kitchen, hunched over the countertop and eating fudge ripple ice cream directly out of the carton.

“What am I going to do?” Daphne demanded, spattering drops of melted chocolate on the gleaming white limestone. “What am I supposed to do for money? I could live another forty years!”

“Um . . .” Lila gazed out at the black sky. “We'll figure something out.” She didn't sound at all convincing, even to herself.

“Like what?” Daphne demanded. “I've been out of the workforce for thirty years, and there's not much demand for over-the-hill models in Black Dog Bay, Delaware. What on earth would I put on my résumé? I can wear the hell out of a laser-cut Yohji Yamamoto gown? I can walk a runway in Milan after four days of no sleep and no food?”

Lila's eyes widened. “Did you really go four days at a time with no food?”

“Oh, pumpkin, there's a reason I never wanted you to be a model.” Daphne patted her daughter's hand. “But your dad took me away from all that. He promised me that I would never have to worry and I would always have the best.” She grabbed a paper towel off the roll as her eyes filled with fresh tears. “And he literally worked himself to death trying to keep that promise.”

“I remember that,” Lila murmured. “I remember him telling the story of how you guys met.”

The tale had become legend in the Alders household. Every anniversary, after presenting her mother with flowers and jewelry, Lila's dad would recount the tale of their romance, starting with their first encounter in a crowded Manhattan ballroom.

“The moment I saw your mother,” her father would say, “I knew. I knew she was the one.”

And her mother would laugh. “But I took a little more convincing.”

“Six months,” her father said. “That's how long it took me to get your mama to go out to dinner with me. But I finally wore her down.” He winked at his wife. “Lucky for her.”

“How did you know?” Lila asked her father. Even as a small child, she'd been desperate to understand the power and parameters of yearning and desire. “How did you know you were in love?”

“Your mother used to be a model, you know.”

“I know.” Lila had seen the leather-bound portfolio her mother kept in the master bedroom. Page after page of her mother pouting at the camera in swimsuits and gowns and skintight pants. Some of the photos were in color, some were black-and-white. All of them were beautiful.

“Well, on the day I first saw your mom, I was visiting my old roommate in New York. We were at a big, fancy party. It was right after your mom was on the stage—”

“The runway,” Daphne corrected. She turned to Lila, her eyes sparkling at the memory. “It was Fashion Week.”

“I spotted her from all the way across the room, as soon as she walked in,” Bill said. “I grabbed a glass of champagne and went straight over to her.”

Lila wanted every last detail. “What did you say to each other?”

Daphne and Bill looked at each other again and burst out laughing. “You know, I don't remember.”

“It was too loud to talk, anyway. We just danced and looked at each other.”

“And then I asked her out. Again and again.”

“I had a lot of boyfriends,” Daphne interjected.

“But I was persistent. And finally she said yes.” Her father turned to her mother, his eyes shining with pride. “And the night we went out to dinner, you wore a red dress—”

“Red vinyl, Paco Rabanne,” Daphne reported to Lila. “Very edgy. It had gold rings through the shoulder straps and a hemline up to
here
.” She indicated the top of her thigh.

“—and I almost had a heart attack right there.”

“So you fell in love with Mama because she was beautiful,” Lila said.

“Is, was, always will be.” Bill beamed at his wife. “Inside and out.”

She turned to her mother. “Why did you fall in love?”

“Well, I didn't have much choice! Your father is right when he says he's persistent. But once I got to know him, I couldn't help myself. I loved him so much, I left New York and moved here to be with him.”

“And you'll love each other forever?” Lila prompted.

“Forever,” her parents answered in unison. They kissed, and Lila gave herself a hug, feeling lucky to be part of such a special family. She knew she would have boyfriends one day, too. She hoped that her destiny was a life like her mother's—she would be special and beautiful and the center of a strong, handsome man's world.

Lila squeezed her eyes shut, wishing that she could be back in this kitchen twenty years ago. Before her father died. Before she knew that everything she had taken for granted was going to be taken away.

But when she opened her eyes, she saw only her mother staring back. Their eyes reflected a shared sense of terror and despair, two grown women who had no idea how to take care of themselves.

“I still have that red Paco Rabanne minidress,” Daphne said softly. “Up in the attic somewhere.” She set her spoon down on the counter with a hard, cold clink. “He promised. He promised to take care of me.”

Lila collected the spoons, got to her feet, and started rinsing off the dishes in the sink. “We need to call a real estate agent tomorrow. We have to sell the house. It's time.”

“I'm not selling the house. Don't be ridiculous.”

“We have to. You heard the estate guy. The money I got from selling my rings will cover the property taxes, but we still have to deal with the loan payments, all the utilities, lawn care, groceries. . . .” Lila paused, waiting for her mother to agree. “Hello?”

“I heard him.” Daphne examined her impeccable manicure. “But he's only looking at the worst-case scenario. He's very conservative, that's what your father always said.”

“Our current scenario
is
the worst-case scenario,” Lila told her. “It's time to face reality.”

“I can't.” Her mother covered her eyes with her hands. “I just can't.”

“Well, I can.” Lila paused. “Or at least, I can try.”

T
he next morning, Lila drove to Main Street to set up a meeting at Black Dog Bay Brokers.

She stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes, scanning the real estate listings taped to the office's front window and trying to envision her family home among them. Decades of life and love and hard work would be reduced to a few well-lit photos and two paragraphs of descriptive text highlighting the new roof and the septic system. And then the house her father built would be gone, sold to another family who would start fresh with new memories and traditions.

And Lila and her mother would move on to . . . where?

When she finally worked up the nerve to go in, the receptionist greeted her with a cheery hello, an offer of a latte, and an invitation to “Go right back—Whitney's free and she'd be happy to chat with you.”

A smartly dressed blonde who looked barely out of high school met Lila at her office doorway. “You're Lila Alders?
The
Lila Alders?”

Lila pulled back a fraction of an inch. “I guess so. Have we met?”

“I'm Whitney Sosin, but my maiden name is Toth.” Whitney shot her a knowing look. “My brother is Malcolm Toth.”

“Oh?” Lila tried to keep her smile in place as she racked her brain. She had just heard that name recently.

“So I've heard
allll
about you.”

“I see.”
Malcolm Toth, Malcolm Toth . . . oh right, the guy Christa mentioned at the country club.
“So, um, what's Malcolm been up to?”

“He went into the Marines after college. Did all kinds of supersecret stuff I'm not allowed to ask about. But he moved back a few months ago. I found him a great house over by the nature preserve. It's like something out of
Walden
.” Whitney opened her door wider and ushered Lila into a small office furnished with a pair of utilitarian IKEA-style chairs that would make Daphne weep. “What about you, Lila? What brings you to our office today?”

“You know, the usual.” Lila perched on the edge of her seat and crossed her ankles. “Death. Divorce. Impending financial disaster.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Whitney paused delicately. “And you're in need of a real estate agent?”

“Yes. My mother's alone now, and it's just too much house for her.”
In so many ways.
“We'd like to sell it as soon as possible, but I don't want to undervalue it. We need the best price we can get.”

“Don't worry; the market is on an upswing right now, especially for beachfront lots.” Whitney paused again, still standing and looking down at Lila. “Sorry, I'm being a total fangirl, but I can't believe
the
Lila Alders is in my office!”

Lila had to smile. “Me, neither.”

“Everyone from high school still talks about you. You're famous. You're on TV!”

“Uh-huh.” Lila pretended to search for something in her handbag. “So how do we get the ball rolling? Do you come look at the house?”

“Yes, I'll do a walk-through with you and then we'll schedule an appraisal. How's tomorrow morning?” Whitney asked. “Around nine thirty?”

“Nine thirty works for me.” Lila slid on a pair of big, dark sunglasses. “Go down to the end of Shoreside Drive. It's the big—”

“I know exactly where it is,” Whitney assured her.

“Right. I forgot everyone knows everyone around here.”

Whitney grinned. “No such thing as privacy in Black Dog Bay. See you tomorrow.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Should I tell Malcolm you say hi?”

“Um . . .” Lila was saved from having to reply by the arrival of a uniformed police officer in the reception area.

“I'm looking for the owner of that white SUV?” the officer called.

Lila squeezed past Whitney and hurried down the hall. “That's me.”

“Lila Alders?” The officer jerked his thumb toward the sidewalk. “That's your vehicle out there? You're going to have to move it immediately. You're blocking a fire hydrant.”

“I am?” She peered out the plate glass window. “But I pulled up into the parking space.”

“Not far enough.” The officer pointed out the placement of her rear bumper. “The back end's still in the red zone.” He followed her gaze. “And you're technically taking up two parking spaces with the front end. I'm supposed to ticket you for that, but if you move right now, I'll let it go.”

Lila ran for the door. “Thank you.”

As she left, the officer called out, “That's a really big car you have there.”

“I know.” She clicked the button on her key fob to unlock the FUV and winced as the running boards folded down and banged her shins. “I know.”

It took her several minutes and a dinged hubcap to maneuver out of the parking spot, and when she finally merged into the lunch-hour traffic, Lila understood why the police officer had been peeved about the FUV taking up more than one spot. Main Street was unseasonably crowded today, with lots of drivers waiting for spaces. But right before she passed the town square, another car pulled away from the curb, leaving a vast expanse of prime parking territory.

Right in front of the Rebound Salon.

She took it as a sign and hit the brakes.

*   *   *

Two hours later, Lila glanced at her reflection in the windowpane of the front door, trying to reconcile her image of herself with this pale-faced brunette. As Summer Benson had promised, the salon stylists were very talented, their rates were dirt cheap compared with her colorist in Philadelphia, and they'd assured her that her natural shade of brown made her look younger and more chic.

They were probably right. But even so, no one wanted to be a brunette due to austerity measures.

She unlocked the door and strode past the entryway mirror as quickly as possible. “We have to talk, Mom. Strike that—we need to
stop
talking. The time has come to take action.”

Daphne had hunkered down in the den with a soft wool blanket and a thick sheaf of papers, which she shoved under a throw pillow when Lila walked in. Even at midday, this room was shaded by the sloping porch overhang, and Daphne squinted up as though she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

“You changed your hair.”

“Yes, I did. Because I can no longer afford to be a blonde. See? Taking action.” Lila lifted her chin to indicate the throw pillow. “What are you hiding under there?”

“Hiding?” Daphne shifted her body and tucked the pillow behind her. “Nothing.”

Lila held out her palm. “Let's have it.”

Her mother straightened her shirt collar, her eyes wide and her expression guilt-stricken.

“Come on,” Lila coaxed. “Whatever it is, just tell me. It's not like our situation can get any worse at this point.”

Daphne hesitated for another moment, then pulled the stack of papers out from behind the cushion and handed them over with the air of a child who'd been caught sneaking a cookie between meals.

Lila glanced at the credit card logo on the top sheet, then checked the total amount due.

“Oh my God.” Her knees literally went weak, and she had to sit down on the coffee table. “Mother!”

“Don't yell at me!” Daphne covered her face with both hands. “I can't take it.”

“How long have you been running up this bill?” Lila flipped through the itemized statement, which was at least five pages long.

“I didn't run up the bill!” Daphne cried. “Your father paid the full balance every month.” She cleared her throat. “Well, he did on
this
card, anyway.”

“He did?” Lila peered closer at the bill to check the purchase dates. “Then what . . . Holy crap, you bought all this stuff in the last few months?”

“I was bereaved, okay? And you of all people should understand that shopping sometimes helps when you're lonely. Wasn't that the whole point of your job? To sell people things they didn't
need when they were feeling vulnerable in the middle of the night?”

Lila gasped. “First of all, don't try to turn this around on me. Second of all, everybody needs breathable, high-quality percale sheets for a one-time-only clearance price at two a.m. Third of all, what the hell did you
buy
?” Lila scanned the retailers listed. “What's this huge charge at Bloomingdale's?”

Daphne shrank into the sofa cushions. “New breakfast dishes. They're casual and bright, but they're still fine china. And they're dishwasher safe. I was trying to be practical.”

“Pottery Barn, Sephora, Bergdorf Goodman, Tiffany . . .” Lila dropped the bill and regarded her mother with confusion. “Did you go to New York?”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Daphne sniffed. “I haven't left this tiny little backwater town in years.”

“So this was all online shopping?”

Daphne nodded.

“But if you never leave this tiny little backwater town, why do you need expensive shoes and fancy jewelry?”

Daphne started crying, but these weren't her dainty, ladylike, get-out-of-jail-free tears. She was genuinely upset, shaking and red-nosed in her sorrow. “I don't know.”

“Well, where is this stuff?” Lila demanded. “Where do you even keep it all?”

“The closet.”

“You mean the master bedroom closet that I'm not allowed to open?”

“Well. Yes.” Daphne twisted her hands together. “And the guest room closets. The attic. The storage space over the garage.”

Lila opened and closed her mouth several times before demanding, “Show me.”

Her mother led the way up the elegant staircase with the
hand-carved banister, past the family portraits hanging in the upstairs hallway, across the restored antique rugs, and through the master bedroom.

Lila threw open the closet door and discovered . . .

“So basically, your closet is the women's department at Nordstrom. Look, this dress still has the tags on.” Lila pointed at a plum-colored silk gown. “So does this one. So does this one.”

Daphne hung her head.

The floor of the closet was obscured by dozens of cardboard shipping boxes and shopping bags, all of them stuffed with tissue paper and plastic wrap and receipts.

“I'm sorry,” Daphne said softly. And in her mother's voice, Lila heard layers of remorse, years of regret, untold stories of frustration and loneliness and longing. So she stopped arguing and asking questions. Instead, she fell back on her new mantra:
Take action
.

“The good news is, we can return a lot of the stuff that still has receipts,” Lila said. “Let's go through all the boxes. You start over there, and I'll start over here.”

“No, no.” Daphne clutched the plum-colored gown with both hands. “We're not returning anything!”

“Yeah, we are.” Lila glanced inside a bright blue box from Tiffany & Co. “Everything's going back.”

“Have you no heart?” Daphne demanded.

“Mom, come on.” Lila held up a sequined evening gown with a plunging neckline. “Where are you going to wear this in Black Dog Bay?”

“Just because I've been stuck here for thirty years doesn't mean I have to give up and be frumpy forever, does it? I'll always love fashion, no matter where I live or how old I am.”

“You can love fashion without spending tens of thousands of dollars on it.” Lila gasped as she opened the flaps of a carton from
Bergdorf Goodman. “Hold the phone—is this what I think it is?” She lifted out a caramel-colored Chloé bag made from buttery soft leather. “I tried to find this last spring and it was sold out everywhere! How did you get this?”

Daphne shrugged. “I have my ways. You have to know how to shop, sweet pea.”

“And it's still in the box? You just left it here to rot?” Lila shook her head at her mother. “
You're
the one who has no heart!”

“What difference does it make, since everything is going back to the store?”

“Everything
is
going back to the store.” Lila ran her fingers along the cool gold hardware and the smooth leather. “Everything, that is, except this bag.”

*   *   *

The real estate agent showed up at nine twenty-five the next morning with a box from the Eat Your Heart Out bakery.

“I hope you like orange cranberry scones,” Whitney said as she climbed the porch stairs.

“We love orange cranberry,” Lila assured her, positioning her body just outside the front door. “But there's been a slight change of plans.”

Whitney's smile flickered. “Is this not a good time?”

Lila glanced back at the closed door and lowered her voice. “I'm thinking maybe we should wait to do a walk-through of the house until my mom's not here.”

Whitney lowered her voice, too. “She's the homeowner, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Doesn't she want to be part of the process?”