“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 th
e 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?”
“That’s the problem.” Lila opened the white box and grabbed a scone. “She doesn’t want there to be a process. Don’t get me wrong—we’re definitely selling. But she’s still, you know, warming up to the idea.”
“Got it.” Whitney nodded. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-four, but she exuded a degree of confidence and capability that Lila could only dream of. “And I hope you’ll trust me to handle it. Most of my business really comes down to dealing with people. Buying or selling a home can be very emotional.”
“‘Emotional’ is one word for it.” Lila paused for a bite of the zesty, buttery scone. “Have you met my mother?”
“We haven’t been formally introduced, but I’ve seen her around town.” Whitney’s dimples were back in full force. “She seems lovely. Very stylish.”
“She is both lovely and stylish,” Lila conceded. “But she’s also recently widowed, and she’s had more than her fair share of bad news over the last few days.”
The door opened and Daphne emerged, crisp and coiffed and perfectly put together. She wore her asymmetric-shouldered tunic, double-wrapped belt, and tight black leggings with an almost aggressive hauteur. “Lila? Who are you talking to?”
Whitney stepped forward, offering a handshake. “Hi, Mrs. Alders, I’m Whitney Sosin. I’m here to—”
Lila threw herself between the real estate agent and her mother and tried to do some preemptive damage control. “I asked her to come, remember? Since we’re thinking about putting the house on the market?”
Daphne rounded on Lila with the most ferocious frown her Botoxed face could muster. “I already told you, we are not selling the house.”
Whitney retreated toward the porch steps. “Maybe I should give you two a moment.”
“Good idea,” Daphne agreed. “Lila, I told you: I’m not ready for this.”
“And that’s fine, because we’re not really doing anything,” Lila assured her. “We’re just walking.” She brushed past her mother, held open the door, and whispered to Whitney, “Hurry.”
Whitney gushed over the interior design, the high ceilings, and the ocean views. Daphne looked mollified and for a moment, Lila relaxed. Then they headed upstairs where, upon seeing the home office, Whitney remarked, “You might want to consider replacing the carpet in here.”
Daphne stiffened. “I picked out this color specifically. It’s my husband’s favorite.”
“And it’s lovely,” Whitney said heartily. “But prospective buyers don’t always share the aesthetic vision of the homeowner.”
“Well, I would never sell to someone who would rip out my flooring,” Daphne declared.
“It’s just carpet,” Lila said. “Maybe we could replace it with some neutral shade like beige?”
“Death first.”
Whitney kept moving. “Let’s look at the bedrooms, shall we? You also might want to take down some of the photos and pictures. It helps buyers to focus on the layout and the size of the rooms instead of the decor.”
“The layout?” Daphne scoffed. “If a buyer is too stupid to see what a gem this house is, they have no business buying it.”
“We’ll revisit the decor issues later.” Whitney led the way back down to the kitchen, placed her leather folder on the center island, and extracted a few papers. “I ran the comps on this neighborhood and I think, if we price it right, we should be able to sell quickly. I’ll put the For Sale sign up as soon as you sign the papers.”
“Oh, no.” Daphne blanched. “No For Sale sign.”
Lila held up her hand. “Now, Mom—”
“No sign! I don’t want the neighbors to know I’m moving. People gossip enough around here as it is.”
Lila turned to Whitney. “How fast can we close the sale once we get a buyer?”
“We can ask for a short escrow, but of course we’ll have to allow time for a home inspection and appraisal.”
Daphne stopped wringing her hands and snapped to attention. “I’m sorry, a what?”
“Home inspection and appraisal,” Whitney repeated.
“There’s nothing wrong with this house. This house is in perfect condition. Immaculate condition.”
The Realtor exchanged glances with Lila. “I can see you’ve taken good care of it, but this is a standard part of the process. The buyers are going to hire somebody whose job it is to find something wrong with the house.” She cleared her throat. “You’re also going to need to empty the closets. We want buyers to appreciate how much storage space is available, and the best way to do that is to clear out the clutter.”
“Clutter?” Daphne gasped. “Do you have any idea what’s in those boxes? Couture pieces from my modeling days. Timeless works of art.”
Aka neon jumpsuits and leather blazers from the eighties. Lila mentally scheduled multiple trips to Goodwill.
“I used to be a model, you know. In New York.” Daphne paused so Whitney could ooh and aah. “And beauty runs in the family, as you can see. Lila is a celebrity in her own right.”
Lila cringed. “Mom, p
lease don’t.” She turned to Whitney. “We’ll start clearing out the closets tomorrow.”
“Great.” Whitney glanced out the window at the overgrown yard. “Just one more thing. We want to make sure the exterior of the house is in tip-top shape. Curb appeal is one of the most important factors in selling a house.”
Lila sat down, overwhelmed. “So mow the lawn?”
Whitney nodded. “And trim the trees, prune the bushes, make sure the sand on the beachfront is groomed.”
Lila rubbed her forehead and nodded. “No problem; we’ll get everything taken care of. Thank you so much for taking the time to come over.”
“Give me a call when you’re ready and we’ll take it from there!”
Lila walked the real estate agent out to the porch, waved as Whitney drove away, and then tried to keep the smile on her face as she opened the garage door.
“What are you doing?” Her mother stepped out on the porch.
“Finding the lawn mower.” Lila rolled up the sleeves of her white linen shirt. “You heard the woman. Someone’s got to cut this grass.”
“Someone, yes. But not you.”
Lila glanced around the garage until she located her father’s spotless red lawn mower on the far side of her FUV. “Who else do we have left?”
Daphne’s eyes lit up. “Well, there’s always—”
“Do not say Ben Collier.”
“Why not? I’m sure he’d be happy to help us out.”
“No. He hasn’t called me for a date,” Lila said. “I’m not calling him for lawn care.”
“You mean he hasn’t called you yet,” Daphne corrected. “He will. The man’s running a real estate empire. Give him a few more days. And if you won’t let me call Ben, then let me call the lawn service. We have a quarterly account with them. I’ll just put it on my credit card.”
Lila pulled her hair back into a ponytail, her determination growing with every passing second. “Nope.”
Daphne looked at the rolled-up shirtsleeves and sloppy ponytail with alarm. “Sweet pea, be reasonable!”
Lila shook her head. “You go wait by the phone if you want. I’ll be out here, taking action.”
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