The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue (27 page)

“Okay. You win.”

We moved toward the edge of the shrubbery, but before we’d quite turned the corner, he stopped and looked down at me. “Just
promise me I’m not going to find you off in the bushes with any other guys tonight.”

I couldn’t suppress the giggle that rose to my lips. “I promise that if I go off in the bushes with anybody else tonight,
it will be you. Okay?” Heavens, we sounded like a feuding couple at junior high church camp.

“Much better.” And then he did something I wasn’t expecting. He leaned down and kissed me softly on the lips. True, he wasn’t
as practiced or nuanced as Henri in the romance department, but the man had always known how to kiss.

And I had always been a sucker for it.

T
he rest of the ball passed in a blur of music and conversation. The tables for the dinner boasted gorgeous two-foot-tall centerpieces
of lilies and tulips, and the trout almondine was divine. I danced with Jim and chatted with Linda’s husband Bob—or, rather,
I talked and he
listened in his usual introverted silence. And I also basked in the gushing enthusiasm of the planning committee members and
other guests for the horse-drawn carriage rides.

“Magical. Just magical,” one woman who was married to the ambassador to some Eastern European country said when we were standing
in line for the powder room. “Like Prague or Vienna.” By the time we reached the front of the line, she’d hired me to take
care of her Belle Meade mansion during the frequent times when she and her husband were out of the country.

All too soon, the evening was winding to a close. Greta and company gave everyone another ride to remember, this time down
the darkened driveway, which made the fairy lights in the trees truly magical. She told me later that she handed out enough
business cards to sink a ship. Cupcake could wallow in the lap of equine luxury for another couple of bonus months as a sort
of referral fee. The brothers of Phi Delta Tau did a superb job ferrying all the Mercedeses, BMWs, Acuras, and Volvos back
and forth from the parking lots to their waiting owners. And Will and his fellow officers managed to pour the handful of guests
who overindulged into cabs and send them home. When the lights came on at two o’clock in the morning, about the only people
left were members of the planning committee and their spouses.

I was feeling strangely let down after all the tension I’d endured in the weeks leading up to the ball. Roz had studiously
avoided me all evening. I was sure my success was like pouring salt into her wound, however self-inflicted it might be.

Jim and I were among the last couples to leave, and Greta herself drove us from the museum down the long drive to the parking
lot. As we passed underneath the twinkling trees, Jim put his arm around me and pulled me close. I didn’t resist. Maybe I
couldn’t resist. This was what a grand slam felt like in real life, and I wanted to bask in my triumph.

Once we were in Jim’s car, we both rode in silence on the way home. I had no idea what Jim was thinking. Or, rather, I didn’t
really want to worry about what he was thinking.

Jim pulled up in my driveway, shut off the car, and turned toward me.

“Ellie?”

“Yes?”

I could see the question in his eyes, but I hadn’t decided yet whether to acknowledge what he wanted or play dumb and pretend
I didn’t notice the desire that was plainly evident in the way he was looking at me.

“Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?” I wasn’t sure why I was even asking him the question. The digital clock on
the car’s dash said 2:37, and I was far too old to be staying up so late.

“No, thanks.”

“Oh.” Against my better judgment, disappointment stung my lungs like an indrawn breath of cold air.

“No, I don’t think you do understand.” Jim’s gaze bore into me. “Ellie, I’d like to come in, but I have zero interest in coffee
right at this moment.”

I wished that such a pivotal moment in my life wouldn’t occur when I was exhausted, sleepy, and way
too influenced by the longing to fling myself into my no-good ex-husband’s arms. Only was he still a no-good liar? Or had
he truly come to his senses?

“Jim…”

“What?”

“If you come inside, it means no more Tiffany. Or Amber. Or Heather. Or whatever they name all those Hooters waitresses these
days.”

Jim looked sober as a judge. “Ellie, I swear to you that in all the years we’ve been married, Tiffany was the only time I
wasn’t faithful.”

I searched his eyes, wanting to believe him but not gullible enough to let myself be swept away on a false promise. “Then
why?”

“Why what?”

“Why Tiffany?”

He had been turned toward me, but at my question, he swiveled back to face the windshield and sank back in the driver’s seat.
Then he was quiet for a long moment. Finally, he mumbled, “I was afraid.”

Those were the last words I expected to hear. “Afraid?” He had to be kidding. I was not going to buy some
1-hit-middle-age-and-came-face-to-face-with-rnortality
excuse.

“Connor and Courtney were both launching their own lives, and you were so busy with all of your volunteer activities and the
house.”

“So? I would have thought that took the pressure off of you after all those years of trying to juggle work and family.”

Jim wiped his hand across his forehead and gave a
short laugh. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” He shook his head. “Instead, I freaked out.”

“I noticed.”

“No, before Tiffany. That was when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

He took a deep breath and swiveled his head to look at me. “I came home one Monday night. Just an ordinary Monday. But the
kids were away at college, and you had gone out to a movie.”

The pain in his eyes surprised and devastated me. “I would have thought you would have enjoyed a little peace and quiet to
watch football.”

“I’d have thought so, too. Instead, I had a panic attack.”

“You never told me this.”

His smile was half regret, half self-deprecation. “I was ashamed.”

“Ashamed? Of what?”

“Of falling apart when I realized…”

“Realized what?”

“That none of you really needed me anymore.”

I was dumbstruck. “You can’t be serious.”

He went rigid. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“You thought we didn’t need you? Why on earth would you think that?”

“Because it was true.”

I thought back to those last few years before he’d left. Our relationship had drifted apart like two continents, gradually,
imperceptibly. Until the day we’d woken up and realized we were no longer touching. Not mentally. Not emotionally. And certainly
not physically. Our divorce
had not been Jim’s fault alone. No, we were both responsible. I had to acknowledge that I had felt the same way, like an unnecessary
cog in a machine that would run just fine without me. If Henri had come into my life at that time, would I have been just
as susceptible to him as Jim had been to Tiffany?

I looked at Jim, and we stared into each other’s eyes for a very long time. And somewhere in that locking of gazes, I made
a decision. Jim was no Marvin Ethering-ton. He was no playboy. He was truly sorry for what he’d done, and I still loved and
missed him.

I reached down and opened the car door. Since he still had his key in the ignition, a warning chime sounded. This time, though,
I wasn’t going to listen to it.

“Fine, then. We’ll skip the coffee.”

The light that leapt to his eyes was visible even in the darkness of that summer night. “Are you sure?”

I laughed. “No. Are you?”

He smiled. “Completely.”

“Then that will have to be enough.” I slid out of the car and started up the walk. A moment later, I heard the driver’s door
slam and the sound of Jim’s footsteps as he followed me up the walk to my front door.

W
hen I woke up the next morning, the other side of the bed was empty.

Despair swamped me, and I flinched at the banging in my head. Sunlight streamed through the curtains, which someone must have
opened. I certainly hoped it had been Jim.

And then I smelted bacon frying. Burning, actually. And I heard the sound of tuneless humming, deep-throated and male, from
the vicinity of the kitchen.

I didn’t know whether to be mortified, ashamed, or ecstatically happy, so I stretched like a cat underneath the covers, rolling
my limbs out one by one. Finally, I slipped out of the bed and grabbed the satin robe I’d left draped over the clothes hamper.

“You’re not supposed to be getting up.”

I whirled around and found Jim leaning with one arm against the doorframe, looking rumpled and sexy. And he had a definite
gleam in his eye. “Good morning, gorgeous.”

“Good morning.” He might be feeling all self-satisfied, but I was deluged with a strong sense of wariness. I had quite possibly
just made the biggest mistake of my life.

“You have to get back in bed,” he said.

“Why?” I didn’t want to return to bed. I wanted to flee the house in panic.

“Because I can’t bring you breakfast there if you’re not in it.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my husband?” The words slipped out before I could stop them, particularly the “h”
word.

Jim smiled indulgently. “Now, now. Time for a fresh start, don’t you think?” He stopped and sniffed the air. “Damn. I think
the toast is burning.”

Before we divorced, I would have shot back some sarcastic comment like, “Ya think?” and then followed him back to the kitchen,
pushed him out of the way, and taken over the breakfast preparations. Not a very flatter-
ing admission, I have to say. Now, though, I simply smiled and said, “I’ve always found that if you put extra jam on the toast,
no one notices a few black spots.” And then I shucked the robe I’d donned and slid back into the bed.

Frankly, I think we were both astonished by our behavior. “Right. Right,” Jim repeated, and then he disappeared back into
the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later bearing a large tray containing my slightly charred breakfast. I propped some
pillows against the headboard, settled in comfortably, and allowed him to place the tray on my lap.

“Bon appetit.”

If I’d learned anything in all the months of loneliness, it was when to shut up and eat. So that’s what I did. Jim stretched
out on the bed beside me and before long was reaching over to steal bites of food off my tray.

“Ouch!” he protested when I finally slapped his hand away. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“I wasn’t biting. I was hitting.” We were both smiling like a couple of infatuated school kids. I couldn’t believe it. After
all we’d been through, was it really going to turn out to be this easy and comfortable to reconcile?

And then his expression grew suddenly serious. “Ellie?”

“Yeah?” My hand stopped with a strip of blackened bacon halfway to my mouth.

“Can you do it? Can you really forgive me?”

I’d thought about that for a long time after we’d made love the night before. I’d lain awake, despite my exhaustion, listening
to him snore softly and trying to sort through my feelings.

“I think so. I think I want to try.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.” And then he looked around the room. “Where’s the box?”

“What box?”

“You know, the ‘Jim & Ellie’ box. The one you made at that party.”

I tried to be nonchalant. “My memory box? I guess it must be around here somewhere.”

Evidently both my breezy tone and my guilty expression gave me away. His eyes narrowed. “What did you do, burn it?”

I blushed. “No. Actually, I buried it.”

Jim actually looked a little hurt. “Where? In the backyard?”

“Yes. Back there where they found—”

“Where they found what?”

I’d forgotten I hadn’t told Jim about unearthing Marvin’s remains. “It’s a long story.”

Jim sat up in the bed and then swung his feet over the side. “Well, you can tell it to me while I’m digging it up.”

“What?”

“You heard me. You can tell me while I’m digging it up. Where’s your shovel?” He started toward the door.

I set the breakfast tray to the side and swung my legs over the side of the bed. “Jim, don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a box.”

He looked back over his shoulder. “Maybe. But it was important to you. And it’s a symbol.”

“Jim, it doesn’t matter.”

He stopped and turned around. “Yes it does. You’ve given up enough for me, Ellie. You shouldn’t have to
sacrifice your memories, too. We can’t start over, but we can pick up where we dropped the ball.”

I smiled at his mixed metaphors, but I still didn’t want him digging in my yard. It had taken me forever to plant all those
impatiens. “Really, Jim, it’s okay. It’s not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, but you might want it after you come back home.”

I froze in place. “What?”

Jim stepped toward me and put his arms around me. “It’s time to come home, Ellie. I know it’s my fault you’re in this…” he
waved an arm, “sad little house, but that’s over and done with. We’ll sell it. Maybe take another cruise. Just the two of
us this time.”

“I don’t want to go on a cruise.” Not really the point, but it was the only thing I could think of to say.

“Then we’ll go to Europe. Paris, maybe.”

“Jim, I’m not selling my house.”

That brought him up short. “But I thought you wanted to get back together.”

“I do. I mean, I think I do. But it’s going to take time, and not everything’s going to be just like it was.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that this is my home now. I’m not sure I want to give it up.” I felt a sharp pang at the thought of relinquishing
my place amongst the Queens of Wood-lawn Avenue. They’d seen me through my darkest times. No way was I going to relinquish
them so easily.

“Ellie, you have to come home if we’re going to make a go of it.”

“Jim, I’m not ready to resume our marriage.”

His eyes filled with hurt, confusion, and a fair amount of angry frustration. “Then what was last night?”