Free The Red Hat Society's Queens of Woodlawn Avenue by Regina Hale Sutherland

was perched on my pathetic couch drinking a glass of iced tea, and I sat to her right
     in a cheap wooden rocking chair Jim and I had picked up at a garage sale. I smiled ather, doing my best to cover my turbulent emotions, and nudged the wedding album a little farther under the coffee table with
     my toe.
    “First client?” Jane’s enthusiasm only made my despair deeper. “But I haven’t done any of the other stuff yet. Web site. Business
     cards. I don’t even have a name for my business.” I twisted the glass of iced tea in my hands, wishing the rest of me could
     be as numb as my fingers.
    Jane set her iced tea down on the coffee table, careful to use one of the coasters even though another ring or two on that
     table would hardly have attracted notice. “All you need to know right now is how much you’re going to charge Henri.” She said
     the name in a lilting French accent, hardly pronouncing the “h” at all.
    “Henri?” I echoed. The rocking chair was as uncomfortable as it had been cheap. We’d planned to put it on the porch of the
     lake home we dreamed of buying some day.
    “Henri Paradis. He’s in Nashville for the next six months on business. I helped him lease a condo on West End today. Very
     exclusive. And very expensive.” Jane’s eyes twinkled as brightly as her teeth shone. “He mentioned how overwhelmed he felt,
     what with working sixty hours a week and no time to acquaint himself with the city. He told me what he really needed was a
     wife, and
voilà!”
She reached into her pocket and retrieved a small white business card. “Your first client, Ellie. Isn’t it exciting?’
    Sure, except for the fact that I had no idea what my duties would be, how much I’d charge for them, orwhether Henri Paradis thought Jane was a madam taking care of more than just his housing needs.
    “It’s too soon.” Setting goals was one thing, but coming up with the courage to try and obtain them was another matter entirely.
     And after the smackdown at Roz’s luncheon today, I wasn’t feeling particularly lionhearted.
    Jane, per usual, waved away my objection with her well-manicured hand. “You have to start sometime. Why not now?”
    I could think of a million reasons why not now—I had more moping to do, more refined carbs to eat, more pity to indulge in—but
     none of them would hold any water with Jane. She laid the business card on my scuffed coffee table and then nudged it toward
     me with one poppy red fingernail.
    “You can name your price, the man’s so desperate.”
    “I don’t want to practice extortion. I just want to earn a living.” I began to rock, despite the discomfort of the bare wood
     against my backside.
    “So we’ll see what he needs, estimate how long it will take you, and multiply that by an hourly rate.”
    “Today?”
    “When were you planning to start?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe next week?”
As long as I can afford to be in denial.
And then I thought again about Jim’s phone call and the likelihood that I might never see his alimony check at all. Nothing
     like the prospect of a little poverty to provide an antidote to fear and trembling.
    “It won’t be any easier next week.” Jane pushed the card even closer. “Why don’t you give Henri a call right now?”
    With tentative fingers, I picked up the card from the coffee table.
    M. Henri Paradis
    Chief Financial Officer
    The Triumph Group
    The address was in one of Nashville’s largest downtown office buildings. I’d never heard of the Triumph Group, but if the
     man was working with Jane, who handled real estate matters for a healthy slice of the city’s wealthiest elite, then he must
     be a solid citizen. Or at least as much of one as a Frenchman could be. I remembered my mother, who had done a semester as
     an exchange student in Paris, telling me as a child never to trust a Frenchman. The thought of my mother, though, was the
     one thing that could get me to summon my courage. She’d faced just