Meet Georgia, SuSu, Teeny, Diane, and Linda--five women who've been best friends through thirty years since high school. Sit in when they don their red hats and purple outfits to join Atlanta's Ladies Who Lunch for a delicious monthly serving of racy jokes, iced tea and chicken salad, baskets of sweet rolls, the latest Buckhead gossip, and most of all--lively support and caring through the ups and downs of their lives. When Diane discovers her banker husband has a condo (with mistress) that he bought with their retirement funds, the Red Hats swing into action and hang him with his own rope in a story that serves up laughter, friendship, revenge, high school memories, long-lost loves, a suburban dominatrix, and plenty of white wine and junk food. From the 1960s to the present, The Red Hat Club is a funny, unforgettable novel that shows the power women can find when they accept and support each other. They've been friends since the only hat they'd be caught dead in was their official Mousketeer ears, but now that they're women of a certain age, red hats and purple dresses represent their wardrobe of choice. Risking ridicule from the fashion police, lifelong pals Georgia, Diane, Linda, SuSu, and Teeny don their geriatric getup at ritual lunches of sweet tea and salads, tacky jokes and true confessions. There's nothing these feisty friends don't know about each other, nothing they wouldn't do for each other, so when Diane suspects her husband of having an affair, who else can she call on to help catch him red-handed? As they help Diane plot her revenge, each friend revisits and reveals the depth of her loyalty. Although not endorsed by the official "Red Hat Society," Smith's celebration of comradeship is a loving tribute to those lifelong relationships that may defy logic but are destined to outlive many other associations. A joyous, joyful ode to the older woman. Carol Haggas Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved "By turns humorous and poignant, this is a novel with characters so real that even non-Southerners will find them familiar." - Library Journal "Smith's celebration of comradeship is a loving tribute to those lifelong relationships that may defy logic but are destined to outlive many other associations. A joyous, joyful ode to the older woman." - Booklist "Told in first person by one of the friends, this story is a wonderful journey, as older women discover life can continue to be new and challenging after middle age...This book is not only fun to read but, for some, may even be a learning experience." - Romantic Times Book Review "By turns humorous and poignant, this is a novel with characters so real that even non-Southerners will find them familiar." ( Library Journal ) Haywood Smith is the author of Queen Bee of Mimosa Branch . She lives in Buford, Georgia. Swan Coach House. Wednesday, January 9, 2002. 11:00 A.M. After a brief, nonproductive swing through the gift shop and gallery in search of some “thinking of you” trinket to brighten up my son Jack’s bachelor apartment or my daughter Callie’s dorm room, I went downstairs to the sunny main restaurant, cheered by the familiarity of its dark wood floors, chintz tablecloths, and padded walls bright with tastefully garish tulips. As usual, I was the first to arrive, still clinging to the illusion that punctuality was possible with the Red Hats despite more than three decades of evidence to the contrary. “Table for five, please,” I said to the lone waitress, a plump, nondescript woman I didn’t recognize. She didn’t blink at my red fedora, ancient sable car coat, and tailored dark purple pantsuit. The Red Hats were such a fixture here that our eccentricities had become part of the basic orientation for the staff. “Sorry, mah-dahm,” the waitress said in thick Slavic accents, “must wait for all here to be seated.” Clearly, she had no idea she was dealing with a Buckhead institution, one that was allowed to bend the Coach House’s ironclad edict. With the exception of private parties, mere mortals were never seated until everyone in their party had arrived. But owing to our longstanding presence, the Red Hats were the exception that proved the rule—provided we were discreet about it. Clearly, this new waitress hadn’t gotten the message. I looked for her name badge, hoping the personal touch would thaw her out a little. She wasn’t wearing one, but I tried anyway. “My name is Georgia,” I said in my most approachable manner. “What’s yours?” She arched an eyebrow in disdain. “You could not say it. Too hard.” qlSerious attitude. My master’s in Southern Bitch kicked in, smoothing my voice to honeyed ice. “What a lovely accent. Where are you from?” “Romania,” the waitress answered with a defensive shrug. Great. This was going to be a challenge for both of us. “Please get the manager,” I said distinctly. “Tell her it’s the Red Hats.” She scowled again. I pointed to my red fedora. “Tell the manager that