“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-calledlife. 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 afriend.”
Libby slid Jean a look that said,Did you hear that? The weird emphasis onfriend? 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 youroldOld 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.”
