New Uses For Old Boyfriends

by Beth Kendrick

  “Hi.” Summer, sporting a bedhead Mohawk, handed her a mug of coffee. “We’re having a power breakfast. Planning for the fashion show.”

  “It’s going to be great.” Daphne looked as though she’d been up for hours in her diamond earrings and patent red loafers.

  Lila accepted the coffee gratefully. “That sounds—hey, why does she get to have pancakes but I couldn’t have waffles the other day?”

  Daphne brandished the spatula. “Because she’s not trying to seduce an ex-boyfriend in a Marilyn Monroe dress.”

  “She’s getting married,” Lila said. This had the intended effect of taking all the heat off her.

  Daphne spun over to Summer, still armed with the spatula. “Ooh, you are? Why haven’t I heard about this? When’s the big day?”

  “You’d have to ask Ingrid.” Summer tried to look disgusted, but couldn’t quite conceal her excitement. “It’s really her wedding. I’ll just show up and say the vows.”

  “Let me see the ring.”

  Summer held out her bare hands. “Haven’t gotten around to that yet.”

  Daphne gave a little hmph of disapproval. “Where are you and Dutch registered?”

  Summer’s expression changed from excited to horrified. “We’re not. We’re keeping this low-key. Two slackers in love.”

  “But you have to register for gifts, darling.”

  “I don’t want gifts.” Summer took a huge swig of coffee. “I just want to be done with the wedding.” She shot an accusatory look at Lila, who responded with an angelic smile. “Anyway, back to the fashion show.”

  “I can help you with your gift registry,” Daphne offered. “Not to toot my own horn, but I have exquisite taste. Just point me to a Web site and I’ll choose the best linens, the most classic china patterns, the finest crystal.”

  At the mention of china patterns, Summer looked physically nauseated. “Can’t I just register at the liquor store and be done with it?”

  “Yes.” Lila gave her mother a look. “Don’t terrorize the bride- to-be.”

  Summer flashed her a thumbs-up and slipped her a contraband pancake wrapped in a paper towel. “As I was saying, we need to get an initial head count for the fashion show by the end of the month because—”

  “That’s what I don’t get,” Lila interjected. “You’re fine with working the runway in a bright pink nightgown in front of hundreds of people, but you’re allergic to weddings?”

  Summer heaved an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. “Strutting around in sex-kitten pajamas that Zsa Zsa Gabor would wear is one thing—”

  “Eva Gabor,” Daphne corrected.

  “—but walking down the aisle in a big mess of tulle is quite another.” Summer gagged. “And then the whole deal with the garter and the bouquet toss and the veil . . . it’s all so antiquated and patriarchal.” She paused. “Oh my God, Ingrid’s rubbing off on me.”

  “Don’t spook her,” Daphne admonished Lila. “She and Ingrid are going to be the stars of the fashion show.”

  “Ingrid’s in the show now?” Lila laughed. “Have you broken the news to her yet?”

  “No, because I know she’ll try to use it as leverage against me. She’ll probably make me agree to a harpist at the wedding.” Summer clutched the countertop. “Or a string quartet. That girl is a ruthless negotiator.”

  “Well, give her whatever she wants, because that beaded Pucci minidress Lila found at the thrift store will be divine on her.” Daphne patted her daughter’s hand. “That was a great score, sweet pea. I don’t think it’s ever been worn.”

  “You found a mint-condition Pucci at a thrift store?” Summer looked impressed. “How did that happen?”

  Lila brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Summer turned to Daphne. “I saw some signs for an estate sale that starts at nine. We should go check it out and see if there’s any jewelry or luggage.”

  Lila made a slicing motion across her throat. “She’s not allowed to shop.”

  “It’s not shopping; it’s business,” Daphne said.

  “We should leave as soon as possible.” Summer got a competitive gleam in her eyes. “You have to get there early if you want the good stuff.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Daphne jumped as her cell phone chirped. “What was that?”

  “You have a text,” Summer informed her.

  “Mom, you finally learned to text?” Lila put down her pancake and gave a little golf clap.

  “Not really.” Daphne handed her phone to Summer. “Summer’s been corresponding with Cedric all morning.”

  “Ooh, is he coming for the fashion show?” Lila asked.

  Summer glanced down at the phone. “No.”

  Daphne’s perfect posture gave way to a pouty slouch.

  Summer skimmed the text. “But he says he wants you to come see him in Belgium—”

  “Right.” Daphne sniffed. “With all my disposable income.”

  “—and he says he’s spreading the word about Unfinished Business to ‘buyers who matter.’” Summer set the phone aside. “What does that mean?”

  Daphne perked up again. “Vintage couture is big business overseas, you know. Dealers in New York and Paris and London send buyers around the world to find important pieces.”

  Lila sipped her coffee. “We do have some important pieces.”

  “But no one’s ever going to look for them in Black Dog Bay, Delaware.” Daphne sighed. “What we need is a satellite store in New York. Chelsea or the West Village.”

  “I’ll get right on that,” Lila said. “Right after I find out if we’re going to make rent next month.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Yet another weary sigh. “We’re not a model and a TV star anymore; we’re just a widow and a divorcée.”

  “Well, when you put it that way . . .”

  “Be careful how you talk about yourself.” Summer pointed her fork at Daphne. “What you think, you become. I believe the Buddha said that. Or a bumper sticker.”

  “Facts are facts. And the fact is, I just don’t have the moxie to make it in New York anymore,” Daphne said. “Besides, I’ve been in this house for thirty-five years now. It’s who I am. It’s where I belong.”

  Lila devoured the rest of her pancake, then excused herself to go shower and change. “I have to go vacuum the shop and clean the windows before we open for the day.” She gave her mother a hug after she rinsed her plate. “Keep it up with the texting lessons and stay out of trouble, you two.”

  “You’re the one who needs to stay out of trouble.” Daphne stage-whispered to Summer, “She came home from a date last night with no pants on.”

  “I approve,” Summer said, then stage-whispered back to Daphne. “Who’s the guy? Not the high school boyfriend again?”

  “No, no, she’s moved on to a delectable marine.”

  “Ooh, then I definitely approve.”

  Lila watched them with her eyes narrowed. “I don’t think I like you guys hanging out together.”

  “We’ll be sure to bear that in mind next time we’re taking a vote,” Summer said.

  Daphne crossed the kitchen and gave her daughter a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for taking care of the opening today, sweet pea. I’ll be over right after we hit the estate sale.”

  “Don’t spend any money,” Lila warned.

  “I’ll only make wise investments,” Daphne promised.

  “That makes me feel so much better.”

  * * *

  “Toodle-oo! Anyone here?” a clear, high voice called out from the front of Unfinished Business.

  Lila emerged from the back room with a Jacques Fath pantsuit in one hand and a Romeo Gigli beaded halter top in the other. She had to fight the impulse to turn tail and flee when she saw Mimi Sinclair waving at her
.

  “Mrs. Sinclair!” She mustered a half smile. “Lovely to see you again. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you for asking. Summer mentioned that you and your mother officially opened your little shop—I was so very sorry to hear that Daphne has to go back to work; you have my deepest sympathies—and I thought I’d drop in and show my support.”

  “Gee. Thanks.”

  Mimi, oblivious to the sarcasm, flitted around the boutique, examining one-of-a-kind garments with an air of blasé sophistication.

  Then she studied the hat-and-handbag display lining one wall and uttered the question that Lila had been dreading: “You don’t have my handbags displayed yet?”

  Lila swallowed hard. “Well, we—”

  “Or have you sold them all already?”

  “Hey, has Summer talked to you yet about the fashion show? She and my mother are putting a fun little fete together at the country club and they would so love for you to model.”

  “Me? Really? Well, I hate to call attention to myself, but I have been told I have a certain star quality.”

  “You’d be a fantastic addition to the show. Why don’t you look around and see if there’s something you’d like to wear?”

  “This is nice.” Mimi held up a Nettie Rosenstein evening gown made of oyster-colored silk.

  “It’s gorgeous.” Lila walked Mimi toward the dressing room. “Not many women could fit into that waistline, but you’re so trim and petite. Why don’t you try it on?”

  But Mimi could not be deterred from her mission. “And you know what would look fabulous with it? The enameled clutch I dropped off the other day. Do you still have it, or did some fashion-forward customer snap it up the second you put it out?”

  “We still have it,” Lila said. “Why? Have you changed your mind? I can return the bags to you, if you’d like. I understand why you’d hate to let them go.”

  “Heavens, no. I told you—they’re from last season. I only carry the latest and best.” Mimi patted her pink leather satchel, which, thanks to Daphne’s tutelage, Lila now recognized as a knockoff.

  “That’s lovely,” she told Mimi.

  “Isn’t it? My husband brought it back from a consulting trip in Europe. He goes to such lengths to spoil me!” Mimi handed the ball gown to Lila and continued to browse, touching everything just enough that Lila would have to straighten all the hangers after she left. “I’m only at the beach house for the weekend—I’ve got so many social engagements back in D.C., you know—so why don’t you go get those purses and we’ll look at them right now. Together.”

  Lila prayed for a sudden sinkhole to appear in the floor or an errant bolt of lightning to strike her dead on the spot.

  She didn’t get an official act of God, but she did get her mother.

  “I’m finally here!” The shop’s back door slammed as Daphne traipsed in. “And I struck gold at the estate sale! Wait until you see—”

  “Mom!” Lila whirled around with wild eyes. “I’m so glad you’re back! Mrs. Sinclair here has dropped by to wish us well on our grand opening—”

  “I think you’re so brave.” Mimi took one of Daphne’s hands.

  “—and to ask about the resale value of those handbags she dropped off the other morning.”

  Daphne took a breath, then frowned in an almost comical display of confusion. “Handbags? Which handbags are those, sweet pea?”

  Lila glared at her mother. “I’m sure you remember. The bags you said you were going to appraise?”

  “Silly me, I must have forgotten in all the excitement!” Daphne turned to Mimi with her ditziest smile. “You can’t imagine how distracted I’ve been lately with the construction and the inventory and the financial documents. I had no idea how much was involved in starting a business. My brain has absolutely turned to mush!”

  “Well, when do you think you might be able to give me a number?” Mimi asked, not bothering to disguise her impatience. “I told my daughter she could use the proceeds from my old bags for a new phone.” She rolled her eyes. “Natalie lost a few phones this year, and my husband refuses to buy her another one until she quote-unquote ‘learns some responsibility.’ But, obviously, she can’t be the only one of her friends without her own phone—she’s very popular—and my husband goes over all the credit card statements with a fine-tooth comb, so I told her I’d get cash and we’d just Enron the whole thing.”

  Daphne and Lila avoided making eye contact.

  “We’ll get to it in the next few days,” Daphne vowed. “I promise. We’ll give you a call.”

  “When?” Mimi pressed.

  “Soon,” Daphne swore.

  “Are you sure you don’t want the bags back?” Lila asked. “It might be more convenient to take them to a vintage store in D.C.”

  “Absolutely not. I told Summer Benson I would patronize your business, and that’s exactly what I intend to do.”

  At this point, Daphne realized that Mimi’s “patronage” had nothing to do with her and everything to do with social climbing. So she gave the terrorist in tweed exactly what she wanted: She begged her to try on the ball gown. She oohed and aahed and played the adoring supplicant to the lady of the manor. Finally, she threw in some truly shameless hyperbole about Mimi missing her calling as a supermodel, and Mimi was mollified. Temporarily.

  “Please contact me about the bags at your earliest convenience.” She gave Lila and Daphne one last look of reproach as she prepared to leave without buying anything. “I realize you’re still new to this, but customer service is your most valuable asset.”

  Lila nodded, wide-eyed. “We’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Sinclair.”

  Daphne’s smile sharpened. “We’ll call you just as soon as we get a chance.”

  As Mimi flounced out of the shop, Lila turned to her mother. “How dare she tell us how to run our business? She’s never worked a day in her life!”

  “I know!” Daphne fumed. “And I’ve worked at least five now!”

  “Why didn’t you just tell her they’re fakes? You can’t put it off forever, you know.”

  “I’m not telling her,” Daphne vowed. “Not today, not ever. You tell her!”

  “You’re the handbag expert,” Lila argued.

  “That’s right. I deal with handbags, not wretched, self-important snobs.” Daphne gazed fondly at her daughter. “Besides, you’re so good at handling people.”

  “Insincere flattery won’t work on me.”

  “It’s sincere!”

  “Still not working.”

  “Damn. That woman’s got some nerve.” Daphne tsked. “But you and I know the truth: She’s all designer logos on the outside and cheap, synthetic material on the inside.”

  “Agreed.”

  Mother and daughter stared each other down for a moment, then said, at exactly the same moment, “Not it.”

  Daphne surprised Lila by laughing. “We can stall her for a few more days.”

  “Yeah, and then what?” Lila demanded.

  “You worry too much. Speaking of which, guess what I found at the estate sale?” Daphne opened her leather satchel and pulled out a ragged cardboard jewelry box. “Some old woman died and left a house full of stuff that nobody in her family wants!”

  “Try not to sound so gleeful,” Lila advised.

  “I can’t help it! Look what I found in a pile of plastic clip-on earrings and colored glass brooches.” Daphne opened the box to reveal a bib necklace dripping with large golden links and massive clear crystals with sharp points.

  Lila stared at the 1970s glitz. “That is hideous.”

  “Forgive her; she knows not of what she speaks,” Daphne appealed to the heavens. “Lila, you’re not seeing this for what it really is.”

  “And what is it, really?”

  “It’s a one-of-a-kind find.”

&nb
sp; Lila’s eyes narrowed as suspicion sank in. “I hope you didn’t pay a lot for this, Mom, because fine jewelry’s not an investment. Diamond rings and gold necklaces lose half their value before the ink’s dry on the receipt. Learned that the hard way.”

  Daphne dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “Oh, this isn’t fine jewelry. The metal is some sort of alloy, and the crystals are just Lucite.”

  Lila couldn’t stop staring at the sheer volume of the beads. “Then why’d you buy it?”

  “Because even though the materials aren’t high-end, the designer is.” Daphne turned over the necklace and pointed out a tiny oval engraving on the back of one of the wide golden links. “This is a deLillo. I got it for seventy-five dollars because the fools running the estate sale had no idea what they had.”

  “Seventy-five dollars?” Lila made a face. “You were robbed.”

  “We can resell it for three thousand,” Daphne decreed. “Maybe thirty-five hundred.”

  “You’re delusional,” Lila shot back. “No one’s going to pay three thousand dollars for this thing. It’s so . . . so . . . There aren’t even adjectives to describe it.”

  “William deLillo used to work for Harry Winston and Tiffany’s.” Daphne reached for Lila’s smartphone. “Look it up. Look up ‘William deLillo necklaces’ and prepare to eat your words, young lady.”

  Lila looked it up, and after scrolling through several vintage jewelry Web sites, she concluded, “Okay, so . . . thirty-five hundred might actually be a little on the low side.”

  “You can apologize any time now.”

  Lila picked up the necklace and dangled it in the sunlight. It looked substantial but weighed less than she would have predicted, probably because the “crystals” weren’t really crystal at all.

  “I can’t believe there are people out there willing to pay thousands of dollars for this,” she murmured. “It looks like something I’d find on clearance at T.J.Maxx.”

  “Blasphemy. This is why I’m the curator and you run the cash register.”

  Lila laughed and reached for the battered jewelry box. “Do you want me to put this in the display case by the register?”