The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue

by Regina Hale Sutherland

  “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

  Discards

  The 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.

  Jane smiled, and the compassion in her expression made me want to weep. Which only made me crankier. I was tired of being the belle of the dumped housewives’ ball.

  I want to be the belle of the Cannon Ball. That ridicu lous, hopeless thought came out of nowhere, but it took hold and I couldn’t push it out of my head.

  “Ellie, I’m going to be honest with you.” Jane reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “I know it’s rough right now. But no white knight is going to come along and rescue you. If you want to change your life—no, if you just want to take your life back, then you’re going to have to be the one to do it. No one else is going to do it for you.”

  There it was. The plain, unvarnished truth. Laid out on my dining room table without fanfare.

  I looked around the room, at the cracks in the plaster and the scuffed hardwood floors badly in need of refin-ishing. My new surroundings couldn’t be more different than what I’d known for the last two decades. But Jane was right. No one—man, woman, or child—was going to come along and pluck me out of my hovel as if I were a princess in a fairy tale. If my life was going to get better, I had to make it that way.

  My throat was thick with tears, but I pushed the words past them. “A Web site? How much does that cost?” My watery smile threatened to slide off my face, but I kept it pasted on by sheer dint of will.

  Jane nodded approvingly. “Depends. Are any of your kids computer addicts?”

  “My son, Connor. But he’s away at college.”

  “That’s the beauty of the Internet,” Jane said. “Your Webmaster can be in New Guinea, for all it matters.”

  “I can ask him.” I leaned over to look at the other items on her list. “And my friend, Karen, her family owns a printing business. She might be able to get me a discount.”

  “Excellent.” Jane started making more notes. “As soon as you’re up and running, I’ll start spreading the word. You could have clients as soon as next week.”

  “Next week?” The thought seemed overwhelming.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “I guess not.” Since I had no idea if Jim’s alimony check would arrive at all, I couldn’t afford to dilly-dally.

  Dilly-dally. Another of my mom’s favorite words. Well, she’d managed somehow all those years. Worked hard and kept me fed and clothed. There was no reason I couldn’t do the same.

  “What should I do first?” I asked Jane, and she was happy to spend the next few hours crafting a plan. We made up a price list, identified local publications where I might want to place ads, and set up an office in my second bedroom. By the time she left, I’d lost my resentment at being the latest project of the Queens of Woodlawn Avenue, and I’d gained a new appreciation for how compassionate other people could be.

  Okay, I’d let Linda talk me into taking my fight for a place on the planning committee of the Cannon Ball right to my old nemesis. And I’d been a willing participant in Jane’s incipient efforts to turn me into a businesswoman. But when Grace showed up on my doorstep the next morning, a garden spade in one hand and a bag of potting soil under her liver-spotted arm, I knew I had to draw the line.

  “Really, Grace, it’s not fair to inflict me on those poor plants.”

  Grace pointed the trowel at me and said, “There’s no such thing as a brown thumb. Besides, every clod of dirt you turn over only raises the value of your house.”

  Well, she certainly knew the one argument that might persuade me to start digging. The financial one.

  “I don’t know…”

  And I didn’t. I mean, how many projects could any semi-sane divorcee undertake at one time? I was going to have more than enough on my plate battling Roz Crowley and trying to launch my own business. I didn’t need to court certain disaster by trying to putter in the garden.

  On the other hand, I didn’t want to hurt Grace’s feelings. She was nice enough to try and help me, and how would she feel if I let Linda and Jane work their mojo on me but ign
ored her offer? I had always been a sucker for making other people feel better, and so I took the spade she offered me and pasted a smile on my face. “Okay. You can try and turn me into a gardener, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Grace chuckled. “By the time I’m done with you, Ellie, Better Homes and Gardens will be calling for your advice.”

  Twenty minutes later, Grace had lost some of her amusement and she’d quit predicting my launch as a horticulturalist of some renown. We were on our knees in the backyard, ready to attack the jungle that had once been beautiful landscaping. We wore matching pink paisley gardening gloves, and the sun beat down on our uncovered heads.

  “No, Ellie, dear. That’s not the weed. That’s the plant.” I think she was gritting her dentures, because her jaw beneath her wrinkled skin was pretty tight.

  “Are you sure? It looks pretty weedy to me.”

  “You can’t always tell by how it looks,” Grace said, stooping down to pull my hands away from their intended victim.

  “Then how do you know?”

  “I suppose because somebody teaches you which is which. Like I’m doing for you. My mother taught me, just like she taught me to play bridge.”

  I could picture Grace and her mother in old-fashioned clothes, working together in the yard or sitting across a card table from one another. Grace’s hair would have been in braids down her back, and her feet would have dangled a few inches off the floor in one of the straight-backed dining chairs. The image tugged at my heartstrings. My mother had been far too tired in the evenings to do anything but soak her aching feet while I heated more water and dispensed Epsom salts into the tub. Our weekends had been filled with shopping for groceries, trips to the Laundromat, and cleaning house. I couldn’t recall any times when we’d planted flowers or played a game together. The closest we’d come to a recreational activity had been sitting side by side in church.

  Grace motioned for me to come closer, so I half-crawled, half-scooted toward her until the five feet between us was reduced to inches.