New Uses For Old Boyfriends (9 page)

“Lila.” His voice was deep and low and one hundred percent unfamiliar.

“Yes!” She tried to cover her confusion with near-manic enthusiasm. “Hi! You must be . . .”

“Malcolm.”

She felt her expression change, too. “Malcolm Toth?”

He looked surprised. “You remember me.”

“Of course!” She waved one hand around. “We went to high school together, right?”

His face went all stony again. “That's what you remember?”

“Well, that and, of course, the time we . . .” She waited for him to fill in the blank.

He stared down at her.

She forced a breathy little laugh. “Listen, I've been drinking all night. My memory's kind of fuzzy.”

He nodded.

“And I'd better be getting back inside.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “Ben's waiting for me.”

He betrayed no hint of surprise. “That figures.”

“Hey!” She took a step toward him. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He clapped one hand against her upper arm. “Welcome back to Black Dog Bay.” When he took his hand away, he left a faint trace of sweat on her cardigan.

She tried to hide her dismay. She failed. “My sweater!”

“Sorry.” He put his earbuds back in and prepared to resume running.

“You should be. This is dry-clean only, I'll have you know. I can't go back in there with . . . with
sweat
on my sweater.”

“Take it off.” He looked her straight in the eye, then turned his back and left her, his stride long and steady.

She stood there in the dark for a moment, trying to come up
with a cutting retort. She could still feel the warm pressure where his hand had been.

Take it off.
Who the hell did he think he was?

No wonder she couldn't remember him from high school. The man had more sweat glands than social skills.

She slipped off her cardigan and returned to the bar in her camisole, flustered and flushed.

Ben clearly noticed the newly bared expanse of neck and arms and shoulders, but he didn't mention it. Because, unlike some people,
he
had manners.

He was paying the check and chatting with Jenna. “Lila, I'm so sorry, but I have to run. My mother just called. My dad's out of town, and apparently there's some sort of bat-related emergency in the garage.”

Lila smiled. “No need to explain. I know the drill.”

“It's great to see you.” He leaned in. “We should do this again sometime.”

“Absolutely.” She tipped her face up, parted her lips, and closed her eyes. For this brief, beautiful moment, she felt young and carefree again.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulled her against him, and kissed her. On the cheek.

*   *   *

“What was that all about?” Summer had joined Jenna at the bar by the time Lila had said good-bye to Ben and regained her sensibilities.

Lila flipped her hair and tried to sound casual. “Oh, that was just me reuniting with my long-lost love. We were the ‘it' couple in high school.” She paused to help herself to a mini Milky Way. “And yes, I realize exactly how that sounds. But whatever—we were passionately devoted.”

Jenna looked dubious. “Devoted, maybe. But passion? I don't see it.”

“You don't? Really?”

Jenna shook her head.

“Look again. We're perfect for each other! He was a football player, I was a cheerleader. He used to send me flowers and make me CDs full of sappy songs. Even our parents were friends. Our dads used to do business together all the time.”

“Maybe so.” Jenna scrunched up her nose. “But I'm not seeing a lot of chemistry.”

“Oh, we have chemistry,” Lila assured them, draining the last of her wine. “Lots of chemistry. Entire meth labs' worth of chemistry.”

Summer and Jenna exchanged a look. “If you say so.”

“I do say so! Back in the day, we used to make out for hours on end. He's a great kisser, for your information.”

“But you never had sex,” Summer said.

“We might have.” Lila's voice rose. “We might have had sex all over this town.”

Summer laughed and rolled her eyes. “Try to keep your clothes on. I dare you.”

“Go ahead and mock me. But you don't know our history. What we had was special, and it still is. Ben and I are meant to be.”

Summer scoffed. “Meant to be
friends
who kiss like brother and sister.”

“We don't kiss like brother and sister.” Lila was outraged. “It's been like thirteen years and we're in public! He was being a gentleman!”

“And you're into that sort of thing?”

“Absolutely.” Lila pounded the bar top. “When we finally do
get together, it's going to be hot. Scorching. The heat of our passion will burn this whole town to the ground.”

“So we should be on the lookout for random acts of spontaneous combustion, is what you're saying?”

“That's right,” Lila retorted. “But there won't be anything random about it. Because it's
meant to be
.”

T
he next morning, Lila put on jeans and a threadbare T-shirt from high school, pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and prepared to brave the attic. She grabbed a mug of coffee and an ancient portable radio as she passed through the kitchen, where her mother was slumped at the table in a yellow silk robe.

“Mom? You okay?”

“I'm fine.” Daphne stirred her tea with a dainty silver spoon. “Just tired. Overwhelmed. Missing your father.”

Lila put one hand on the refrigerator door. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, I just need to sit for a while.” Daphne kept stirring, her hand on autopilot, and Lila suspected that the tea had gone cold. “Where are you going looking so grubby?”

“Time to tackle the attic. You heard what the Realtor said. What's in all the boxes up there, anyway?”

Daphne stared into her cup.

“Want to come with me and find out?”

“No.” Daphne sighed and stirred, sighed and stirred. “I can't face all the memories.”

Lila paused, then said very gently, “Maybe this will end up being a blessing. A new house, a new start.”

Daphne snapped out of her daze and released the spoon with a clink. “Your father dying is not a blessing.”

“Mom, no, I didn't mean—”

“I already told you: I'm not moving. This house is my life's work, Lila. I chose every shutter, every rug, every quilt. This house is your birthright.”

Lila touched her mother's shoulder. “I know this is hard, but unless we win the lottery, we don't have a choice.”

“People are already talking, you know. Someone in that law office must have a big mouth, because everyone in this petty, provincial town is
looking
at me. They feel sorry for me now.” Daphne's eyes flashed. “Me! Can you imagine? Ever since your father died, they won't make eye contact when they see me in the store and they keep bringing over these”—she wrinkled her nose in disgust and gestured toward the freezer—“these casseroles. I ask you, Lila. Do I strike you as someone who might enjoy casseroles?”

“No.”

“Someone actually gave me a carton of wine over the holidays. It would be laughable if it weren't so appalling. What on earth am I going to do with wine in a box?”

“Drink it?” Lila suggested.

Daphne shuddered.

“Well, if you aren't going to drink it, can I?”

Daphne pointed at the doorway. “Get out of my sight.”

Lila didn't argue. She tucked the radio under her arm and headed upstairs.

Twenty minutes later, while singing along at the top of her lungs to “Fancy” by Reba McEntire, she discovered the first Dior.

She'd slit open an unlabeled carton, expecting to find moldering 1980s blouses with massive shoulder pads, but when she folded
back the crisp layers of tissue, she discovered a pale pink shirtdress, along with a matching jacket and hat. The style looked like something from the 1960s.

The surrounding boxes held similar pieces of vintage couture: brilliantly cut black cocktail dresses, a coffee-and-cream-colored spectator suit, and a showstopping gold Halston evening gown.

She carried the gold gown down to her mother, who was still in the kitchen.

“Is this yours?” Lila held up the Halston with both hands.

Daphne reached out and embraced the dress. “Oh! I had no idea this was up there.”

Lila pointed toward the ceiling. “There are boxes stacked to the rafters.”

“This is one of my collector's pieces from New York.” Her mother smiled a secret, faraway smile. “I thought it was in the storage unit.”

“Storage unit?” Lila's eyebrows shot up. “You mean there's more?”

“Pieces like this need to be kept away from moisture, sunlight, and extreme temperatures,” Daphne explained. “You wouldn't catch the Louvre taping the
Mona Lisa
up on somebody's kitchen refrigerator, would you?”

Lila crossed her arms. “How many storage units?”

“What?” Daphne, clearly stalling, pretended not to hear.

Lila gave her a bad-cop stare. “How. Many.”

“One. Okay, two.”

“And what's the monthly rental fee for the units?”

“You can't put a price on art, pumpkin.”

“Where did you even get all this?” Lila asked. “A lot of it looks like it's from the fifties and sixties.”

“Well, I found some of it at vintage boutiques and flea markets in Paris and Milan.” Her mother's smile turned mischievous.
“And I might have liberated a few pieces from the runway and designer showrooms.”

“You
stole
this stuff? I had no idea you were such a criminal.”

“I was all kinds of things before I met your father.” Daphne suddenly looked about twenty years younger. “Before I got married and moved here and had you, I used to . . .”

“You used to what?” Lila took a seat next to her mother, fascinated.

Daphne caught herself and shook her head. “Nothing. It was a different time in my life, that's all.” Her expression had gone carefully neutral.

“Well, what do you think we should do with these clothes?” Lila thought about what the estate jeweler had suggested to the woman trying to sell the antique hair comb. She tried to figure out how to word this delicately, then decided it was best to be blunt. “We could put a few up for sale on eBay.”

Daphne shook her head. “Pack everything up and put it back where you found it.”

“But we need to—”

“I said no, Lila.” Her mother's tone sharpened. “It's my
life
packed away up there, not some archaeological fashion dig. We're not selling my heart and soul on eBay.”

“Okay, okay.” Lila nodded, then pushed her chair away from the table. “Actually, you know what? It's not okay.”

Daphne gasped. “Excuse me?”

“You can't keep going like this.” Lila took a deep breath. “
We
can't keep going like this.”

“Speak for yourself, Lila Jane.”

“Fine, I will.
I
, Lila Jane Alders, am broke. I'm scared. I have no idea what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. But the one thing I do know is that waiting for someone else to come along and bail me out isn't working.”

“Our situations are different.” Daphne pulled the lapels of her robe tighter. “Your husband left you. Mine died.”

Lila paused to absorb the sting of this. She kept her voice low and calm. “Yes, Mom. He died. And now you have no money.”

“I have money.” Daphne ducked her head. “It's just a temporary cash flow problem—”

“No money,” Lila repeated. “Wake up and smell the red ink.”

At this, her mother's bravado vanished.

Lila leaned over, both hugging and shielding her mother. “I know you have no idea what to do next. Neither do I. But we have to help each other. We have to try.”

Daphne relaxed into her daughter for a moment, then pulled away, sighing. “Designers used to make dresses with me in mind. There was a famous designer in the eighties named Cedric Jameson. You've heard of him, of course.”

Lila had no clue who Cedric Jameson was, but she nodded anyway.

“Cedric loved me. He adored me. He used to beg me to go to the Maldives for a week with him. He called me his muse. I was a muse, do you hear me?”

“Your ex-boyfriends are way cooler than mine,” Lila admitted.

“I used to date designers and artists and musicians—two or three at a time. And now I'm old and anonymous and stuck in
Delaware
. I didn't mind it when I was with your father; he loved this town so much. But now . . .” A few drops of tea sloshed out of Daphne's mug as she gestured at the overcast gray horizon beyond the bay window. “Put yourself in my shoes, Lila. What would you do if you were me?”

Lila saw her opening. “
I
would put my old clothes up for auction on eBay. There's got to be some demand for vintage Halston in perfect condition.”

“Here.” Daphne handed Lila the silver spoon with a dramatic flourish. “You might as well just use that to carve my heart out.”

“Let's not be hasty. No point in carving your heart out unless someone meets the reserve price.”

“How can you joke about this? How can you
laugh
about selling my Halston?”

“Fine, then pick something else. We could probably get a week's worth of groceries for some old Gucci.”

Daphne turned up her nose. “I'd rather go hungry.”

“Spoken like a true model.” Lila hurried back up to the attic and returned to the kitchen with a cloth garment bag, out of which she pulled a gauzy white floor-length gown with a cluster of peach roses at the waist. “The label says Christian Dior. Is this authentic?”

“Well, of course.” Daphne looked offended. “Do you think I'd pollute my wardrobe with knockoffs?”

“When was this made?”

“I'm not sure.” Daphne glanced at the silk roses. “Sometime in the mideighties. That was never one of my favorite pieces. It's a little too sweet and froufrou for my tastes.”

Lila smiled. “Great. Then you won't care if I sell it.”

Daphne's complexion went ashen. “What? No!”

“You just said it wasn't one of your favorites.”

“But it's still special. It's in perfect condition. It's one of a kind!”

“Great. Hopefully, it'll fetch a nice price.” Lila zippered the gown back up. “Let me sell this one, as an experiment. Just to see what the market's like.
Take
action
, Mom. That's our new motto.”

Daphne stammered for a few seconds, then breathed a sigh of relief as a thought occurred. “But you can't. Neither one of us has any idea how to use eBay.”

“Maybe not currently. But if I can vanquish the lawn, I can figure out eBay. Talking people into impulse buys is what I do best, remember?”

*   *   *

The next day, Lila dropped by the real estate office on her way into Black Dog Bay's blink-and-you'll-miss-it downtown. Whitney finished up a phone call and waved her into an office.

“Hey. I just wanted to give you an update,” Lila said. “We're still planning to sell the house. I have to work on my mom a little, but eventually, she'll break down and sign the broker contract. I just don't want you to feel like we're wasting your time.”

Whitney sat back in her desk chair, and Lila noticed framed photos of a baby girl next to the computer. “You're not wasting my time. Your mom's been in that house for years, and she cares about what happens to it. That's normal.”

Lila peered more closely at the photographs. The baby was wearing a darling seersucker sailor dress. “Is that your daughter?”

Whitney nodded and beamed with maternal pride. “Kyrie Rose. That picture's a few months old. She just started walking—scratch that, she skipped walking and went straight to running.”

Lila gazed at the photo with a physical pang of longing and regret for the marriage she'd lost and the children she'd planned to have. “I love that dress. I didn't know they even made those little sailor suits for girls anymore.”

“Isn't it cute? It's actually mine from when I was little. My mom kept some of my baby stuff and gave it to me when I got pregnant.”

“That is so sweet. And she really took care of it—it looks brand-new.”

“Well, actually, my—” Whitney broke off and clapped her hand over her mouth.

“What?” Lila tilted her head, waiting.

“Nothing. It's just . . .” Whitney's eyes darted from side to side and then she whispered, “My brother redid some of the stitching on the neckline and the sleeves.”

Lila blinked, remembering the encounter she'd had with Malcolm outside the Whinery—
that
brute had hand-smocked a cute little nautical dress for his niece? With his strong, calloused, sweaty hands?

“
Please
don't tell him I told you. He'd die if anyone knew. He only did this for Kyrie's birthday because I begged him.” Whitney gave Lila a little nudge. “He's good, though, right?”

“He's amazing.” Lila picked up the photo and examined the ruffles and pin tucks. “But I thought you said he was off in the Marines doing supersecret, badass stuff?”

“He was. Which is why you can never say one word about any of this to anyone. Seriously, I'll disappear in the night and no one will ever find my body.”

Lila continued to marvel over the craftsmanship. “Where did he learn to sew like that?”

“Oh, well, our mom was a seamstress, you know.”

“I didn't know.”

“Yeah, before she married our stepdad. Anyway, the community theater hired her to make all their costumes. And she and my grandma would force Malcolm to help as soon as he was old enough to thread a needle.” Whitney smiled. “I'm not surprised he never told you. I'm sure he was very concerned with impressing you with his seventeen-year-old manliness. Once he started running track, he didn't even look at a spool of thread for like twenty years.”