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.”
“I didn’t.” Lila turned to Ingrid. “Did you know that?”
Ingrid shook her head. “No, but I carry a reusable cloth grocery bag as my purse.”
“You do?” Daphne looked horrified. “We’re going to pay you in purses, then. Every girl needs at least one good-quality bag by the time she starts college.” To Lila, she said, “You’re going to have to learn how to spot counterfeit bags, because there’s a ton of them out there.”
Ingrid twisted her arms behind her back and tried to unzip the sequined dress. “This town is nothing but scandals and secrets. If people only knew.”
“Someone’s going to have to tell the queen of the mean girls that she’s been carrying fake bags to the country club all this time.” Daphne looked a bit giddy at the prospect.
“Not it,” Ingrid said quickly.
“Well, it’s not my jurisdiction,” Daphne declared. “I handle the fashion and beauty; you handle the business. That’s how this partnership works.”
“What? When did we vote on that? I demand a recount!” Lila took her mother’s hand. “Be reasonable. I cannot tell Mimi Sinclair—”
“Summer calls her the Terrorist in Tweed,” Ingrid threw in.
“I cannot tell the Terrorist in Tweed that she’s been swanning around town with a bunch of knockoffs. You should see her eyes, Mom! And her hair. She’s scary.”
“Which is why you’re going to be the one to tell her,” Daphne said. “You know I don’t do well with confrontation.”
“But I . . .”
“You mowed the lawn,” Daphne pointed out. “You found the space for the store. You got someone to do alterations. You can do this.” She gave Lila a sunny smile and then bragged to Ingrid, “My daughter can do anything.”
“You fixed the faucet,” Lila lobbed back.
Ingrid shook her head. “It’s a suicide mission. Nice knowing you, Lila.”
“Thanks.” Lila helped the teenager with the dress zipper. “Will you take a check?”
“No.” Ingrid pulled her hair up and out of the way. “I’ll try on whatever you want, but I don’t want you to pay me. Not with money, anyway.”
“Then what is it that you want?” Lila asked.
“I want you to find Summer a wedding dress.”
chapter 21
Unfinished Business officially opened its doors on a cool, gray Thursday morning. Lila didn’t sleep at all the night before; she lay awake in the darkness, tossing and turning and wondering what she had gotten herself into. She hadn’t been able to make a success of her career or her marriage—did she really expect this venture to be any different?
Who do you think you are?
In a vain attempt to silence the voices of self-doubt, she’d turned on her laptop and started skimming some of the online vintage fashion forums. After five solid hours of poring over posts about designers and stitching and the importance of original tags and labels, she started to understand how much she truly didn’t know. It woul
d take years to attain her mother’s level of expertise. She didn’t have years, so she tried to pick up the main concepts and catchphrases. Sometimes in life, as in late-night shopping channel broadcasts, concepts and catchphrases could carry you through.
She headed downstairs at dawn, brewed a strong pot of coffee, and went to rouse her mother.
“Wake up, Mom.” She curled up in the shadows at the foot of Daphne’s bed and waited for her mother to share her jitters and anticipation.
Daphne responded by piling two pillows over her face.
“Good morning? Up and at ’em?”
Daphne peeked out from beneath the pillows. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Au contraire—it’s the beginning of a new day. Go time, Mom. Look alive!”
“I can’t.” Her complexion looked ashen. “I thought I could do this, but I can’t.”
“Of course you can. You fixed the faucet, remember? You can do anything!” Lila held out the coffee mug. “Have some caffeine. You’ll feel better.”
“It’s just too much. Your father’s death, the money worries, selling off my clothes from my old life . . . I know you’re trying to help me, and I appreciate it, but I can’t do this. Not today. I’m sorry, sweet pea.”
Lila rested her hand on her mother’s shoulder and listened.
“I can’t stand the thought of doing this over and over for the rest of my life.” Daphne’s voice was muffled. “Getting up while it’s still dark, trying to figure out all the computer stuff, struggling to scrape together property tax payments and car insurance payments and grocery and gas and water bills . . .”
“I know it feels overwhelming right now, but we can’t look at it like that.” Lila realized she was making another sales pitch—to get her mother to invest in the future. “Twenty-four hours at a time. One hour at a time. Hell, I’ll be taking today five minutes at a time. Don’t think about working and paying bills for years to come. Just ask yourself, can I make it through the next five minutes?”
New Uses For Old Boyfriends Page 17