The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue (5 page)

“Perfect.” Linda nodded with approval. Carol pulled a carbon copy of the suit in my size from the rack on the wall.

“If you’ll follow me.” She walked away, and I understood that it was a command, not an invitation.

The changing room was bigger than my new bedroom and far more elegant. I slipped out of my clothes and into the suit, knowing
all the while that it was certain to fit perfectly, the way that clothes you can’t afford always do. There was no point looking
at the price tag. Slowly, I turned toward the full-length mirror.

The suit echoed the classic lines of Chanel, with three-quarter-length sleeves and a tightly fitted waist. Despite my recent
junk food binge, the skirt clung to my curves in all the right places. The tiny ruffle around the lapels and the slightly
fluted skirt made me look thoroughly feminine. If I died on the spot, I would want to be buried in that suit. It looked so
good I would easily have agreed to spend eternity wearing it. Figured.

“Come out and let me see,” Linda called.

I drew a deep breath and headed out of the changing area. Not only was I going to have to do battle with my own common sense,
I was also going to have to convince Linda that there was no way I could possibly afford the suit.

“I knew it,” Linda said the moment I stepped into view. “Absolute perfection.”

I hated that she was right. “Yes. It is. But, Linda, I can’t—”

Linda ignored my protest and turned toward Carol, who was looking thoroughly pleased with herself. “She’ll take it. And she’d
like to set up a house account in her husband’s name.”

“But—”

“Certainly. Let me just get my notebook.” Carol practically sprinted to the cashier’s stand.

“Linda,” I said in a stage whisper. “I can’t buy this suit.”

Linda waved away my protests with an airy hand. “You aren’t paying for it. Your husband is.”

“He’s not my husband anymore.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that he was, in fact, about to become someone else’s legally
wedded spouse.

Linda’s smile hinted at her more predatory instincts. “Yes, well, we’re not done shopping yet. We’re going to pick out a little
something for his hootchie mama as well. When she gets it, he’ll be so busy taking credit while she demonstrates her gratitude
that he won’t look at the bill twice.”

“Won’t he wonder who charged it to him?”

“I think he’ll be far more concerned with keeping his floozy happy. What’s he going to do? Tell her she has to return it?”

My mouth dropped open. It was too underhanded. Too devious. Too perfect.

“That will really work?”

“That’s the beauty of Elliott’s,” Linda whispered as Carol crossed the store toward us. “They still have those old-fashioned
house accounts where you say, ’Charge it, please, and thank you very much.’”

I was aware those kind of social conveniences had been part of the Nashville I’d grown up in, though not in my modest neighborhood.
My mother’s budget, solely funded by her salary as an office nurse for a local pediatrician, had run more toward layaway at
JCPenney’s than impulse purchases at exclusive Green Hills boutiques.

Carol materialized next to me and handed me a form to fill out, and Linda went to browse for something for Jim’s girlfriend.
Thirty minutes later, we emerged from Eliott’s with the robin’s egg blue suit in a garment bag and the receipt for a special
delivery order to my old house in Belle Meade for one Tiffany Trask. The Fendi bag ought to ensure that she kept Jim happy
for some time to come. And I got at least a little compensation for my husband’s impending nuptials. Excuse me, my ex-husband.

“So you’re set,” Linda said as we drove back to Wood-lawn Avenue in her big, black Lexus. “The planning luncheon is day after
tomorrow at Roz Crowley’s house on Belle Meade Boulevard. I’ll pick you up at eleven.”

My stomach lurched at the mention of that name.
Roz Crowley.

Linda was so pleased with herself, I didn’t want to spoil her fun. But if I’d known the first meeting was at Roz’s house,
I’d have never left home this morning. I knew just what would happen the day after tomorrow. A lunch catered by the most sought-after
firm in town. Exclusive society. The most prestigious address. And the exact public humiliation I’d most feared.

“Linda…”

“No weakness, Ellie. It’s just like junior high. Never let them see you sweat. Never doubt yourself. Head high. Shoulders
back. And I’ll be right beside you.”

Just like junior high.
Linda had no idea just how right she was about that.

“Why? Why are you doing this for me?” I couldn’t believe a simple bridge club could inspire this kind of loyalty, red hats
or not.

She smiled in a sort of half-regretful, half-amused way. “Let’s just say it’s a form of payback.”

She didn’t seem inclined to say any more, and I decided not to push. Whatever Linda’s reasons—whether it was simply loyalty
to the legacy of the Queens of Woodlawn Avenue or a generous spirit—I was grateful for her help. Terrified. Squeamish at the
thought of leaping into a huge societal breach. Especially in the home of a woman who had despised me since we were twelve.
But I was grateful to Linda nonetheless.

“Get a manicure the day before,” Linda admonished me when she’d pulled into my driveway and I was slipping out of the car.
“Pedicure, too.”

I would have liked to, but I couldn’t see any way to charge a mani-pedi to Jim as we’d done with the suit. I’d
have to do my nails myself and hope the results would pass muster.

“Thanks, Linda,” I said as I shut the car door. “I do appreciate it.”

“My pleasure.” She smiled bracingly. “You promise, don’t you, Ellie, to go to the luncheon with me?”

I hesitated, wondering which would prove greater—my fear of Roz’s wrath or my need for the new friendships I’d found.

And at that moment, my inner Amazon struggled a few more layers upward. Maybe it was the suit. Maybe it was exacting a little
payback on Jim. But suddenly I felt stronger than I had in months. “I promise.”

I watched Linda back out of the driveway, give me a little wave, and turn her car toward her house two doors down. In a lot
of ways, I felt like a peri-menopausal Alice in Wonderland who had fallen down her own personal rabbit hole. I had no idea
what might happen next, and that both excited and terrified me. Disaster and triumph loomed in equal proportion. But at least
I was feeling something besides grief.

CHAPTER FOUR

T
he Queens of Woodlawn Avenue were clearly not women to let any grass grow under their feet. I hadn’t been home from my shopping
expedition with Linda more than thirty minutes when Jane knocked on my front door. Thankfully, she arrived without any additional
pound cake. Given my weakness for it, I was glad not to be tempted. After all, I didn’t want to jeopardize the fit of my new
ill-gotten designer suit any more than I already had.

“Linda’s had you out shopping?” Jane asked, but I knew by the way she breezed by me without waiting for an answer that it
was a rhetorical question. Linda had no doubt already called Jane and filled her in on all of the details of our Elliott’s
expedition. I wasn’t ungrateful, but I bristled at the idea of my two new friends talking about me. After months of feeling
I had to fight every battle on my own, of dealing with jaded lawyers, budget
movers, and fearful friends who treated me like a pariah, I suppose I should have relished the well-meant interference of
my three fairy godmothers. But I wasn’t quite ready to sign away all rights to my self-determination just yet.

Jane made her way unescorted to my dining room, so once again I found myself following in her wake. She laid her red alligator
briefcase on the table, snapped open the clasps, and lifted the lid. With crisp efficiency, she took out a sheaf of papers,
a legal pad covered with writing, and a couple of pens. With her professionally manicured hand, she motioned me to join her
at the table.

“We don’t have a lot of time to draft your business plan, so I took the liberty of making some notes.”

Jane flipped through several pages of writing, picked up a pen to make several more notations, and then set the pen down on
top of the pad, all without noticing my silence in response to her comment. “So, let’s see what we can do about generating
some revenue streams.”

“I can’t think of anything I’d rather generate.” I sounded more than a little annoyed, but she just laughed.

“Good. It’s going to take a lot of hard work, but I’ve found there’s nothing as satisfying as running your own business. So,
let’s get started. What’s your background, workwise?”

I wonder if Cinderella had felt like she was being similarly steamrolled while her fairy godmother flew around singing“Bibbity-bobbity-boo.”
As a matter of fact, now that I thought about it, I don’t think Cindy was ever consulted on the pertinent details of her transformation.
I now knew how she felt.

Jane wanted to know about my qualifications. Well, I’d always thought that my efforts as Jim’s wife and my children’s mother
had constituted the best work of my life. However, I doubted knowing how to simultaneously make a three-egg omelet, tutor
a high school freshman in algebra, and extract a headless Barbie from the dog’s jaws would count for much in the cutthroat
world of commerce.

“Well, my degree is in nursing.”

“Okay.” Linda flipped to a clean page of her legal pad and wrote
Nursing
at the top. “And you’d like to get back into it?”

“Actually, no. And my license lapsed a long time ago, so it would take some doing to get back up to speed.”

“Have you considered going back to school?”

I had, actually, in the long nights I’d laid awake right after Jim announced his change of heart about our marriage. But it
hadn’t taken me long to realize I didn’t want to go back to school, and I definitely didn’t want to go into debt just so I
could work twelve-hour shifts as a floor nurse. The thought of working in a doctor’s office, as my mom had done all those
years, depressed me even more. She’d made enormous sacrifices so I wouldn’t have to follow in her literal footsteps. Despite
the long hours I’d labored and the often thankless tasks I’d performed for my family over the years, I’d relished the freedom
of setting my own schedule. I’d also enjoyed not having to pinch every penny. My unpaid labor had freed Jim up to bring home
a whole lot of bacon.

“I don’t think more schooling is the answer,” I told Jane, and she nodded.

“What other experience do you have?”

“The only thing I’m qualified for is to be somebody’s wife or mother,” I said to Jane morosely, hating the self-pitying tone
in my voice. Jane nodded, commiserating, and she looked pensive—at first. But a moment later, her eyes lit up.

“That’s it!” she cried, her smile spreading across her face. “It’s perfect.”

“What’s perfect?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of it immediately.”

Considering I had no idea what she was talking about, I wasn’t surprised about anything. “What do you mean?” Maybe all that
red hat-wearing was starting to scramble her otherwise astute head for business.

“You said the only thing you’re qualified to be is someone’s wife or mother. Well, I can think of plenty of men who need the
services of a wife.”

“Prostitution wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” I said, trying to laugh because I was sure that wasn’t what Jane meant.
At least, I was pretty sure.

She laughed too, which was reassuring. “No, I mean that I know lots of single businessmen who need help with the tasks a wife
would normally perform. Picking up dry cleaning. Playing hostess for a business dinner. All the little details someone needs
to coordinate so they can concentrate on making money. You’d be perfect for that.”

“Well, I’m certainly experienced.” Jim had often said he’d never have advanced as far in his field as he had if it weren’t
for me. Of course, the down side had been that he spent so much time at work, and I spent so much time
making sure he could, that our marriage had been the ultimate casualty of both our efforts.

“I think you could find women clients, too,” Jane said. “Working mothers, or even some high-end, stay-at-home moms who volunteer
so much they might as well be working.”

“And something like that would generate the income I’d need?” It sounded like a lot of work, which I wasn’t necessarily adverse
to, but it also sounded very inconsistent. I’d been hoping for a steady paycheck if nothing else.

“Well, let’s see.” Once again, Jane started writing on her legal pad. This time, she was jotting down columns of numbers.
“You wouldn’t have much overhead, which is great. And your mileage would be tax deductible. The biggest start-up cost would
be advertising and the usual office stuff—business cards, stationery, that sort of thing. Oh, and you’d need a Web site. That’s
mandatory.”

A Web site? I could barely figure out how to check my e-mail on a semi-regular basis on the cranky, aging computer I’d gotten
in the divorce.

“I don’t know, Jane,” I said more irritably than I’d intended. I had a sudden, intense craving for more of her pound cake.
Or at least that last two-pack of Twinkies I had stashed in the hard-to-reach cabinets above the ancient refrigerator.