The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue (10 page)

“Okay, okay. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I was just asking.”

The freshly brewed coffee I’d been enjoying threatened to make a reappearance. I had thought that I was dead to hope. That
I’d accepted my new circumstances. And now I saw how little it took to resurrect my fantasies of a remorseful Jim who would
come crawling back. Secretly, in my heart of hearts, I’d still believed he might change his mind. Now I knew better. Hope
died swiftly and painfully within my chest.

“I have a lawn to mow. You can leave the box on the front porch.”

“Okay, okay. You don’t have to make a federal case out of it. I was just asking.”

“Well, here’s my answer.” I slammed down the phone. This time, though, I wasn’t going to sink to the kitchen floor in tears.

This time, I was going to go mow the damn lawn.

CHAPTER SEVEN

B
eing lethal to green things turned out to be an advantage when it came to cutting the grass. Several times I flooded the mower’s
engine, but after a few false starts, the mower and I came to an understanding. With each strip of grass I cut, I fantasized
that I was slicing off one of Jim’s body parts. By the time I finished, sweat dripping from every pore, the man was strewn
in pieces around the backyard.

I put the mower away, fixed myself a glass of iced tea, and went to check my front porch. Sure enough, there was a large white
box, the one that contained my mother’s wedding dress. I hadn’t worn it when I married because my mother had wanted me to
have something more expensive than the homemade, tea-length frock her mother had sewn for her, but I’d been saving it for
Courtney in case she wanted to wear it. The thought of Tiffany in my mother’s dress sent shivers of revulsion up my spine
all over again.

I was putting the box on the shelf in the top of my closet when the phone rang again. Honestly, if it was Jim, I was going
to get the spade Grace had given me, drive to our old house, and commit homicide with it.

“Hello?” The word came out more like a bark than a greeting.

“’Ello? Is this Eleanor Hall?” The smooth, mellifluous voice dropped the “h”s in the way only a Frenchman could.

“Yes, this is she. Monsieur Paradis?”

“Please, you must call me Henri.”

He sounded just like Louis Jourdan in
Gigi,
and his voice was enough to make a woman’s stomach flutter and her toes curl. If sex had a voice, it would sound like Henri
Paradis.

“Of course, Henri. I’m delighted to hear from you.”

Was that the faintest trace of coquettishness in my voice? I hadn’t known I still had any left. I’d thought it had worn away
with motherhood and middle age.

“Your friend Jane speaks so highly of you, and I am in great need of your help,” Henri practically purred. Or at least, that’s
how it sounded to my American ears. No wonder French women fell into torrid love affairs the same way I fell into a box of
Twinkies.

“What can I assist you with, Henri?”

“Everything, I am afraid. But right now I have one pressing need.”

“Yes?”

“I have no one to accompany me to brunch today. Perhaps you would be so kind as to consider joining me? We can become better
acquainted, and you will hear my
whole tragic story.” The irony and self-deprecation in his voice was vastly appealing after my recent conversation with Jim,
who lacked both those qualities to an alarming degree.

“Brunch sounds lovely.”

“You would not mind meeting me at the restaurant?” He named a favorite haunt of the Belle Meade set, one that I was as familiar
with as the back of my hand.

“No, I don’t mind meeting you there at all.”

“In an hour, then?”

“That would be fine.” Fine? I was dripping sweat from head to toe, my hair would require a miracle of biblical proportions
to make it even halfway presentable, and I had no idea what I would wear. All those carbs had started to take their toll on
my waistline, and as a result I could barely button, snap, or zip any of my clothes. Plus, I was likely to see scores of people
I knew at the restaurant. People who had disappeared from my life since the divorce. I wonder if my arrival on the arm of
a handsome Frenchman would suddenly render me less invisible.

“Then I shall see you in an hour, Eleanor.”

The way my name slid off his tongue sent a shiver down my spine. I hung up the phone, let a goofy smile take over my face,
and gave myself a moment to fantasize. A handsome Frenchman, the kind my mother had warned me about all those years ago. Perhaps
a little champagne. And all those former friends dying to know who he was. Sometimes the gods were, indeed, kind.

I looked at the clock and realized I didn’t have time to stand around mooning over a man I hadn’t even met
face-to-face. I had a business to launch and a number of former friends’ noses to tweak.

H
alfway through the drive to the restaurant to meet Henri Paradis, my fantasies dwindled away and the cold reality of what
was at stake hit me. I called Jane on my cell phone.

“What do I say?” I wailed in panic. “I don’t have a name for my business.”

“Play it by ear,” Jane advised. “Whatever he needs done, that’s what you do. This could be a potentially very lucrative market,
Ellie. Foreign businessmen have big expense accounts and no time to learn the ins and outs of life in Nashville. If you can
make Henri happy, he’ll send his compatriots your way.”

I sighed. Did I really have the chutzpah to carry this off? “Okay. You’re the Queen of Diamonds, you should know. I’ll do
it.”

Although I wondered if I would have the nerve. Could any service I provided really be valuable enough for me to make a living
off of it? More than two decades of unpaid labor had definitely taken their toll on my sense of worth in the economic marketplace.

“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.

F
ake 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.