The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue Read online

  “That’s my girl.” Jane’s voice over the phone was warmly reassuring. “Call me as soon as brunch is over. I want the scoop.”

  “Okay.” I clicked the off button on my cell phone just as I pulled into the restaurant parking lot. A valet was waiting to take my car. He opened the door, and muttering a prayer under my breath, I stepped out on faith and my one pair of Stuart Weitzman’s.

  Fake it ’til you make it. I’d read those words in a self-help book once, and I clung to them now as I mounted the stairs to Alicia’s. The restaurant was located in an outbuilding of an old Nashville plantation, and the chef was known for her low country cooking and traditional southern dishes. I wondered who had told Henri about it because this wasn’t a place visitors frequented. Alicia’s was the territory of Belle Meade matrons, and I’d lunched there more times than I could count. I straightened my spine as I marched up the stairs, preparing myself for this all-important meeting that would be conducted under the noses of some very curious onlookers.

  A tall man, dark-haired and graying at the temples, stood just inside the entrance. My pulse picked up at the sight of him. His European-cut dark suit and crisp white shirt reeked of money. I tucked my purse more tightly under my arm and tugged at the jacket of the robin’s egg-blue suit. I had decided this was one occasion where it would be better to be overdressed than under. “Monsieur Paradis?”

  He turned toward me, and his eyes lit up. Hallelujah, hurray, and thank heavens. When I put my mind to it, I could still turn a head or two. He smiled, revealing a multitude of white teeth, and moved toward me.

  “Eleanor?” Tiny laugh lines appeared at the corners of his deliriously chocolate-brown eyes.

  “Yes. I’m sorry if I kept you waiting.”

  I extended my hand, expecting him to shake it, but instead he caught my fingers in his and carried them until they were a mere whisper from his lips. It was like something out of a Pepe Le Pew cartoon, but I’m ashamed to admit that I was putty in his hands. His smile, like his voice on the phone, was a mixture of sex appeal and self-deprecation.

  “I am a very fortunate man today, indeed.” He drew me forward to air kiss each of my cheeks. Despite my jerky response, he carried it off admirably.

  “Please, call me Henri. Are you hungry? Our table is ready.” He offered me his arm and escorted me to where the college-age hostess stood waiting, her arms piled with menus and a faint blush on her cheeks. Evidently Henri had already worked his magic here.

  The hostess led us to our table, too tongue-tied to do more than motion toward our seats. Henri pulled out my chair for me, and I sat down as daintily as I could, trying hard to look as if men did this for me every day of the week. I probably wasn’t any better at that than I was at air kissing, but I managed to stay on the chair instead of keeling over onto the floor.

  The hostess handed us our menus and fled. The buzz of conversation had subsided as we walked across the room, but it now returned in greater force. A few heads, some that I had seen at the luncheon at Roz’s house, swiveled our way. Others, topped with Red Hats—Alice’s was a favorite, now that I thought about it—cast appreciative looks at my companion.

  Henri laid aside his menu with barely a glance and focused his dark eyes on me. That kind of focused attention was the stuff that dreams, and reputations, were made of, and even a bitter divorcee like me couldn’t remain immune to his charms. I was sure he treated all women like this, whether they were nine or ninety, but his complete focus on me and the sexual admiration in his eyes was like Gilead’s balm to my wounded ego. If my life was going to morph from one cliché to another, the amorous Frenchman wasn’t a bad way to go.

  “And so, Eleanor, we have met at last.”

  I might as well have been the only woman in the room. “Yes. I’m glad you called.”

  “If I had known how beautiful you were, I would not have waited four days.” He frowned, looking as tragic as any Frenchman ever had. “Four days, lost. I will never forgive myself.”

  Okay, I knew he was piling it on thick, but when you’ve spent your morning having your ex-husband ask if his tramp of a fiancée can wear your mother’s wedding dress and mowing your own lawn for the first time, you’re not in a position to turn away even the most practiced of ego-stroking compliments. Only I wasn’t so sure he was feeding me a line. To my surprise, he seemed pretty sincere.

  “Perhaps we can make up for the lost time.” Again, I found the flirtatious words springing naturally—and disconcertingly—to my lips.

  Henri smiled, ana a dimple appeared at the corner of his mouth, heaven help me. “Perhaps so.”

  A waitress appeared at the table to take our order, and I looked away from Henri long enough to order a glass of wine and a salad.

  “Only a salad? Non, ma chère. That will not do. You must eat more than that.”

  I could hardly tell him that eating was practically all I had done for the last nine months. “Really, that’s more than enough.”

  But Henri was not to be deterred. By the time the waitress left the table, he had ordered a crab cake appetizer for me and the jambalaya entrée to follow the salad. If Jim had ever tried something so high-handed, I would have clubbed him over the head. But coming from the sexy Frenchman, I decided to be flattered instead of insulted. Plus, I really loved Alicia’s jambalaya.

  “And now we will talk business,” he said when the waitress brought a bottle—not a glass—of wine to our table. He’d countermanded that part of my order as well. But when I saw the label on the bottle, I swallowed my protest. It would be a long time before I ever had a chance to enjoy a Pouilly Fuisse again.

  “How long have you been in Nashville?”

  “Only long enough to unpack my suitcase.” He smiled sadly, and a real sense of loneliness emanated from him. “Jane has found me a wonderful apartment,” he said the word the French way, rolling out the syllables, “but it is too desolate. No furniture. Nothing. Not even a bottle of Perrier in the refrigerator.”

  “So you need a decorator? And the kitchen to be stocked?” I was trying my best to keep things on a professional level, but when I looked at Henri and felt that little zing of electricity leap between us, professional was the last thing I wanted to be.

  He must have felt it too, because he rarely took his eyes off my face. “Is that something you can help me with?”

  Well, I could certainly stock a kitchen. And I’d learned enough over the years working with a variety of decorators on my own home that I could do a passable job of setting up Henri’s apartment. I might not be the world’s best chef or decorator or party planner, but I was reasonably skilled at a variety of things. Length, not strength. The memory of Grace’s words gave me courage.

  “That sounds very doable.”

  “Doable?” He laughed. “You Americans, you make up words at the drop of a hat.”

  I couldn’t decide if his expression reflected amusement or criticism. I decided to assume it was the former. “What else do you need?”

  “I am hosting a group of clients for cocktails at my office next week, and I need someone to coordinate the food and drink as well as be my hostess.” His eyes traveled over my suit. Or, more precisely, my body beneath my suit. I felt a twinge of attraction and awareness. Okay, I felt a lot more than a twinge.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. I can draw up a sample menu for the hors d’oeuvres, and you can tell me what wines you prefer.”

  “Bien.” He lifted his glass. “A toast, then, to our new partnership.”

  “To our partnership.” I lifted my own glass and refrained, just in time, from trying to clink it against his in an American-style toast.

  “I think it will be a very beautiful one,” Henri said, and I could have happily drowned in the combination of the look in his eyes and the Pouilly Fuisse.

  More than a few of the people to whom I’d been rendered invisible after my divorce stopped by my table at Alicia’s before Henri and I left. I both hated and reveled in that phenomenon.
Women had come a long way in my lifetime, but the validation of a handsome, rich man at your side was still a ticket to ride in just about any social circle, especially mine.

  The only thing that worried me, as Henri waited with me for the valet to bring my car around, was that we hadn’t discussed my fees. Or any of the practical details, really, of what I was going to do for him. As the appetizer had slipped away to the salad, and the entree had succeeded it, he had directed the conversation to more social channels. He had managed to elicit far more personal information from me than I had from him. The temptation to tell more than I should about the last nine months of my life had been overwhelming. The whole story had tumbled out—Tiffany, the house on Woodlawn Avenue, my new bridge group. In return, I had learned only that he, too, was divorced, that he had grown children, and that he spent his summers in Cannes. But I had also been reminded of what it felt like to be attracted to a man and have him respond in kind. The experience had been quite heady.

  I spent the rest of Sunday working on the flower beds and e-mailing my son, Connor, who had begun to construct my Web site. I forgot to call Jane to report on my lunch with Henri, so it wasn’t long before she tracked me down in the backyard.

  “So? How was it?”

  I couldn’t help the grin that broke out on my face. “He’s quite something, isn’t he?”

  Jane whooped, a big sound for such a little person. “I told you. Did he just sweep you off your feet?”

  I brushed the dirt off my old khakis and slipped off my gardening gloves. “Well, I managed to stay upright. But you were right about him being so attractive.”

  “Honey, that man’s not attractive. He’s edible”

  We giggled like a couple of schoolgirls, and then Jane sighed. “So, what about the business part of brunch?”

  “He wants me to decorate his apartment, stock his kitchen, and host a cocktail party for him.”

  “Excellent. And he agreed to your fees?”

  “We didn’t exactly talk about that.”

  Her smile fell. “So you didn’t close the deal.”

  “Well, not in the strictest sense. But I’m sure it will be fine.”

  “Ellie, the one thing you have to learn as a businesswoman is not to put your faith in anything but a signed contract. No matter how sexy the client is.”

  “I didn’t want to be rude. We were having such a nice time.”

  “Then you need to send him an estimate for your services. Have him sign it. You need something on paper.”

  Jane was right, and I knew it. “I lost my nerve.”

  We started back toward the house. “I’ll help you pull something together. You can fax it to his office.”

  “Thanks.” Assertiveness might not be my strength, but maybe my willingness to work hard could overcome that. Length, not strength. “I appreciate it.”

  “Don’t worry.” Jane opened the back door for me and we stepped inside. “Pretty soon closing a deal will be second nature to you.”

  I hoped she was right. Because I was only beginning to realize how much I had relied on Jim to play the heavy, whether it was with the lawn service or the children. I was going to have to learn to do the mop-up work myself.

  “Have you come up with a name yet? For the business?”

  “No. I don’t think Rent-A-Wife has quite the cache I was hoping for. What do you call a service that’s just doing what the better half usually does?”

  Jane’s eyes lit up. “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  “Your Better Half. That’s perfect.”

  I said it to myself a couple of times, letting the words roll over my tongue. It did capture what service I could offer, and while it implied intimacy, it didn’t have any awkward sexual overtones.

  “Your Better Half it is, then.” Suddenly, it all seemed very real in a way it hadn’t before. I was going into business for myself, and I had an actual client requesting my services. For the first time, I began to believe this might actually work.

  Perhaps there might be life after Jim after all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Overcalling

  The number of zeroes in the total estimate for my services that Jane helped me draft was enough to make my head spin.

  “Don’t get too excited.” Jane had pulled out a calculator and was punching in several numbers. “The IRS gets its share, and then there’s Social Security. True, you can deduct a lot of expenses, but you’ll be more than earning that money.”

  The phone rang, and I went into the kitchen to answer it while Jane continued to work on the financial angle. “Hello?”

  “Ellie, it’s Roz.”

  Her voice was about the last one I ever expected to hear coming through my phone line. I tucked the receiver into the crook of my neck and leaned one hip against the kitchen cabinet.

  “Hello, Roz.” I tried to keep my tone as unemotional as possible. To show weakness would be to invite her to sink her fangs even further into me. “What’s up?”

  “We seem to be having a little problem with your committee. Or lack thereof.”

  I studied the knotty pine of my ancient cabinets. Maybe I could paint them. “Yes, they do seem to be dropping like flies, don’t they?”

  “Ellie, let’s not beat around the bush. No one wants to work with you. I think it would be best if you resigned from the planning committee.”

  She wouldn’t outright kick me off the committee. No, that might make her look bad. Overt acts of aggression were frowned upon in 37205. A stiletto in the back was much more the thing. Besides, if she kicked me off the committee, she wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing me resign.

  “I’m perfectly willing to proceed on my own,” I said, taking plates from the dish drainer and returning them to the cabinet. Maybe I could even afford a dishwasher one day.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Roz snapped. “Transportation is a lot of work, and if it doesn’t go well, the whole event will be ruined. I’m not willing to risk it.”

  “You won’t be risking anything. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Just like you took care of your husband?”

  My fingers tightened around the last plate. That was a low blow, even for Roz. But given our history, I knew why she leveled it at me.

  “I don’t think Jim has anything to do with this.” Only when it came down to my feud with Roz, Jim had quite a lot to do with it, actually.

  “Look, Ellie, I’m only saying this for your own good. Spare yourself the humiliation and resign now.”

  “I’m not going to do it.” I set the last plate on top of the others with a snap.

  “Then you’ll regret it.”

  “Are you threatening me?” I laughed. “What are you going to do to me, Roz, that hasn’t already been done?”

  “You’re only making this harder for everyone. The rest of the committee will just have to pick up the pieces when you fail.”

  “I’m not going to fail.”

  “I lack your confidence.”

  My gaze fell on the box containing my mother’s wedding dress that I had set on the little café table in the kitchen. The sight of it sent a thousand memories shooting through my mind. My mother, exhausted from a long day of seeing patients, standing at the ironing board, pressing my uniform skirt into knifelike pleats. The drawn expression around her mouth each time she balanced her checkbook. And the look of pride on her face when I had been named salutatorian of the senior class. Roz had graduated in the bottom quarter. My mother had been no stranger to hard work, and neither was I. And I wasn’t going to let Roz Crowley take away my last connection to my old life.

  “I think my track record speaks for itself. I’ve put in my time on more than a few Cannon Ball committees over the last few years. If you have nothing else to say, I’m going to hang up now.”

  “Don’t think this is over, Ellie.”

  “It won’t be over until I finish the job, Roz.”

  She hung up before I had the chance to do
it first.

  “Who was that?” Jane called from the dining room.

  “The enemy,” I said, half-laughing but scared, too. Because Roz was right. Arranging all the transportation by myself was going to be a bear of a job, and the consequences were dire if I failed.

  Jane appeared in the kitchen doorway. “Anything I can help with?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But I think this one calls for the Queen of Clubs.”

  You have to overcall her,” Linda said when I repeated my conversation with Roz. Jane had gone home, leaving behind a budget to finalize for Your Better Half, and I had walked over to Linda’s house to get her advice about how to handle Roz. Linda was in the kitchen chopping vegetables for soup, and so I pulled up a stool to the bar that separated the kitchen from the breakfast room and plopped down.

  “I have to what?”

  “Overcall her.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “In bridge, when your opponent opens the bidding, you don’t want her and her partner to just run off with the contract. Especially not if you have decent cards yourself.”

  “Okay.” I could sort of see the analogy, but I wasn’t sure where Linda was going with this.

  “Let’s say your opponent opens 1. If you have enough high card points that you would have opened the bidding yourself, then you overcall her by bidding something higher.”

  “Like I or 1 ?” I said, remembering that spades and hearts outranked diamonds.

  “Exactly. If you wanted to bid clubs, because that was your longest suit, then you’d have to jump to the two level.”

  “So how do I overcall Roz?”

  “I think you already did. She tried to get you to resign, and instead of passing and letting her have her way, you overcalled her.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not sure my hand was strong enough to open. What if I can’t pull this transportation thing off?”

  Linda smiled and pulled an onion toward her, which she proceeded to chop with the same efficiency she demonstrated dealing cards. “You, my friend, are in luck. Because you happen to be looking at a former chair of the transportation committee for the Cannon Ball.”