New Uses For Old Boyfriends (14 page)

Summer rolled her eyes while trying—and failing—to suppress a smile. “Stop harassing me and let's brainstorm. If we're going to plan a fund-raiser in a few weeks, we'd better get cracking. And we should probably stop and pick up your mom. She's definitely going to want to see this.”

“A
re you
sure
she's not coming home soon?” Daphne whispered.

“I'm sure.” Pauline Huntington, a plump, rosy-cheeked woman who lived in the fanciest, ugliest house in Black Dog Bay and apparently thought of Summer as her daughter, led the way up the mansion's sweeping staircase.

“You better be sure,” Summer said. “Because I know how that woman deals with surprises, and I'm all out of horse tranquilizers.”

“And your sister and I don't have the best history,” Daphne told Pauline. “There was a little, ahem, falling-out a few years ago at one of my holiday parties and I'm afraid Hattie's held a grudge against me.”

“You and everyone else in town,” Summer said.

“Don't worry. She's meeting the senator in Dover for dinner, and she'll be gone for hours. I swear.” Pauline opened a door and led Summer, Lila, and Daphne into a palatial bedroom suite with a coffered white ceiling, heavy damask drapes, and a massive four-poster bed made up with sunny yellow linens. “Hattie will never
know about any of this as long as we all keep our own counsel. Pinkie swear?”

“Pinkie swear.” Lila, Daphne, Summer, and Pauline gathered under the ornate hanging lantern and hooked their little fingers together. “Hattie Huntington will never hear a word about this.”

“Good. Now let's crack open the vault.” Pauline rested one hand on a set of double doors that presumably led to a closet. “Tell me a bit more about what you girls need.”

“We're putting on a fashion show,” Lila explained. “At the country club. To raise money for the historical society and get press for the boutique.”

“I called the event coordinator on the ride here, and she booked us for Memorial Day weekend,” Summer reported.

“But that's only a few weeks away!” Daphne's eyebrows shot up. “A few weeks to put together a fashion show is—”

“Ambitious but totally doable,” Summer said. “The Huntington sisters have many minions at their disposal.”

“Oh, don't call them ‘minions,' darling.” Pauline crinkled her nose. “They're our trusted and beloved household staff. We consider them family.”

“Excuse me? I know for a fact that Hattie treats the hired help a million times better than she treats her family.”

Pauline smiled angelically. “Why do you think I'm donating all her old clothes?”

“Anyway, I was thinking.” Lila turned to her mother. “Could you get in touch with Cedric What's-His-Name?”

“Jameson,” Daphne supplied.

“Right. And ask him if he'd be willing to lend us some clothes or even make an appearance?”

Pauline went all fluttery and fangirl. “You know Cedric Jameson?”

“I was the love of his life.” Daphne fluffed her sleek black hair. “His muse.”

Pauline clasped Daphne's hands in hers and gave a little hop of joy. “I just adore his designs. I have several of his pieces from the late sixties. Of course, he didn't do his best work until the eighties.”

Daphne glowed. “That's when I was his muse.”

“Focus, ladies.” Summer grinned at Lila. “We need to figure out what kind of styles we need for the show. I'm thinking fun, fresh, and flirty.”

“Well, the clothes are going to depend on the models,” Daphne said. “Where on earth are we going to book models on such late notice?”

“We're not.” Lila braced herself for her mother's reaction. “We're going to get normal women to walk in the show.”

“Normal women?” Daphne was appalled. “Why in heaven's name would you do that?”

“Because we want to involve summer residents like Mimi Sinclair and her fancy friends,” Summer said. “Memorial Day is the start of high season, and your clientele will be women like Mimi. Women who have sophisticated tastes. Women who will spend a lot of money at your store after they feel glamorous and special in your clothes.”

Daphne paused. “I'm listening.”

“So we need to find outfits in a variety of sizes,” Lila said. “Not just twos and zeros.”

“Look no further.” Pauline flung open the doors to reveal a huge, climate-controlled closet. The word “closet” didn't really do it justice—it was more of a vault.

Daphne put both hands over her heart, too overcome with emotion to speak.

“Hattie and I both have a weakness for beautiful dresses.” Pauline flipped on more lights, and the cold, cavernous space
instantly filled with golden light. “I picked up some great pieces during my travels, but some of these are from my own wardrobe.” She cleared her throat. “And Hattie's.”

Daphne held up a beaded pink and white cocktail dress. “Look at the detail work.”

“All hand sewn in Shanghai,” Pauline informed them. “Would you like to take this?”

But Daphne had already abandoned the pink dress for a simple black sheath on the next rack. “Oh, my heavens. Is this what I think it is?”

Pauline nodded with evident pride. “You have an eye for quality.”

Daphne beheld the black dress with reverence, all but genuflecting as she motioned Lila over. “Come here and look at this. You may never see another one in your lifetime.”

Lila studied the delicate lace overlay on the bodice. “Nice.”

“Nice? Watch your mouth, young lady! This is an
Adrian
.” Daphne announced this as if she'd discovered a unicorn or a leprechaun.

“He designed for old Hollywood back in the thirties and forties,” Pauline explained. “He started the whole wasp-waist and shoulder pads look. Think Joan Crawford and Greta Garbo.”

“This is the holy grail of fashion,” Daphne breathed.

Lila snatched her hand back. “Then I probably shouldn't be touching it.”

“Go ahead.” Pauline took the dress off the hanger. “It's meant to be touched. It's much stronger than it looks.”

“Yeah, I'm still not touching it,” Lila said.

“Yes, you are, because I'm donating it to Unfinished Business,” Pauline said. “It's been tucked away in a closet for too long.”

“Thank you.” Daphne looked longingly at the black lace. “But we can't take this. It must be worth thousands.”

“You're taking it. Adrian deserves better than decades all alone in the dark. This dress is meant to be out in the world, stopping people in their tracks.” Pauline's eyes lit up, and Lila could tell the older woman must have been a great beauty when she was young. Just like Daphne.

“So that's the appeal of vintage clothing.” Summer sounded delighted. “It's not just Grandma's dowdy old dresses. It's what Grandma used to wear when she was a hot little vixen.”

Lila held up a gorgeous crimson chiffon dress with intricate rhinestone beading accenting the Grecian-inspired neckline. “Ooh.”

“Take it,” Pauline said.

Daphne checked the label and shook her head. “I can't in good conscience take a mint-condition Malcolm Starr and not give you anything in return.”

“Oh, don't worry—you're not taking that.” Summer seized the dress. “I am. This dress and I were meant to be.” She held it up to her shoulders. “Baby, where have you been all my life?”

“You can't have that,” Pauline said.

“What? Lila can have it, but I can't?” Summer bared her teeth. “I'll fight you for it, if necessary. I will bite, scratch, shank, and maim for this dress.”

“But that was Hattie's!” Pauline exclaimed. “What if she sees you wearing it?”

Summer's jaw dropped. “Get out. You're telling me that
Hattie Huntington
used to wear this?” She reexamined the diaphanous material and dazzling beadwork. “Well, Hattie does a lot of things I can't wrap my mind around. But whatever, it's mine now. And don't worry; if she says anything about anything, I'll handle her. I didn't get where I am today by letting that old bat boss me around.” She clutched the red dress to her chest.

Lila laughed. “Okay, so I guess we know what you're wearing at the fashion show.”

Daphne flipped through the other dresses, which included a gorgeous silk “handkerchief dress” and a strapless black taffeta gown with a full skirt and tulle lining. “This is a Suzy Perette with the tags still on. Was this Hattie's?”

“Yes. She never even wore it.” Pauline placed one hand on her hip. “She didn't really want it, but she didn't want anyone else to have it. Typical.”

While Daphne and Pauline continued to inventory the cache of clothing, Lila and Summer started talking logistics.

“So who else can we get to walk in the show?” Lila sat down on the edge of Pauline's bed and started making notes on her phone. “You and Jenna, of course. And you think we can get Mimi Sinclair?”

“I'll get her,” Summer vowed, still holding tight to the Malcolm Starr with both hands. “I'm good at strong-arming bad-tempered rich women.”

“If we get Mimi, we can get all her mean-girl friends, too.” Lila tried to envision the event with glamorous guests milling around in the country club ballroom. “Do we want to try to pull in some of the younger crowd?”

“Good idea,” Summer said. “We can ask the mean girls' daughters.”

“Ooh.” Daphne unearthed a long, drapey pink nylon nightgown. “Is this a Lucie Ann?”

“That's a hot dress,” Summer said. “Can I try it on?”

“But of course.” Pauline handed it over. “You know who used to wear Lucie Ann? Zsa Zsa Gabor on
Green Acres
, that old TV show.”

“Actually,
Eva
Gabor was on
Green Acres
,” Daphne corrected.

The four of them were laughing and bonding and trying on various dresses when a sleek dark blue Mercedes pulled up to the portico.

Summer glanced out the window and yanked the pastel nightgown off in one swift movement. “You guys, it's Hattie!”

“Oh, dear.” Pauline started scooping up dresses and shoving them back in the closet.

“She's going to kill us all.” Daphne paled. “Try not to bleed on the clothes.”

“Hello?” a thin, reedy voice called from downstairs. “Pauline, do you have company?”

“You girls go out the back.” Pauline hustled them into the hallway. “I'll stall her.”

Lila heard the authoritative
click-clack
of Hattie's shoe heels on the marble floor. “Summer Benson, is that you up there? What on earth are you up to? Pauline? I demand an explanation right now!”

Summer barely stifled her laughter and pointed out a large pink and green room with French doors that opened up to a second-story balcony. “Climb down the drainpipe,” she whispered. “Try not to fall and break your neck. Good luck.”

Lila went first, scraping her palms and snagging her jeans as she shimmied down to the porch. Daphne tossed down a pair of priceless old gowns, giggling like a teenager, and began her descent.

“She's coming!” Summer screamed out the window, all dramatic. “Hurry!”

Lila held her arms out and caught the fluttering tiers of silk and lace.

Then they heard Hattie's voice, outraged and vehement: “Daphne Alders, is that you? And is that . . . Lila Alders? Come back here, both of you!”

“Save yourselves!” Summer yelled.

“This isn't over!” Hattie shouted. “You can run, but you can't hide!”

Daphne reached out and took Lila's hand and together they fled the scene, crashing through the underbrush and making sure that the beautiful old dresses didn't get torn or soiled. For the first time since she'd come back to Black Dog Bay, Lila saw a flicker of her mother's old spark—the willingness to run, to take a chance and push ahead . . . even if they weren't completely sure where they were going.

*   *   *

Late Sunday night, under cover of darkness and her dad's old Baltimore Orioles cap, Lila drove to the other side of town to pick up the leopard-print car coat. She cut the headlights as she turned into Malcolm's driveway, then kept her head down while she skulked around his porch, feeling like a junkie going to her dealer's house to score a hit.

A hit of haute couture.

When Malcolm opened the door, she pulled the ball cap's brim even lower on her forehead and murmured, “The password is ‘Pucci.'”

He started to close the door. “That's not the password.”

“Okay, the password is ‘Prada.'”

“Wrong again.” He sounded gruff, but she could tell he was trying not to smile. “The hat's a nice touch.”

“I'm just doing my part to maintain confidentiality.”

“Very thoughtful.”

She waited for him to open the door wider than six inches, then gave up and moved closer, trying to peer through the narrow gap. “I try. I was thinking we could cross-stitch a nondisclosure agreement, too. With red thread, so it looks like we wrote it in blood.”

The door eased open another two inches. “I'll be sure to whip that up next time I have a spare minute.”