The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue (11 page)

“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.

M
ore 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

T
he 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.”

Y
ou 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.”