Chapter 5
lovelillibet Even if your home is a literal castle, it should still be cozy. Small luxuries make such a difference: cashmere throws, an heirloom rug, linen and leather. Your space should speak to you, but it can also speak for you, telling the world, “This is who I am. A person who values her own comfort. And has great taste.”
Love, Lillibet
Image: Pastel balls of yarn stacked in a hand-carved wooden bowl.
#homeiswheretheartis #comfortmewithcashmere #irishlinen #organicfibers
Libby tried to lower the lid of the toilet so she could sit. It resisted the pressure of her hand, closing at its own stately pace, because nothing in her life was simple anymore. There must be a magical wealthy-person mechanism to keep the commodes in this house from clanging shut like tacky peasant toilets. Most likely this had been explained to her during the tour, but there was only so much information about plumbing fixtures her brain could retain.
With a final whisper-soft sigh, the lid settled into place. Libby’s descent was less graceful. Her legs had gone wobbly from standing at attention all morning as Mr. L showed them around his beach house. Not to be confused with his other homes scattered across the globe. Designing bathrooms for the filthy rich was apparently big business. Libby probably shouldn’t even be sitting on something that cost more than a used car, but there was nowhere else to hide, and she needed a break. A few quiet minutes to let the smile slip off her face and her shoulders droop while she escaped her present “reality.”
The entire situation still felt like a waking dream, with a slightly warped storyline. Although Libby mostly tried to deny it, buried underneath the other reasons she’d gone along with Love, Lillibet—boredom, to make Jean laugh, annoyance with the sort of people whose tunnel vision led straight to a mirror (hi, mom!)—there was a kernel of “what if?” A ridiculous flicker of hope that someone would see these posts and say, I can tell there’s a promising writer behind that steaming pile of excrement.
It was the same wishful thinking that made her dress up to go out, on the off chance she was about to meet her soulmate in a crowded bar, even though Libby’s rational mind knew she was headed for another guy with more hair gel than manners who would grit his teeth through ten minutes of awkward conversation before making a move, despite the total absence of chemistry or connection. At which point Libby generally fled to the bathroom … kind of like now, though obviously this was a much nicer setup than the back of a club. Her feet weren’t sticking to the floor, for one thing. Progress?
Libby pulled out her phone. Super-casual, checking the old email … or whatever. The link to the video was right there at the top of her Frequently Visited page. Go figure. Libby hit play, then levitated off the toilet when someone knocked on the door.
“One second.” Lunging for the sink, Libby tried to turn on the tap. Just in here splashing a little cool water on my temples, as one does! The faucet did not appear to have any moving parts.
“Crap.” She poked at the bronze lump that filled the space where you’d expect running water to emerge.
The door flew open. Jean scowled at her. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?”
Her gaze snagged on the phone in Libby’s left hand. “Hiding in the bathroom to watch a grainy video you’ve seen a bajillion times?”
That was an exaggeration. At most Libby had watched it a dozen times. Thirty, tops. “At least I don’t barge in on people who could have been going to the bathroom!”
Jean shook her head. “You’re too scared to pee here. You said so yourself.”
“That was a joke.” Mostly.
“Sure.” Jean stepped from the wide bamboo planks of the living area onto the textured slate floor of the bathroom. This one was done in shades of green, from lichen to forest. Libby had forgotten the details: something-something wood and a slab of pure blah-blah-blah for the counter. She really should have taken notes.
“Not bad for the guests’ guest’s guest restroom,” she quipped as Jean bent to sniff the impossibly fluffy white towels. It looked like Libby wasn’t the only one afraid to touch anything with her grubby lower-class hands.
Striking like a cobra, Jean grabbed Libby’s phone. “I knew it!” she said as the video started playing. “I think you have a problem, Libs.”
“Uh, yeah. So do you. We’re up to our eyeballs in it.”
“I’m not talking about our genius plan. The issue is your little obsession.” Jean waved the phone in Libby’s face.
“It’s research.”
“You don’t even know what this guy looks like. He could be somebody’s grandpa under that snowsuit.”
That was demonstrably false, given the way he’d carried the Naughty Niece (as the headlines styled her now that she was officially not dead) through the snow. For Libby, the message was clear. Here was a person you could count on in a crisis. The man version of a St. Bernard. Unlike the last guy she dated, who wouldn’t go five minutes out of his way to drop her off because it was “just as easy” for Libby to catch the bus from his apartment.
“He’s like a fireman,” she told Jean. “Except with snow.”
Jean pressed a hand to Libby’s forehead. “The only fire is in your brain. Or possibly your pants.”
“I’m just stressed. I need something to take my mind off all this.”
“Maybe you should try yoga?” Jean suggested. “For real.”
“Is it so wrong to want to meet someone decent for a change? When is it going to be our turn to get lucky?”
“After you get a job. Once you’re a star reporter, you can sleep with whoever you want.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“Yeah, but think about it. You’ll be meeting new people constantly. Perfect time to play the field.”
“I can’t have sex with someone I’m interviewing.”
“Well, not while you’re asking them questions. But after—”
“No.” Although Libby wasn’t really in a position to lecture anyone about journalistic ethics. “I want to meet someone the normal way. You’re going about your business, and boom! There he is. Like it happened for them.” She took her phone back from Jean, tapping the dark screen. “I know it was a near-death experience, but it still seems like she won the lottery.”
“The system is rigged, Libs. The rich get richer and they steal your imaginary boyfriends. The real luck is being born into money. But it’s okay, because we’re scrappers. We’ll make our own fortunes.”
Libby wasn’t quite ready to change the subject. “How many guys do we know that you can count on when shit gets real? Besides Keoki.” Who they needed to stop depending on for everything, because soon he’d have his own family to worry about.
“Um, how about a certain plumbing magnate with a super-sweet house?”
“Well, yeah—”
“But me no buts. I know you’re hard up, but we can’t afford distractions right now. Rudy is doing us a solid and a half. The least we can do is listen.”
“I have been.” All yesterday afternoon and again this morning, as Rudolf Lamers, founder and CEO of Lamers, Inc., described the provenance, price point, and shipping history of every object in his “villa.” It was an incredible place, and extremely generous of him to let them pretend Lillibet lived there. Weirdly generous. But it also felt like she was trapped inside a high-end home shopping network.
“So you’re good on the floor plan? Not going to get lost on the way to the front door?”
“It’s a big house,” Libby hedged, though the real issue was that she’d started dissociating a few minutes into Mr. L’s extended monologue. “Also, I’m going to feel like a jerk acting like all this is mine.”
The futuristic plumbing was surrounded by a smorgasbord of imposing antiques, many of them sourced from a Balinese palace. Libby had taken one look at the massive front doors with their gold inlay and intricate carvings and tried to turn around and leave.
“It’s a show home. Hence the showiness.” As usual, Jean found the trappings of wealth more aspirational than intimidating, though there was an edge of hate-to-love in her attitude. Libby suspected it had something to do with her friend’s less-than-privileged childhood, a subject Jean preferred not to discuss. Keoki said it was because she was like a shark, constantly moving forward—even when it meant leaving a cloud of blood and body parts in her wake. Whereas Libby was more of a turtle: slow, guarded, always chewing. Not the most flattering picture, but also not wrong.
“This place is perfect for our purposes,” Jean reminded her. “Lillibet is exactly the kind of ho who pays someone to rake the crushed shells in her Zen garden while she sits on the deck with a cocktail and lets people think she’s deep. The house sells the story.”
“As long as they don’t ask me too many questions about it.”
“When in doubt, defer to Mr. L. You just need to be able to point them to a bathroom.”
“Yeah, but which? There are like nine.” One featured a sauna, another had a soaking tub the size of a pond set into the floor next to a living wall of moss, and then there was the walk-in shower with the floor-to-ceiling mosaic copied from a villa in Pompeii … Libby had never understood why a house would have more bathrooms than bedrooms. It wasn’t like you could relieve yourself in two places at once. “You don’t find it a little strange?”
“He’s a bathroom man. To each their own.”
“I’m talking about the whole thing. Why would this ultra-successful businessman let us use his house? Besides wanting Keoki to cook for him.”
“Out of the goodness of his heart?”
She was obviously being facetious, because no one had a more jaded view of humanity than Jean. “It’s not just the house. I can’t figure out what’s going on with him.” Because Mr. L wasn’t only lending them his palatial home. He’d also agreed to play the part of Lillibet’s husband.
Jean frowned. “You think he wants to get in your pants?”
“No, I don’t get those vibes.” If anything, he was physically standoffish. When Libby tried to shake his hand, he’d winced and taken a step back, like she was holding out a dead fish. “Do you?”
“He’s hotter for this faucet than he is for either of us,” Jean confirmed.
And yet. There was something there, under the surface. Not sex or money, but something. “Maybe he needs a kidney?”
“Or maybe he’s lonely. Not everyone is as blessed in the companionship department as you are. It’s probably hard for billionaire plumbing magnates to make friends.”
“Yeah, because he’s always talking about his drains.”
Jean’s cackle turned into a yelp as the door swung open behind her, knocking her into Libby. When Mr. L stuck his head through the gap, Libby tried very hard not to think of Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Their host’s grin wasn’t murdery, exactly. Just a touch overeager, like a puppy at a bacon factory. The expression sat oddly on his face. Mr. L’s large deep-set eyes and droopy lids, plus the vertical lines bracketing his mouth like parentheses, gave him a perpetually mournful look. Add to that the neatly slicked-back hair and impeccably tailored silver-gray suit (likely custom-made, unless men’s business clothing came in juniors sizes), and there was a distinct air of funeral director about him.
“There’s my lovely bride,” he said, squeezing between Jean and Libby.
“Lose the wink,” Jean told him, pointing at her face. “In gambling circles, we call that a tell.”
“Of course,” he agreed, apparently unbothered that one of the strangers staying in his house liked to play the odds. “Are you well, wife?”
“You can just call me Libby. It’s probably simpler.”
“She means Lillibet,” Jean corrected.
“Ah yes! Code names.” His eye spasmed like he’d stopped himself on the verge of another wink. “And I am your husband. Mr. L.”
“Sounds super-cool, right?” Jean flashed him a thumbs-up. “Like an international assassin.”
“As opposed to a local assassin?” Libby asked, mostly under her breath. “Contract killing at the county level?”
Frowning, Mr. L pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket and snapped it open. “Were you admiring the Golden Lotus?” he asked, edging around Libby.
“I—yes?” She wasn’t sure it was the right answer, especially since he appeared to be wiping off her fingerprints with the square of white silk. Maybe she should have denied everything.
“Who wouldn’t?” Jean elbowed Libby in the side, giving her a try-harder glare.
“Totally. Since it’s so elegant.”
Jean nodded like she’d said something profound. “Yet strong.”
“Two-point-oh GPM,” Mr. L informed them. He flicked a finger under one of the bronzed leaves, and a spurt of water hit the sink. “It doesn’t get more powerful than that. At least not legally.”
“Wow.” Jean looked expectantly at Libby, who was still wondering whether Mr. L was part of an underground fight club of faucet designers, illegally souping up their plumbing.
“That’s … a real gusher.”
Mr. L inclined his head. “Do you know what I dreamed of as a young man, before I found my true calling?”
“No.” Libby wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. Was this it, the dark secret?
“The stage.” A swish of the handkerchief for emphasis. “But my academy only had chess club and engineering team. No shows for Rudy.”
“I’m sorry.” Libby could sort of imagine him doing magic tricks.
“But now at last I get my chance!” He carefully refolded his handkerchief and tucked it into his pocket. “To test my dramatic skills for an audience.”
Was that why he’d signed up for this charade? Somebody should really tell him about community theater.
“Do you know Mamma Mia?” he asked.
Libby imagined a vise holding her head in place. Even the slightest eye contact with Jean would spell the end for both of them. “I do, yes. Well, the movie.”
“I’m afraid this is going to be a little less … Broadway than that.” Jean managed to sound sad about it.
“Fewer musical numbers,” Libby added.
“Very tasteful,” Mr. L agreed. “Top-quality.” He glanced at Libby, and she felt another prickle of suspicion. What was this guy’s deal? And if it did involve internal organs, did she really owe him that much? If she somehow wound up with a staff writing job at a legit media outlet, maybe a kidney wasn’t an unreasonable price to pay.
“Before our guests arrive, I have a little surprise for you.” He pressed his palms together like he could barely contain his excitement.
“Here?” Libby pointed at the floor. “In this bathroom?” Please let it be a showerhead, she silently prayed, despite having wished the opposite many times that day. As opposed to his personal plumbing.
“You are funny. Another reason to marry you, Lillibet!”
“Plus she’s hot,” Jean prompted. “And a really good cook.”
“Very all-American,” Mr. L agreed. “Do you play volleyball?”
“No.” She didn’t cook, either, but hopefully he understood they were talking about Lillibet, not Libby.
Jean looked thoughtful. “She could be sporty.”
“No,” Libby said again, imagining a tetherball smacking her in the face. “I don’t think we need to introduce any more props.”
“Ah-ah, not so fast.” Their host held up a finger. “Come. This way, please. I have something to show you.”
“Does it involve goats?” Jean asked hopefully as they followed him down the hall.
They were still working on that detail of Lillibet’s so-called life. Like many things about this charade, it had seemed like a clever idea at the time. When Jean suggested Lillibet have fictional offspring (so she could also flaunt her superior skills in the parenting arena), Libby had proposed four-legged kids instead, never guessing she would one day be required to source actual farm animals. She supposed it was preferable to Jean “borrowing” someone’s human children.
“Patience,” Mr. L chided, skipping up the floating staircase ahead of them. He stopped outside a room Libby was fairly certain they hadn’t visited earlier, unless she’d been having an out-of-body experience at the time. Curling his hand into a fist, he pretended to blow a fanfare on his air trumpet before throwing open the door.
Libby took in the velvet lounge and massive gilt-framed mirror before registering the closet that filled an entire wall. Sliding screens had been pulled back to reveal a candy box of shimmery pastel fabrics.
“Holy glitter bomb.” Jean crossed the room like she was on skates. “Did a fairy princess explode in here?” She glanced over her shoulder at Mr. L. “What are we looking at, secret wife or your personal playroom?”
“No wife.” He sighed. “Except my darling Libby-kuchen.”
Libby forced a laugh. It was a toss-up whether the pet name or the puppy-dog eyes that accompanied it were more disturbing. “Seriously, though. Why do you have a room full of women’s clothes?”
“My mother’s boudoir,” he explained, with unmistakable pride. “She has quite an eye for fashion. This way we can match. Like a real couple.”
“Because I’ll be dressed like your mom?” Libby looked to Jean for support, but her best friend was laser-focused on the rack of gumdrop-colored outfits.
“It’s about taste,” Mr. L explained. “Being on the same level.”
Jean pulled out a pale aqua shift with embroidered silver curlicues around the collar and sheer sleeves that puffed at the shoulder before fastening at the wrist with fabric-covered buttons. It looked like it should be worn with matching eye shadow and a 1960s bouffant.
“Oh hell yes.” She waved Libby closer so she could jab the hanger under her chin. “Now we’re talking. The piece of resistance.”
The dress was beautiful, although clearly made for someone half Libby’s height. She could probably squeeze into it, thanks to a boxy cut and her lack of curves, but she was going to be showing a lot more leg than Mr. L’s mom. Not to mention the part where she’d have to worry about sweating on fabric that practically screamed, Dry-clean only.
“The shoes won’t fit,” Libby said, grasping at excuses. The tiny slippers with sparkly embellishments looked like a size-six, tops. This Cinderella needed an eleven. On a good day.
“I’ll wear the shoes,” Jean announced, like she was taking one for the team. “You can rock the earth goddess look. That’s more your jam anyway, Lillibet.”
Right. Because Lillibet probably got weekly pedicures. No cracked heels for her.
“You’re sure your mom won’t mind?” Libby asked Mr. L. She was hoping to get through this experience without causing too much collateral damage.
“She is in Vienna for the summer, so it will be our little secret.” He held up both hands, showing his crossed fingers. “I am happy to do a favor for a friend.”
Libby slid Jean a look that said, Did you hear that? The weird emphasis on friend? Like we’re spies and “friend” is the secret password?
Jean was too busy pawing through the closet to notice. She snagged another hanger, this one holding a pale rose caftan that would probably hit Libby just below the knees. “We should try a few of these on.” She gave Mr. L her best run-along-now smile.
After turning the lock, Jean blew out a long breath. “At least now we won’t have to pretend your old Old Navy aesthetic is an environmental statement.” She waved a hand at Libby’s droopy sweatshirt and stained cutoffs, as if Libby’s lack of fashion sense were the major stumbling block to selling their story.
“Why not? Lillibet is on the record about her opposition to fast fashion.”
“Yeah, but this retro-Eurotrash art cinema vibe is way more believable than Lillibet going thrifting.” Jean rubbed a sherbet-orange sleeve between the pads of her fingers. “Kind of amazing how all the loose threads are getting tied up. Bada bing, bada boom.”
“Like a noose.” Though a straitjacket might be more appropriate, since they had clearly both lost their minds.
“I thought you were excited to meet your mountain man.”
“While pretending to be a real housewife of Honolulu? He’s going to think I’m the worst.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m faking being a fake, Jean.”
“So it cancels out! Like a negative plus a negative.”
“Is even more of a negative.”
“Whatever. It’s not my fault math makes no sense.” Jean draped the caftan over the back of the lounge chair. “You need food.”
“I think my problems go beyond low blood sugar.”
“Stop by the kitchen and ask Keoki for a sandwich, then we’ll talk.” She was using the soothing tone that meant she was “managing” Libby, the way you’d placate a small child.
“I’m capable of making my own sandwich.”
“Not like Keoki. And when someone has a talent, you should honor the gift.” She poked Libby in the shoulder for emphasis.
“I hate it when you talk Lillibet to me.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Eat something, then go get some freaking shells.”
“Why do you need shells?”
“Because we have a bunch of crap to decorate.”
“But I can’t do the artsy part.”
“Duh. I’ll handle it, but I’m going to be too busy with the Me Tree to go beachcombing.” Jean glanced at her phone. “We have three hours. Plenty of time for you to cool your jets and then come back here and get gussied up.”
“Why didn’t we invent someone who dresses like a cave troll and forgets to wash her hair?” Libby shoved her messy bun back to the middle of her head. “That’s relatable.”
“Nobody wants relatable. They’re looking for the fantasy, so they can pretend they have a snowball’s chance in hell of living that life, once they win the lottery and magically turn beautiful from all the great sex they’re having with their perfect lover while someone else washes their dishes.”
“That’s the most depressing inspirational speech I’ve ever heard.”
“You’re welcome.” Jean tipped her head at the door. “Now go, so we can get this show on the road.”
“Yes, mistress.” Hunching her shoulders, Libby gave the full Igor shuffle-drag as she lurched off in search of her last supper.