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

what I was facing and had never shirked from the challenge.
     And I was my mother’s daughter. At least, I hoped I was.
    “All right. I’ll call him. Although I don’t have the foggiest idea what I’m doing.”
    Jane stood up and I did the same. “That’s okay, Ellie. Neither does he. In fact, he’ll probably need you for a lot more than
     picking up dry cleaning.”
    “Like what?” Suddenly I was suspicious again, because Jane
was
sounding like a madam now.
    “Nothing like that.” She laughed. “Although, if you’re given an opportunity to socialize with the man, don’t turn it down
     on principle. He’s—how do they say it?—
magnifique.
”
    “Don’t you make it a policy not to date clients?” I didn’t know why I was even asking, since I had no interest in dating anyone.
     Ever. Again.
    Jane’s brow creased. “Well, I guess that depends.”
    “On what?”
    “On what you need more—the date or the client.”
    Since I couldn’t imagine ever opening myself up to a repeat of the pain Jim had inflicted on me, that shouldn’t be a problem.
    “Call him,” Jane said again as she let herself out the front door. She didn’t wait for me to answer, yanking the warped wood
     closed behind her as best she could.
    I took a deep breath, and fearing that if I procrastinated I’d never find the courage, I walked to the phone. Then I picked
     up the receiver, punched in the number on Monsieur Paradis’s business card, and flung myself farther into the abyss of my
     brand new life.
    O f course he was out of the office. Isn’t that always how it goes? His assistant put me through to his voice mail while I leaned
     against the kitchen counter and watched through my curtainless window as three squirrels raced around my backyard.
    “Monsieur Paradis,” I said after the beep, hoping my four years of high school French had not been in vain and that my inflection
     was at least passable. “This is Eleanor Hall. Jane Mansfield gave me your card and said you might be in need of my services.”
     Ouch. Did that sound suggestive? I hadn’t meant it to. “I’d be happy to discuss your needs at your convenience.” Oh, shoot.That was even worse. I left my phone number and ended with, “and welcome to Nashville.” I tacked on that last bit as an afterthought,
     but at least it sounded hospitable. With an exasperated sigh, I shoved away from the counter. If nothing else, waiting for
     Henri Paradis to return my call would take my mind off of Jim’s upcoming wedding as well as my demotion to Transportation
     Chair for the Cannon Ball. To be honest, nothing was going to take my mind off those things completely, but the prospect of
     landing my first client might at least mitigate the stench of failure that had begun to cling to me a Roz’s luncheon yesterday.
    M y mom had always told me that any job worth doing was worth doing well. This sentiment had seen her through years of underappreciated
     service to Roz’s father, and it had helped me to graduate
magna cum laude
from Vanderbilt. But when I thought about the prospect of chairing the transportation committee for the Cannon Ball, I couldn’t
     work up much enthusiasm for my old aphorism. Especially not as, one by one, the women Roz had named to my committee called
     to tell me they wouldn’t be able to help this year after all.
    “I’m having a root canal,” one said. I decided not to point out that a root canal generally didn’t put one on the disabled
     list for six months. We both knew the score. The Cannon Ball was the most prestigious event of the Nashville social season,
     and, as in real estate, the ball hierarchy was all about location, location, location. The transportation committee was to
     the Cannon Ball as theseptic tank was to a house up for sale—important, but no one wanted to actually be responsible for it.
    Another woman who resigned from the committee within forty-eight hours of the luncheon said she was leaving town. I might
     have