New Uses For Old Boyfriends (21 page)

“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.”

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?”

Daphne clutched the box to her chest. “Not yet.”

“Why? Are you planning to wear it?”

“No.”

Lila arched one eyebrow. “Then . . . ?”

“I want to hold on to it for a little while. And don't give me a guilt trip about credit card bills and mortgage payments. I'll sell it when I'm ready.” Daphne tightened her grip on the box. “I'm just not ready.”

“You want to hold on to it? You just finished telling me about
some old woman who died and left—and I quote—‘a house full of stuff that nobody in her family wants.'”

Daphne seemed mystified. “What's your point?”

“My point is, don't let that be you.”

“What does any of that have to do with me? I still look thirty-five and I have no plans to die any time soon, thank you very much.”

“Okay, then, what if you keep the necklace in exchange for learning to text?”

Daphne sighed. “Fine.”

“
And
learning how to check voice mail,” Lila added. “Knowing how to work your own cell phone is kind of the bare minimum for a business owner.”

Daphne folded her arms in a display of adolescent defiance. “I never wanted to be a business owner.”

“Then here's the part where I have to give you a guilt trip about all the credit card bills and the business loans and the personal loans and the cost of heating and cooling a gigantic house. . . .”

“Fine.” Her mother sulked. “I'll learn to check voice mail. But I won't like it.”

“You don't have to like it; you just have to do it.” Lila maintained her cheerful, can-do facade, but she had reviewed the files from the estate attorney again yesterday. And no matter how much the new business made over the summer, her mother's mountain of debt would keep growing as the interest accrued. No matter how many extras they cut, the basic expenses of maintaining the house would eat up any profits. Lila had started to think about how to explain to her mother that all their hard work was too little, too late.

Their best efforts simply wouldn't be enough.

M
alcolm called just before lunch.

Lila motioned to her mother that she was going to the back room, then answered her cell phone with what her mother would deem an unladylike degree of enthusiasm. But it wasn't as if she'd been waiting for his call—she
just happened
to be keeping her phone on her person at all times today.

She greeted him with the most seductive “Hello” she could manage through a huge smile.

“Hey.” Just the sound of his voice was inspiring more unladylike thoughts. “I don't know if you remember me, but we went out once.”

She laughed and sat down on a gray metal folding chair next to an empty clothes rack. “Refresh my memory.”

“We went to Gull's Point. I'm the guy who took you out trespassing on private property.”

“Hmm, I seem to have some vague recollection.”

His voice dropped even lower. “I ripped your dress off before kissing you good night. Ring any bells?”

“Oh, that's right, you're the boy with the shoulder muscles,” she said. “And the back muscles. And the . . . sparkling personality.”

“Yeah. I was wondering if you might want to come over to my place tonight and . . .”

Lila stood up and pressed the phone to her ear. “Yes?”

“Sign my yearbook.”

She laughed so loudly, her mother opened the door and shushed her.

“Is that a yes?” Malcolm asked.

“It's a yes. I'll be there as soon as I lock up the store tonight.”

*   *   *

Lila was still basking in a post-phone-call glow when a blonde with a
Jersey Shore
tan, scraggly hair extensions, and even more scraggly cutoffs strutted into the boutique. She was followed by two burly men toting garbage bags and a black-and-white spaniel with a red collar.

Lila exchanged a quick glance with her mother before launching into her greeting spiel: “Welcome to Unfinished Business. Are you looking for anything special?”

“Oh, I'm not looking to buy anything; I'm looking to unload a bunch of stuff. I brought in some clothes you might want.” The blonde patted the countertop, and the display case shuddered as the men heaved the trash bags onto the spotless glass surface.

Lila assessed the woman's outfit: threadbare white tank top, booty-baring denim shorts, oversize flannel shirt à la Kurt Cobain, and red Converse sneakers with a hole in the toe. “I'm so glad you came in today, but we don't usually take unsolicited stock. Typically, our inventory acquisition involves—”

The blonde sneezed onto a mannequin wearing a Thierry Mugler petal dress. “Sorry. I'm allergic to this dog.”

“We don't allow dogs in the store.” Daphne dabbed at the petal dress with a tissue. “The fur, the drool, the . . . other bodily fluids. We can't risk it with the clothes.”

Before the girl and her henchmen could reply, the door opened again, and a fashionista with thick black hair and the body of a Teutonic goddess swept in.

“I've heard about you,” the goddess announced without preamble. “You're the mother-daughter team, yes? The Dior doyennes of Delaware?”

“I'm Daphne Alders.” Lila's mother disposed of the tissue and offered a ladylike handshake. “Dior doyenne at your service.”

The fashionista clasped Daphne's hand for the briefest moment before letting go. “I'm Tara Rassas. I'm a buyer for several vintage boutiques in London and New York, and I'm also an acquaintance of Cedric James—”

“Excuse me.” The blonde draped herself over the counter. “I was here first.”

Tara's gaze flitted over the overstuffed garbage bags. “So I see.”

The burly henchmen turned and exited the shop without a word.

“Wait!” Lila called after them.

Tara ignored all of this and continued speaking to Daphne. The tattered blonde shot the older women a death glare.

Lila stifled a sigh and tugged at the frayed twist tie on the first trash bag. “Since you're here, might as well take a look.”

“I don't really know what's in there.” The girl geared up for another sneeze. Lila handed her the whole box of Kleenex. “Just that it's old and not my style.”

Lila steeled herself as best she could and peeled back one edge of the bag. She said a silent prayer that she wasn't about to catch fleas or the bubonic plague, and pulled out the first garment her hand touched.

“Mom?” she murmured when she saw what she was holding.

Daphne and Tara were now talking shop about James Galanos and Treacy Lowe.

The blonde started playing on her cell phone and the dog sniffed the hem of a Pauline Trigère tapestry dress.

“Mom!”
Lila hissed. She beckoned her mother over to bear witness to the fashion miracle unfolding before their very eyes.

“Look.” Lila pulled out a 1940s blue velvet dress in perfect condition with yellowed cardboard tags still dangling from the label and tried out one of her newly acquired catchphrases. “It's the holy grail of dead stock.”

Daphne gasped and peered over Lila's shoulder. “Is that . . . ?”

“It is.” Tara the fashion buyer peered over Lila's other shoulder. “That's a Gloria Swanson with the original label.”

Daphne shoved Lila aside, reached into the bag, and pulled out a navy lace cocktail dress with an illusion bodice and a full skirt.

“Oh my God,” breathed Tara. “A Peggy Hunt.”

Daphne rescued a dozen more dresses from the depths of the trash bag, each more detailed and gorgeous than the last.

“Carolyn Schnurer,” Tara guessed before checking the label of a boatneck sundress patterned in cream and grass green. “It has to be.”

“There's so many of them,” Lila said. “In so many sizes.”

“Where did you get this?” Daphne demanded.

The blonde glanced up from her phone with evident annoyance. “My aunt owned a clothing store back in the day. When she closed up shop, my uncle threw everything in storage. And now they're dead, so it's my problem.” She resumed texting. “You want this stuff or not?”

“
I
want it,” Tara interjected, running her hands over a black-and-white strapless A-line frock. “I want it all.”

Daphne looked around, presumably for a deadly weapon with which to defend her merchandise. “I'm sure you do, but you can't have it. My store, my score.”

Tara pulled a fancy gray wallet out of her fancy gray handbag and addressed the blonde. “I'll pay cash.”

Daphne gasped. “How dare you? You can't sashay in here and poach a bag full of Peggy Hunts and Carolyn Schnurers!”

“I'm not poaching; I'm paying.”

Lila stepped in between them, hoping to avert bloodshed and wondering if she should call Malcolm for backup. This was rapidly devolving into a SWAT team situation.

Daphne pointed to the door. “Please leave immediately.”

The client leaned against the counter and watched with growing interest. “Don't get all dramatic; there's plenty to go around.”

“No. Wrong. There are
not
plenty of dead-stock Peggy Hunt dresses to go around.” Daphne gathered them up in her arms and clutched them to her bosom. “How long have these been in storage?”

“Dunno.”
Achoo!
“A couple of years, I guess?”

“Use a tissue!” Lila cried.
“Please!”

“And they've been in”—Daphne could barely force the words out—“garbage bags all this time?”

“No, my aunt had them in a bunch of boxes, but they wouldn't fit in my car so I had to unpack them.”

“Thank God,” Daphne murmured.

Tara waved a fistful of cash. “Two thousand dollars. Right here, right now.”

“Get out!” Daphne screamed. “Before I call the police!”

Tara responded with, “Three thousand.”

Lila held up her hand and called for a cease-fire. “Wait. What on earth is this?” She picked out a stretchy black piece of fabric that looked like high-waisted boy shorts attached to suspenders, which met in the middle in a V.

Tara put down her money and gaped.

Daphne curled up her hand and bit her knuckle. “That, sweet pea, is a monokini.”

And just like that, the fashionistas stopped fighting and started conferring in hushed, reverent tones.

“I've seen photos, but I've never seen one in person outside a museum,” Tara said.

Lila held the item at arm's length, puzzled. “Where's the rest of it?”

“That's it,” Tara said. “Simple. Severe. Brilliant.”

“No, I mean, where's the top?” Lila asked.

“There is no top,” Daphne explained. “That's the point.”

“So it's a topless bikini? Hot,” the blonde said. She held out her hand. “Maybe I'll hold on to that one.”

Daphne swatted her hand down. “This piece is iconic. Rudi Gernreich designed it in protest against American puritanism.”

“Peggy Moffitt modeled it in
Women's Wear Daily
,” Tara added.

Lila stared at her mother. “You use words like ‘puritanism'?”

“I do when I'm talking about Rudi Gernreich.”

Tara rounded on the blonde. “Do you have any more of those?”

“I don't think so.”

“How do you propose we display this, Mom?” Lila draped the monokini across the counter. “Maybe on one of the mannequins? With a wide-brimmed hat or something?”

The blonde grabbed it back. “You know, I don't think I'm going to sell that one. I kind of want to keep it for myself.”

Tara and Daphne were all but frothing at the mouth.

“What? No. You can't keep that.”

“What on earth would you do with a Rudi Gernreich, anyway?”

The blonde smiled and adjusted her white tank top. “Wear it to the beach this summer. Totally Euro-style. Aww yeah.”

Daphne's whole face tightened. “You don't
wear
this out in the sand and sun. Shame on you! This is an important piece of fashion history. It's meant to be preserved and displayed, and . . .”

“It's a swimsuit,” the blonde said. “Last I checked, swimsuits belong at the beach. And let's face it—I totally have the body for it.”

“Let's not get irrational, ladies.” Lila started inventorying the
contents of the other garbage bag. “I'm sure we can come to an agreement.”

The girl rocked back on her heels and hooked her thumbs through her belt loops, obviously enjoying the power struggle in progress. “Tell you what,” she said to Daphne. “You can have the—what did you call this, again?”

“Monokini.”

“Yeah, you can have the monokini if you take the dog. Package deal.” She held out the red leash. “He was my aunt's, too. She left me a bunch of old clothes, a bunch of ratty old furniture, and this dog.” One corner of her lip curled up in a sneer. “But no trust fund.”

“Well, we will be delighted to take the clothes off your hands.” Daphne piled the dresses on the counter. “But as for the dog—”

“I'll take the dog,” Tara volunteered. She reached out for the leash and the monokini.

The blonde looked stunned. “You will?”

“Absolutely. I adore dogs,” Tara said.

“You don't even live here!” Daphne cried. “She flies around from London to New York to Timbuktu.”

“She's lying,” Tara said. “There's no vintage fashion scene in Timbuktu.”

“I'll take the dog!” Daphne said.

“I'm taking the dog and I said it first!”

The two elegant, perfectly groomed women were about thirty seconds away from taking off their earrings and brawling amid the Balenciaga. In the absence of a SWAT team, Lila did her best to play negotiator. “What's the customs situation with taking a dog to London?”

Tara blinked. “Pardon?”

“Do they have to stay in a kennel?” Lila asked. “Is there a waiting period? Do they need vaccination records?”

“I . . . don't know.”

“Ha!” Daphne tossed her head in triumph. “She doesn't know.” Then she paused and took a deep breath. “Fine, I'll take the dog. Anything for fashion.”

“You'll never love that dog like I will,” Tara shot back.

“Listen.” Lila turned to the blonde. “You don't want to leave your dog with either one of them.”

But the girl had segued from enjoyment back to boredom. “For the last time: It's not my dog; it's my aunt's.”

Lila smiled down at the little black-and-white spaniel, who had curled up next to the girl's red sneakers. “Well, then.” She held out her palm for the leash. “
I'll
take the dog.”

“That's my girl!” Daphne cooed, then lowered her voice and whispered, “We'll figure out what to do with it later.”

Lila ignored her mother. “Is it a he or a she?”

The girl appeared to be deeply immersed in a text debate. “Dunno.”

“What's its name?” Lila tried.