The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue (22 page)

“What, Roz? What else could you possibly do to me?” For a myriad of reasons, she and I had been destined for
enmity. I didn’t know if I could let go of all those years of bitterness and jealousy right there in the frozen food aisle
at Harris-Teeter, but at least I could offer a truce.

“No, Roz. I’m not going to repeat this to anyone/’ I looked down into my cart. “My pizzas are starting to thaw. I’d better
go.”

I could tell she hated my generosity, but she seemed to accept it nonetheless.

“Fine.” She smoothed her hair with one hand. “Just make sure you don’t foul up the ball.”

“Good-bye, Roz.” I pushed the cart past her and gladly followed.

The last time I had been this stunned by a revelation was when I had curled up on my living room sofa while Jim went upstairs
to pack his bags. I guess in life, people are finessing us, slipping things by us all the time, and most of the time we don’t
even notice. Sometimes, though, we slip things by ourselves, and maybe that’s even worse.

CH
A
PTER SIXTEEN

B
y the end of the week, Henri was back in town, but I still hadn’t found the right moment to push him about my unpaid invoices.
I was too cowardly, though, to quit working for him until I got a check. So I spent that week just as I had the one before—organizing
his meals, his laundry and dry cleaning, his maid service. I even took his luxury car to have the oil changed and the tires
rotated.

By Friday, I decided enough was enough. Time to beard the lion in his den. Far more professional to beard the lion in his
downtown high-rise than in his, well, actual den. Every time I’d tried to introduce the subject while standing in his apartment,
I had wound up either being seduced or running away from his attempts at seduction.

The bloom was definitely off the rose, I thought, as I found a parking garage near his office and managed to
wedge my land yacht into a spot designated for compact cars. By now, I was far more concerned with the money Henri owed me
than with his ability to make me feel special and sexy.

I took the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor and followed the signs for The Triumph Group. When I entered the suite of offices,
I was surprised to find that Henri’s business consisted of only a very young receptionist in the outer office and two closed
doors beyond that, one marked with Henri’s name.

“I’m Ellie John—I mean, Hall. Ellie Hall. I’d like to see Mr. Paradis.”

The girl gave me the once over. “What is this regarding?”

“Business.” I had worn my robin’s egg blue suit for courage. The receptionist evidently knew her designer labels, because
she nodded her approval.

“I’ll see if he’s available.”

She picked up the phone and spoke in low tones while I wandered to the opposite side of the small reception area and pretended
to inspect the artwork, really just framed copies of a generic landscape like you’d find in any office building anywhere.

“Mr. Paradis says it’s not a convenient time. Perhaps you would like to come back after lunch?”

“You’re kidding.” I verbalized my thought before I could stop myself. “I mean, it’s imperative that I speak with him right
away.”

From behind the door bearing Henri’s nameplate, I heard muffled voices, one of them a woman’s. Maybe
I should have felt some shooting rush of jealousy, but I only felt annoyed. I was tired of the game-playing.

“I’ll just show myself in.” Without waiting for her response, I walked past her desk and threw open the door to Henri’s office.

“Ellie!” He was halfway between the door and his desk, standing there with a confused look on his face. “This isn’t a good
time to talk.”

How could I not know that something was going on? Henri looked guilty but also a bit smug, and then I noticed that there was
another door in the wall to my right. Whoever he had been talking to, that door was apparently her escape route.

“I’m afraid it can’t wait.”

“What is it, then? What is so important that you must interrupt my work?”

I thrust the file I was holding into his hands. “Here are the unpaid invoices from Your Better Half. I took the liberty of
making you additional copies. As you can see, some of them are more than thirty days past due.”

He scowled. “Yes, yes. I know this already, and I promised you that I would see to them.”

“Yes, you did promise. But nothing seems to have been done about it.”

He shoved his fingers through his hair, unknowingly spiking the ends so that they stood straight out from his head. I’d never
seen him do that before.

“You came all the way downtown for this?”

“Yes.” I crossed my arms over my chest, prepared to stand there until doomsday if that’s what it took to get the money I was
owed.

“I’m afraid our accountant isn’t in right now.”

“I thought you said there was an accounting department. A bunch of Italians.”

“Of course there is. But they are actually in Italy,
ma petite.”
In the blink of an eye, he dropped his defensive posture and came toward me. “When Jason, my partner, returns, I will have
him call Italy immediately. Really, Eleanor, there is no need to be so dramatic.”

“When do you expect him back?”

His smile faded. “Jason? Soon.”

And then I heard a toilet flushing from behind the closed door. “Who’s that?”

For the first time since I’d known him, I was given the opportunity to see Henri speechless. More sounds followed the flush—water
running and the snap of paper towels being pulled from a dispenser—and then the door opened.

The woman who emerged from the bathroom was stunning, half my age, and obviously French. You could tell by her cheekbones
and her shoes. Also, she looked at me with that Gallic disdain that I’d seen on Henri’s face on several occasions.

“Henri? Who is this?” She dismissed me, robin’s egg blue suit and all, with a flick of her hair over her shoulder.

“This is Eleanor. She’s the woman who has been helping me with my domestic arrangements.”

“Oh, but of course. Your little wife.” Only she said it in French.
“Bien sur. Votre petite mariée.”
Even my high school classes ensured I could translate that much.

“Ellie, this is Giselle. Giselle Paradis.”

I smiled, trying very hard to be pleasant in the face of
the other woman’s hauteur. “Nice to meet you. I didn’t know Henri’s daughter was coming to visit.”

Her eyes grew the slightest bit wider, and then she smiled like a cat about to devour a mouse that it had been toying with.
“Daughter? Oh, no, madame. You misunderstand. I am Henri’s wife.”

“Sorry?”

“Giselle is my wife. She arrived unexpectedly last night.”

I was at a complete loss for words. A shiver ran down my spine, and then it settled as a knot in my stomach.

“I flew in from Paris to make sure Henri was not being too naughty here among the Southern belles.” She made it sound like
the women of Nashville ran around in hoop skirts and pantaloons while hopping in and out of horse-drawn carriages.

Finally, I found my voice. “I’m sure he’s as well-behaved here as he is at home.” A statement that provided me with all the
leeway of its double meaning.

She frowned. “Yes, well, now that I am here, I will look after his…how did he say it?…domestic arrangements.”

At that moment, it dawned on me that she was looking at me the same way I had looked at Tiffany Trask the week before at Green
Hills Grille. As if she couldn’t believe her husband would involve himself with someone so lacking in sophistication, someone
so clearly devoid of refinement and gentility.

Well, how did that saying go? One man’s trash was another man’s treasure?

“Of course. You’ll want to resume your wifely duties.” Wifely duties? My cheeks flamed. “I mean, you’ll want
to take over the household management.” I gestured toward the folder of invoices Henri still held in his hand. “Those are
up to date, so it would be simplest to terminate my services today.” I kept myself from saying, “right this very moment before
I take a club to your no-good husband.” After all, about the only thing I had left was my pride. I was going to tie a knot
in it and hang on.

“Yes. I think that would be for the best,” Giselle snapped. Clearly she was losing patience with our conversation.

Henri had been uncharacteristically mute during this exchange, but at that point, he seemed to collect himself. “I’ll just
walk Ellie to the elevator, ma chère.” His use of the endearment that had weakened my knees now had the opposite effect of
straightening my spine.

“That’s not necessary. I can find my way out.”

“Oh, but I insist. I won’t be a moment, darling.”

Giselle arched an eyebrow but offered no protest.

“Nice to meet you,” I said inanely before spinning on my heel and making a beeline for the door. I didn’t particularly want
Henri to walk me anywhere. Mostly I just wanted to flee the building—and the greater Nashville area—as quickly as possible.

But he wasn’t going to allow me to make a quick escape. He didn’t say anything until we passed the receptionist and were safely
in the deserted hallway. I strode to the bank of elevators and punched the
DOWN
call button.

“Ellie! Wait.” His hand covered mine on the button. I snatched my fingers back as if I’d placed them on a hot stove.

“No, Henri.”

“But I can explain.”

I snorted. “I’m sure you can. But the bottom line is you told me you were divorced. I would never have slept with you if I’d
known you were married.”

“But I am divorced.” He actually had the gall to look wounded. “I did not lie about that.”

“Well, Giselle doesn’t seem to be aware that you two no longer share a legal bond.”

“Oh, no,
ma chère.
I am not divorced from Giselle. Marie, I am divorced from Marie. She was my first wife.”

It was the closest I’d ever come in my life to committing homicide. Any reasonable jury would have declared me not guilty.
Still, if I wound up in jail, I wouldn’t be available to enjoy my total humiliation when all the transportation arrangements
for the Cannon Ball turned into a disaster.

“You knew what I assumed when you told me you were divorced.”

“Yes, but I did not lie.”

“You turned me into an adulteress!” I hadn’t meant to shriek the words quite so loudly. Down the hall, an office door opened
and a woman’s head popped out.

“Everything okay down there?” She was a formidable-looking tank of a woman with gun-metal gray hair pulled back in a severe
style.

“Everything’s fine.” I waved, trying to act nonchalant. “No problem here.”

“Then keep it down. Some of us are trying to work.” The door slammed.

“Ellie, please don’t be mad.” Henri put his hands on
my upper arms and tried to draw me closer. “I cannot help it if I was bewitched by your beauty.”

I was pretty sure the only reason he put his hands on my arms was to keep me from slapping him. Really, though, the person
I wanted to slap was me. For being so stupid. For thinking a man like Henri would want anything more from me than sex. For
hemming and hawing about those invoices when he had played me like a fiddle. 1 felt more ashamed of how I’d fallen for his
spiel hook, line, and sinker than of being duped by Jim. My ex-husband, at least, could boast two decades of dependability
and fidelity before middle-age had addled his brain.

“The only thing that bewitched you was the possibility of
getting some.”
And then my mouth went round with shock, like a little “o.” I’d never used an expression like that in my life.

“Is that what you think?” Henri dropped his hands and drew himself up to his full height. “That I am just some alley cat on
the prowl?”

Evidently, I’d offended him. I let out a bark of laughter. “No, Henri. I would never compare you to an alley cat. That would
be insulting to felines everywhere!”

Happily for me, the elevator bell dinged at just that moment. The doors slid open, and I stepped inside.

“If those invoices aren’t paid within five business days, I’ll turn the matter over to my attorney.”

His face darkened like a thundercloud. “You ungrateful little—”

Fortunately, the doors closed, shutting out the rest of Henri’s invective.

* * *

I
fled to Jane’s house out of instinct. I don’t know why I sought her out rather than Linda or Grace. Mostly, I guess, it was
because I hoped she could help me sort out this horrible social-life-and-work-life cocktail I’d mixed up for myself.

“Ellie? What’s wrong?” She took one look at my face and waved me inside. I’d cried all the way to the parking garage, all
the way up Broadway, and all the way down Twenty-First Avenue where I’d almost plowed through a group of Vanderbilt co-eds.

“He’s married,” I sobbed. “Henri’s married.”

That was all I needed to say. Jane led me to her sofa and handed me a box of tissues. “What happened?”

“I went to confront him about the invoices.”