Cure for the Common Breakup (28 page)

A
few weeks later, as Summer and Ingrid sat at the piano in the living room, they saw lights come on in the Purple Palace across the bay.

“Did you see that?” Ingrid pointed out the window. “Miss Huntington must be back.”

Summer seized on this opportunity to stop practicing her scales. She got to her feet and peered out at the twilit sky. “Must be.”

“I heard she went all over Europe,” Ingrid reported. “I heard she went to Ireland and Italy and Switzerland and Germany.”

“You don't say.”

“I heard she has a sister now, too.”

Summer smiled. “Well, I think the sister has technically existed for about seventy-five years, but yes, the whole ‘acknowledging her existence' thing is new. Her name's Pauline, by the way. She's nice.”

“Anyone's nice compared to Miss Huntington.” Ingrid stuck out her tongue. “I can't believe she came back. She has to know that everyone's going to hate her more than ever now that she almost sold us all to the Poconoids.” Ingrid paused. “Not that she cares what anyone thinks of her.”

“Oh, I think she cares a little,” Summer said.

“I bet you're going to give her a taste of her own medicine.” Ingrid rubbed her hands together. “I bet you're never going to speak to her again. I bet you're going to torture her just the way she tortured you. Right?”

They heard footsteps on the porch; then Dutch maneuvered his way through the front door holding a briefcase and a pizza box.

“Oh, good,” Ingrid said. “You brought dinner.”

“I did. I also brought the latest edition of the
Black Dog Bay Bulletin
. Hot off the presses.” He watched Summer, waiting.

She tried to suppress her grin and played innocent. “Oh, really?”

“Yes, really.”

Ingrid glanced between the two of them. “What?”

Summer turned up both palms. “Nothing.”

Dutch put down the briefcase and handed his sister the newspaper. “Check out page three. There's a very interesting blind item in Hollis's ‘New and Noteworthy' column.”

“Isn't she a great writer?” Summer gushed. “So witty, so playful!”

Dutch just looked at her.

“What's a blind item?” Ingrid asked.

“It's a juicy bit of gossip that doesn't name names,” Summer explained. “Kind of like a—”

“You want to know what a blind item is? This is a blind item.” Dutch cleared his throat and started to read aloud. “‘Which globe-trotting town savior is about to broaden her horizons by heading up the historical preservation society? After slaying at least two society dragons, the brassy blonde is a true testament to Lavinia Leighton's vision.'”

“That's not blind,” Ingrid pointed out. “That's totally obvious.” She turned to Summer, her eyes huge. “Wait.”

Dutch dropped his head into his hands. “Tell me that doesn't mean what I think it means.”

“Town savior?” Summer rolled her eyes. “That might be going a little far.”

“You deserve it,” Ingrid said. “If it weren't for you, that horrible old hag would've turned this place into Atlantic City. They should put a statue of you next to the bronze dog.”

“That horrible old hag has a name,” Summer said.

Dutch and Ingrid exchanged dismayed glances. “
Please
tell me that blind item doesn't mean what I think it means.”

Summer took Dutch's hand and gave him a little kiss on the cheek. “It means what you think it means.”

“But . . . but
why
?” Ingrid asked.

“Because I spent the whole summer telling Hattie to use her powers for good instead of evil, and she finally listened. She and Pauline are funding an official town preservation board to keep Black Dog Bay awesome.” Summer stepped back. “Meet the new director and social media coordinator.”

Both Jansens regarded her in silence for a moment. Then Dutch asked, “Is she blackmailing you into working for her again? Because if she is, I swear I will—”

“No. She's giving me an office, a salary, and a very generous charitable trust to make sure that Black Dog Bay never turns into Cupid's Cove. Oh, and also, I made her promise she'd vote for you in the next election.” Summer winked. “You're welcome. The Huntington sisters and I have big plans. We're going to start by making sure the historical registry is—”

Her phone buzzed. “Ooh, incoming official e-mail. Hang on.”

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

I'm sending you a summit flag for the K2.

J.

Summer laughed.

“What?” Ingrid demanded.

“Oh, I guess word's starting to get around. Jake Sorensen just checked in.”

“Jake Sorensen's still in town?” Ingrid's gray eyes sparkled. “I thought he left after Labor Day to go . . . wherever it is that he goes.”

“He did,” Dutch confirmed.

“Are you going to e-mail him back?” Ingrid asked Summer.

“No,” Dutch said firmly.

“Well, if you do, tell him I said—”

“No,” Summer and Dutch chorused.

Summer put down her phone and focused her attention on Dutch. “So how did the rest of the zoning hearing go?”

Dutch took off his jacket. “Riveting.”

“It was riveting for me, too,” Summer assured him. “I thought it would be deadly dull—and don't get me wrong, it was—but something about watching you review all those variance applications in your tie and cuff links kind of gave me fever.”

He gave her a thorough once-over. “I noticed. It was very distracting.”

“So much fever that I went to Retail Therapy and bought a new lavender—”

“Hey!” Ingrid whacked Summer with a magazine. “Stop being inappropriate and start practicing.”

“Don't be selfish; your brother needs help.” Summer darted around the sofa and made a break for the kitchen. “I'll set the table.”

“No, no, no.” Ingrid snagged the hem of Summer's sweater. “Don't think you're going to weasel out of this. Sit down and finish your scales.”

“She's just giving me hell because I made her rewrite a draft of her college application essay,” Summer told Dutch. “Girlfriend needs to go to rehab for adverb addiction.”

“I do not,” Ingrid retorted. “And I don't know why you insist on editing it. You're the one who's always saying you're not a writer.”

“Writer, no. Adverb police, yes.”

“Well, then, I'm the piano police. Check your posture. Watch your wrists.” Ingrid dragged Summer back to the bench.

Summer groaned. “No more scales.”

“Yes, more scales. I told you—you're never going to be able to play actual songs if you don't get the basics down first.”

Summer sat down and glanced over her shoulder at Dutch. “I have enough in my repertoire.”

“You know
one
song,” Ingrid pointed out. “‘Heart and Soul.'”

“So what?” Summer patted the piano bench and Dutch sat down next to her. “You can do the accompaniment, right?”

“I can improvise.”

“Good enough.” She arranged her wrists in perfect position, then launched into the melody. “‘Heart and Soul' is all you need in your repertoire. As long as you have the right partner.”

Photo by Anna Peña

Beth Kendrick
is the author of
The Week Before the Wedding
,
The Lucky Dog Matchmaking Service
, and
Nearlyweds
, which was turned into a Hallmark Channel original movie. Although she lives in Arizona, she loves to vacation at the Delaware shore, where she brakes for turtles, eats boardwalk fries, and wishes that the Whinery really existed.

Don't miss Beth Kendrick's next charming novel,

new uses for old boyfriends

Available from New American Library in 2015

“I
f I've learned one thing in this business, it's that everything goes out of style sooner or later.” The jewelry store saleswoman lowered her loupe and gave Lila a condescending smile. “The whole ‘timeless classic' line? It's a marketing myth.”

Lila Alders nodded and tapped her fingernail on the glass display case. Rows of diamond rings sparkled in the light, each one representing a promise exchanged by two people coming together in trust and faith and hope.

And they had all ended up here: the relationship boneyard. An “estate jewelry” storefront sandwiched between a Starbucks and a pet groomer in a suburban strip mall.

The clerk clicked her tongue. “The setting's very dated and gaudy, but the stone itself is decent.”

Lila kept her head down and waited. Waited to hear how much her broken promises would be deemed worth.

While she waited, she surveyed the rings: big stones and small, colored gems and flawless diamonds. She tried to imagine the men who had proposed with these rings: rich and poor, old and young, all of them in love with a woman they believed to be as unique and dazzling as these jewels.

And they had all ended up here.

The saleswoman tilted her head, her gaze shrewd. Lila knew she was being assessed for weakness. How desperate was she for cash? How much did she value this touchstone of her past?

What was the bare minimum she would accept?

She knew she should lift her chin and meet the other woman's gaze, but she couldn't. She'd been completely depleted—of confidence, of certainty, of the will to stand up for herself.

“We can sell the diamond, but the setting will have to be melted down and refashioned.” The clerk picked up her pen and wrote a few numbers down on the pad in front of her. “Here's what we can offer you.”

Lila glanced down at the figure and took a deep breath.

“I know it's probably not what you were hoping for, but the fact is, diamonds just don't hold their value.” The woman's tone was both apologetic and insincere.

“But that's less than a third of what my husband paid for it eight years ago,” Lila said, hating how tentative and soft she sounded. Then she corrected herself. “My
ex
-husband, I mean.”

Carl had spent a ridiculous amount of money on this ring—a fact he managed to work into dinner conversations long after their wedding. He had lavished her with jewelry on holidays and anniversaries, and Lila had taken this as a symbol of his emotional investment. As long as the rings and necklaces and bracelets kept coming, she could rest assured of his devotion. She could feel secure in her marriage.

But now she was selling this showstopping engagement ring to help pay off the legal bills from the scorched-earth divorce that had dragged on for nearly eighteen months and left her burned out on every level. Because whatever she'd been to her husband—a trophy, a lover, a cheerleader—she hadn't been what he needed most. She knew this because he'd told her straight-out: “I just need someone new.”

What he meant, of course, was that that'd he'd already
found
someone new. Someone young and fresh and sunny in ways that Lila would never be again.

She flattened her palm on the cool glass case and tried to rally as she looked at the number written on the pad.

You can do this.

She knew better than to accept an opening offer. She needed to negotiate, to demand every penny she could get.

You have to do this.

But she glanced up at the jeweler through lowered eyelashes, her eyes watering and her lip trembling. All the fight had drained out of her. The spark inside had flickered out.

“I . . .” She trailed off, cleared her throat, forced herself to start again. “I . . .”

“Come on now, ma'am,” a deep, authoritative voice boomed out as a man in a navy merino sweater appeared at her side. “You can do better than
that
.”

Lila's head snapped up. She recognized that voice. That voice had plagued her soul and harangued her attorney through eighteen months of mediation meetings and conference calls and court battles.

“Mr. Langley.” Her entire body tensed. “What are you doing here?”

“Dropping off a necklace for my mother. She needs the clasp repaired.” He sidled even closer, smiling as if they had just been introduced at a cocktail party. “Please, call me Brock. And don't look at me that way—now that the divorce is final, I'm no longer your ex's attorney.”

“I'm not up for this right now.” She looked back down at the numbers scrawled on the pad. “You won, okay? You and Carl got what you wanted. I don't want to talk about it anymore.”

He held up both palms. “I don't want to talk about it, either. In fact, doing so would be a breach of client confidentiality.” He was close enough now that she could smell the sharp, astringent undernotes of his hair gel. She had to swallow back a gag.

“I'd much rather talk about you, Lila.” His voice was jovial, but his dark eyes gleamed with predatory intensity. “You're selling your ring?”

She sighed as the feelings of failure and shame settled in all over again. “Thanks to the billable hours you racked up with my attorney, yes, I am. Well played, Counselor.”

Instead of taking offense, he seemed to soften. “Don't take that personally—I was just doing my job. And if you're selling your ring, I'll be more than happy to help you.”

She glanced up, her eyes narrowing. “You want to help me?”

“Absolutely. I'm very good at what I do.”

“Yes, I know. You made my life miserable for almost two years.”

He chuckled again. “Like I said, nothing personal. But now that the case is settled, it would be my pleasure to negotiate on your behalf.”

“I see.”

“Pro bono,” he assured her. “Do you happen to have the GIA certification?”

Lila knew the appropriate response here was to curse his name and spit in his face, but she found herself pulling an envelope out of her bag and handing it over. “Yes. We kept all the papers and insurance appraisals in our safety deposit box.”

Brock pinned the store employee with the same look of aggressive disdain Lila remembered him giving her lawyer in court. “Excuse me, ma'am. What's your name?”

The employee shot Lila a glare that could melt a platinum ring setting into a puddle. “Norma.”

“Norma.” Brock squared his shoulders and scanned the certification papers. “Have you seen this?”

Norma made a phlegmy noise in the back of her throat. “I've seen it.”

“And that's what you're offering for a stone this size, with this color and clarity?”

“The cut's more important than any of that.” Norma folded her arms over her sensible cabled cardigan.

Brock held Lila's ring up to the light. “Well, I'm no gemologist, but this cut looks pretty damn good to me.”

“That's the best we can do,” Norma insisted. “That offer is more than fair.”

Brock scoffed and handed the ring back to Lila. “Put this back in your purse. Norma, I'm taking a business trip next week to New York, where I happen to have a friend who works in the Diamond District. You're telling me that if I take this ring and show it to him, he's going to tell me that
that
is a fair price?”

Norma remained stone-faced.

Brock whipped out his cell phone and brought up some jewelry resale sites on his browser. “Because I'm thinking we could get a lot more.” He double-checked his phone, then wrote a counteroffer on the pad. “Something closer to this.”

Norma's lips thinned into a tight white line as she glanced at the figure.

“No? Okay, then. We gave it our best shot.” Brock turned to Lila and placed a hand on her elbow. “Let's go. I'll take your ring to New York next week and get you a decent price.”

“Oh, I couldn't—”

“No need to thank me.” He steered her toward the door. “All I ask is that you have dinner with me tonight. There's a great new Japanese place near Central. Do you like sushi?” He raised one hand as he opened the door for Lila. “Thanks for your help, Norma. Have a great day.”

Norma caved. “Wait.” She uncapped her pen and wrote out a new offer.

The amount still wasn't enough to save Lila, but she needed every bit of cash she could get right now. So she let go of all her old hopes and dreams and agreed to take the money.

But not before a tiny swirl of tarnished metal caught her eye. She leaned over the case, peering at a piece of jewelry in the very back corner. “What is that?”

Norma glanced up from the check she was writing. “It's a hair comb.”

“May I see it?”

Norma obliged, muttering under her breath as she pulled out the velvet-lined display box.

The comb was obviously old, shaped like a flower atop two thin prongs. There was nothing flashy about it, but Lila couldn't look away. “What's it made of?”

“Steel, I believe. Dates back to the early eighteen hundreds.”

“Not even silver?” Brock lost interest. “Can't be worth much.”

“It's not. A hundred dollars, at most.”

“I want it,” Lila said. She ran her fingers along the faceted edges of the flower's petals. The steel had been cut like a gemstone, designed to look dainty despite its strength. “Tell you what—throw this in along with the check, and you've got yourself a deal.”

Norma lowered her glasses and shook her head. “We already came to an agreement. You can't change the terms now.”

“We did shake on it,” Brock said.

Lila plucked her ring back off the counter and threatened, “Diamond District.”

The saleswoman rolled her eyes. “Fine. But only because we've been trying to unload that thing for years.”

“Thank you.” A little thrill of victory surged through Lila as Norma placed the hair comb into a bag. “Thank you.”

Then she remembered that this transaction wasn't finished yet. She still had to deal with Brock Langley, legal shark, master negotiator, and very determined dinner date.

“Now that we've settled that, let's move on to sushi.” He reached for her again.

Lila's cell phone rang, and she turned away from him and reached into her bag. “Excuse me; I have to take this.” She glanced at the screen. “It's my mother.”

Brock headed for the door. “I'll wait right outside.”

Before Lila could even say hello, she heard her mother's voice, strained and desperate.

“Lila? Lila, are you there?”

“Mom?” Lila pressed the phone closer to her ear. “What's wrong?”

“Where are you right now?” her mother demanded.

“I'm at the engagement ring boneyard.”

“The where?”

“Never mind. I'm out running errands. What's going on, Mom? You sound—”

“Get in the car and come home right now. It's Daddy.”

Lila froze beneath the warm, bright overhead lights.

“He's had a heart attack,” her mother continued.

Lila opened her mouth and had to force the words out. “Is he okay?”

“No.” Her mother's voice broke as she started to cry. “He's not okay. He's dead.”