The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue (14 page)

The words rushed out in a torrent, and with them came a feeling of relief. A cleansing.

“You don’t have to be nasty about it,” Jim snapped. “I was just trying to be nice.”

Only he wasn’t. Trying to be nice, that was. “You can’t eat your cake and have it too, Jim. We’re done. You made sure of that.
So quit calling me.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

Two weeks ago, the jealousy in his voice would have thrilled me to the core. Now, it left me tired and exasperated. “That’s
none of your business.” I began to stuff the mementoes back into the memory box.

“You
are
seeing someone.”

“Jim, even if I’m dating, you’re about to get
married,
for pete’s sake. What does it matter if I have a boyfriend?”

“Who is it?”

“I’m hanging up now, Jim. Go talk to Tiffany if you need your masculinity reinforced.”

“She’s at work,” he snapped, and the words stung. He’d only called because his hootchie mama was off plying her wares for
minimum wage plus tips to a bunch of salivating Neanderthals just like him.

“Lucky her.” I slammed down the phone, closed the lid of the memory box with a snap, and returned it to the bedside table.
I flicked off the lamp.

And then I lay sleepless in the dark for a very long time.

* * *

I
spent the next week putting the finishing touches on Henri’s apartment and attending a couple of Red Hat events. Henri worked
late every night, so I didn’t see him at all. Instead, I cooked gourmet meals that I left in Tup-perware containers in the
refrigerator for him to heat up when he got home. And in his absence, doubt took root in my mind like all the weeds I was
pulling from my flower beds. Who was I kidding, carrying on with Henri like a twenty-something in love for the first time?
Henri’s attentions might be a balm, but the wound beneath was still there, still fresh. And I found myself wishing in my darker
moments that Jim would start drinking and dialing again.

Jane passed along leads for more clients, but with all I was doing for Henri and the few others I’d already acquired, I didn’t
have time to follow up on them. I even splurged on a visit to the salon to have my highlights brought up to date.

That’s where I ran into Roz.

There I was, trapped under a heat lamp with enough aluminum foil residing on my head to make me look like an extraterrestrial.
I was flipping through the pages of the latest French
Vogue
I’d picked up at the bookstore, hoping to pick up some tips on being less American and more confident, when one of the stylists
brought someone to the chair next to me. I looked up and saw Roz.

“Ellie!” She smiled in that feral way of hers, the one that told you she was the kind of woman who would eat her young. In
this case, though, it looked like she was willing to settle for me.

“Hello, Roz.”

“Ellie. I’m so glad I ran into you. I have big news.” She said it in such a way that I knew it wasn’t going to be very pleasant
news, whatever it was. At least not for me.

“About the Cannon Ball?”

“Yes. Very exciting. We’ve changed the date.”

My head popped up and banged against the heat lamp. Pain spread across my scalp, aided by the conducting properties of the
foil.

“Will it be later in the fall?”

Roz’s smile revealed her extra-sharp canine teeth. It was a wonder, with all the cosmetic dentistry she’d had, that someone
hadn’t filed those fangs down.

“No, actually. We’ve been hoping for ages to move it to the summer, but the museum couldn’t accommodate us. Now they can,
though.”

Summer? I wanted to leap out of my chair, but I’d already banged my head against the heat lamp once. “So we’re talking what—July?”
I asked hopefully.

Roz shook her head. “Oh, no. Too hot then. No, we’re the first Saturday in June. Only a few weeks away.”

My head started to swim. No way. There was no way the committees, any of the committees, could pull that off.

And then I saw the gleam in Roz’s eye, and I realized the truth. She had done whatever was necessary to change the date merely
to inflict suffering on me, and she didn’t care who else got caught in the line of fire.

“The date change shouldn’t present that big of a problem. You’re on top of it, aren’t you?”

“I am.” When had I become such a glib liar? “No, the change won’t be a problem.”

We both knew the truth, though, and Roz just sat
there, smiling, basking in her triumph. I had thought she would be satisfied with humiliating me with the transportation
assignment and then watching as my committee deserted. But apparently that wasn’t enough to satisfy her blood lust.

Thankfully, at that moment, my stylist appeared to take me away to the shampoo room so she could remove the foil and rinse
out my hair. I managed to avoid Roz until I left the salon, highlights glowing golden in the sunlight, but I couldn’t so easily
escape the sound of the ominous, rapidly ticking clock my old nemesis had planted in my brain.

B
y Friday night, I was desperate for my Henri “fix,” so I put on a new silk dress that I really couldn’t afford and headed
for his apartment. Since I had my own key, I could let myself in. He’d called earlier in the day, distracted and harried,
but at least he asked if I would join him for dinner at his apartment. I hadn’t even minded when he wanted to know if I’d
be willing to cook the meal.

A romantic evening, tête-à-tête, was just what the doctor ordered, so to speak. No Jim. No Roz. No worry about whether Your
Better Half would turn out to be more than a one-hit wonder and no talk of bridge or red hats. Just a delicious meal and Henri’s
even more delicious attentions.

He turned up an hour late, by which time I’d reheated the
beoufbourgignon
to the point of disintegration. If Jim had kept me waiting like that I would have been livid, but since I was waiting for
the mouth-watering Henri the delay only served to heighten my already fevered state of anticipation.

“Ma chère
” he purred when he came through the door, dropping his briefcase with a thud and sweeping me into his embrace. Then there
was no conversation at all for a nice long time. Finally, when we came up for air, I could return his greeting.

“How was your day?” I took him by the hand and led him to the kitchen so I could serve the meal. His fingers threaded through
mine as we went, and a warm glow took over for the hunger pangs that had been gnawing my stomach. I’d forgotten how sensual
merely holding hands could be.

“My day?
Horrible
” Henri said. “I will never understand you Americans.”

I hid my wince. At times, Henri’s contempt for the good old US of A and its inhabitants rubbed me the wrong way. But then
he would kiss me and I’d forget all about it.

“Maybe this will help.” I picked up the plates of food. “Grab the wine,” I said and led him back to the dining room.

I’d set the table with a pristine linen cloth and tall tapers in the silver candlesticks my mother had given to Jim and me
for our twenty-fifth anniversary shortly before her death. I lit the candles while Henri poured the wine.

“This is what a man dreams of when he is trapped in an office all day with imbeciles.” Henri leaned over to kiss me when he
handed me my glass of wine.

Okay, so he was arrogant, but he was also the most amazing kisser. He pulled out my chair for me—a courtesy Jim had rarely
performed—and we sat down to eat. As the stresses of his day melted away, Henri turned on the charm and easily ensnared me.

Dinner gave way to an aperitif on the new leather
couch in front of the fireplace. I slipped off my shoes and curled up next to him. His arm slid comfortably around my shoulders.

“You are an extraordinarily amazing woman,” he murmured in my ear. He was quite the ear-murmurer, Henri, and it would have
seemed a little slick if it hadn’t been so darn effective.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Not so bad?” He arched one eyebrow. “I can see that I must improve your opinion of me.”

And he did. First on the couch, and then later when we moved to the bedroom. I’d bought the enormous four-poster bed for him
with less than pure intentions, I must admit. The sheets were six hundred count cotton, so luxurious they might as well have
been silk. And the small stereo system surrounded us with soft jazz.

All in all, I’d set the scene for my own seduction. And to my delight, Henri definitely wasn’t a boy sent to do a man’s job.

O
ver the years of my marriage, I’d gradually forgotten how exciting making love for the first time could be, but I’d also forgotten
the awkwardness of the morning after. The night before, I’d been emboldened by the wine and the firelight. In the cold, harsh
light of Saturday morning, though, I faced the reality of being a middle-aged woman who’d taken a new lover.

“Eleanor?” Henri mumbled sleepily when I slipped from the luxurious bed, taking the flat sheet with me so that I could conceal
myself for the trek to the bathroom.
The ravages of time and gravity on my figure could be camouflaged in the dark, but nothing short of a burka could cover them
in the glaring light of day.

“Be right back.” My dash for the bathroom was hampered by the constricting wrap of the sheet. I looked over my shoulder when
I reached the bathroom door to find Henri smiling at me with his usual combination of sensual interest and amusement.

The bathroom was a veritable hall of mirrors, so I clutched the sheet as I moved to the vanity and leaned closer to examine
my reflection. My face looked the same as always—the crow’s feet flowing from the corners of my eyes, little red splotches
here and there across my cheeks and brow where I’d once had smooth, even skin tone. My face was no different from that of
any fifty-year-old woman. I was disappointed, because I would have thought something as amazing as the night before would
have shown up in the mirror.

“What are you doing in there?” Henri called.

I jerked back from my reflection. “Nothing.”

“Well then hurry and come back to bed.” His voice promised another round of sensual pleasure. And, strangely, where I should
have been excited at the prospect, a vague sense of disappointment lodged in my stomach. Why? After months of depression in
the wake of Jim’s departure, things were finally going my way. I should be on top of the world. So why did I feel so sad?

I hadn’t been naïve about where my relationship with Henri was headed. I’d packed a small tote bag with morning-after essentials
and stashed them in the cupboard underneath the sink the night before. Quickly, I
brushed my teeth and ran a wide-toothed comb through my hair, leaving it tousled but tangle-free. Undereye concealer or other
tricks of the trade would have to wait. I hitched the sheet up a little higher over my breasts and returned to the bedroom.

Henri was leaning against the mound of pillows he’d piled against the headboard. He smiled lazily and patted the mattress
next to him. “Come back to bed.”

And I did. But I brought with me the knowledge that part of me was disappointed it wasn’t Jim looking at me beneath heavy-lidded
eyes and welcoming me into his arms with a deep, lingering kiss, the way he would have once upon a time.

Sometimes, even at a time like this, you couldn’t do anything but miss the boy you’d fallen in love with, even when he failed
at being the man you’d thought him to be.

CHAPTER TEN

I
left Henri’s late Saturday morning after fixing a cheese omelet for the two of us and jotting down a list of what he needed
done during the next week. If it hadn’t been for the invoices for my work hours that I sent him on a regular basis, I’d have
felt almost married to the man, our relationship was so domestic.

It felt good to be headed back to my house after the emotional highs and lows of the last twenty-four hours, although when
I pulled into the driveway I hoped that none of the Queens of Woodlawn Avenue noticed I hadn’t come home last night. I was
confused enough about this new development to want to keep it to myself until I’d had a chance to sort it out.

My life had gotten so busy that there was no shortage of tasks I should have attended to, but I ignored them and instead headed
for the backyard with my gardening tools in hand. Grace’s influence was growing more
evident in the flower beds that lined the privacy fence where it enclosed the yard. Little by little, I was reclaiming the
wilderness.

I’d been digging up weeds in the back flower bed along the fence for about an hour when I decided that the whole bed really
needed turning over. I traipsed over to the ramshackle detached garage to fetch my shovel.

I had dug pretty deep in the flower bed when the shovel hit something hard. A crack like a popgun nearly sent me straight
out of my gardening clogs. With the edge of the shovel, I scraped back the loose dirt to discover the source of the sound.

Scattered white sticks tumbled this way and that. And then my stomach dropped to my aforementioned clogs when I realized that
those little white things weren’t sticks. Or roots. Or anything else you’d expect to find when you dug a hole in your backyard.