New Uses For Old Boyfriends
Page 6
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.”
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 serv
ings 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.”
chapter 8
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?”