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

to need.”
    A sudden vision of Linda and I walking into Roz’s house the next day flashed in front of me. “It may be too late for that
     already,” I said morosely.
    “That’s why you have a partner.” She wrung out thecloth one last time and draped it over the faucet. “In case you need backup. If you’re the declarer playing the hand, the
     dummy can provide some extra winners, even if you have a few cards that are losers in your hand. Don’t forget that.”
    She looked at me so meaningfully that I knew she wasn’t just talking about bridge.
    “A trump suit gives you special powers,” she added as we walked toward the front door. Grace and Jane were juggling their
     purses as well as the empty dishes of bridge treats, so I opened the door to let them out. “I’ll pick you up at eleven-thirty
     tomorrow,” Linda called as I followed the other two out the door.
    “I’ll be ready,” I answered over my shoulder. The evening had definitely taken the edge off of my anxiety, but I didn’t feel
     nearly as confident as I sounded. Pulling trump at Linda’s card table was one thing. Neutralizing an enemy like the one I
     was going to face the next day—well, that was another thing entirely.
    R oz Crowley (née Smith) gave doctors’ daughters everywhere a bad name. She had been raised with just enough money and social
     status to make her feel important but not enough to make her an automatic player in Nashville society. Her ruthless climb
     to the top of the Belle Meade set had been aided by, in succession, her marriage to an older wealthy financier, her single-minded
     devotion to cultivating all the right friends, and her relentless insistence that her children attend the best schools and
     make friends only with the offspring of VIPs.
    The only reason I knew all these things was because my mother had worked for Roz’s father as a nurse in his pediatric practice.
     During my growing up years, my mother was constantly admonishing me to be either more or less like Roz, depending upon her
     latest achievement or escapade. That alone would have given me significant cause to dislike her, but the fact that I was privy
     to the intimate details of her life gave Roz cause to dislike me.
    So as I headed up Roz’s front walk with Linda by my side, I was filled with deep gratitude for the robin’s egg blue suit.
     Fortunately, I already owned a pair of beige Stuart Weitzman pumps and matching purse as well as some killer pearls Jim had
     given me on our twenty-fifth anniversary, so I was armed for battle. This particular showdown between Roz and me had been
     brewing for several years. We’d both put in our hours on the Cannon Ball’s lesser committees—pre-parties, mailings, seating
     arrangements. Last year, Roz had surprised everyone by managing to get herself named chair-elect, leapfrogging over half a
     dozen other women who were in line for the job. This year would be her crowning glory as she reigned supreme as Chair of the
     Ball. It was as close to getting yourself crowned queen as one was likely to come in Nashville.
    But as socially successful as she was, Roz was not well-liked, whereas I had always enjoyed a full circle of friends.
Had,
of course, being the operative word, because my divorce had sent those so-called friends fleeing like I’d contracted bubonic
     plague.
    Roz’s formal living room held a larger than usual number of attendees for the Cannon Ball Planning Committee Kick-Off Luncheon. A photographer from the
Tennessean
was already making the rounds as the ladies preened and posed, artfully concealing their early-bird martinis behind their
     skirts when the flash went off.
    My goal for the luncheon was to prevent my total ostracism from society. Linda, I knew, had much higher hopes. She was one
     of the folks Roz had shunted aside to claim the chairmanship of the ball. Perhaps that, more than her position as the Queen
     of Clubs, was the reason she had appointed herself my champion in the