All the Single Ladies: A Novel

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “You need cheering up. Why don’t we take a ride over to Sullivans Island and try the gelato at BeardCats? Then we can go upstairs to The Obstinate Daughter and get a bowl of pasta? I’ve been wanting to go there.”

  “Eat dessert first?” I said.

  “Why not? Life’s short, right?”

  I started to giggle. He was absolutely irrepressible and it was contagious.

  “You don’t have to tell me. Okay. Wait! Is this a date?”

  His face became very serious and he said, “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Because then I’d have to wash my hair. I haven’t been out on a date in at least five years.”

  “Please. It’s not a date. Don’t go to any trouble. I just want to talk to you about compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

  “Why do men always want to talk about the ADA with me?”

  “Because you’re so well versed in the nuances. Now tell me where you live and I’ll pick you up at six?”

  “Oh, you can’t pick me up! What if you’re a psycho killer? I’m told it’s very dangerous to give someone your address if you don’t really, really know them.”

  “Okay, so if I text you my résumé and you find it acceptable, would you reconsider?”

  “Maybe. No, wait. Yes.”

  “Okay, so then may I please have your cell number?”

  He pulled his iPhone from his pocket and I dutifully recited my number while he entered it. My phone rang. I answered it.

  “Excuse me for a moment,” I said, and stepped away. “Hello?”

  Duh. It was Paul calling.

  “Guess who?” He was laughing so hard. I thought, I am a total nitwit. I started laughing too. “Eventually I will have your home address and I will pick you up at six. Is that okay?”

  “Yes,” I said, and thought, Oh no! I have a date!

  “Okay, then. I’ll see you later. Don’t forget to check your messages. My résumé?”

  “Right.” I felt woozy. And I don’t think it was heat-­induced. It was, God help me, hormonal. “See you later.”

  “Yep, you will.”

  Later on, after I had delivered the prescribed medicines to our patients, I was back at the nurses’ station. Sure enough, Paul texted his résumé to me. What had I done? I started reading. Then I started talking to myself out loud.

  “Undergraduate work at Cornell. Not bad. Graduate work at Yale. Okay, so he’s a genius . . .”

  “What are you reading? Who’s a genius?” Margaret said.

  “Oh! I didn’t see you there! This guy Paul.” I showed her my smartphone. “Glazer? Glicer? I can’t pronounce his last name. He’s a complete brainiac. How do you pronounce this?”

  “I don’t know. Gleicher? Boy, I sure can sneak around in these shoes. You wouldn’t believe what I run into.”

  “Oh, yes I would.”

  “Who’s Paul?”

  I looked up and there stood Judy and Margaret, waiting for an answer.

  “He’s Kathy Harper’s long-­lost flame, though, and he’s supersmart and nice. And he’s actually the architect who’s building the Green House Project houses.”

  “No kidding? You sure have a funny look on your face. What’s going on?” Margaret said.

  Judy said, “Heck, I know that look. She’s been bit by the Love Bug!”

  “And you don’t even know how to pronounce his last name. Come on, Lisa. You’ve got to do better than that,” Margaret said.

  “I’ll find out. We’re going out tonight,” I said, deciding Cornell and Yale were beyond my expectations and I should at least find out who he was. I mean, who was I kidding? It wasn’t like there were throngs of men lined up to take me out to dinner.

  “We’ll be expecting a full report in the morning,” Margaret said.

  When I was leaving for the day I passed the card room. Marilyn Brooks was playing a game with Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Richards. All of them were smiling and chatting. That did my heart an awful lot of good. Whatever awkwardness may have lingered after the duck-­in-­the-­shower incident had apparently dissipated to the point that no one seemed embarrassed. Or maybe Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Richards had decided to forget it ever happened. I’d take a guess that Marilyn Brooks had not heard the story. I decided to say hello.

  “Well, good afternoon!” I said. Mr. Morrison started to get up. “Please don’t get up! I’m just saying hello. How are y’all doing?”

  Marilyn said, “I have to tell you, Lisa. I was saved by a turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce.” They looked at her like she was crazy. “And a very nice nurse.”

  “The turkey here is sprinkled with a little Lowcountry magic,” I said, and smiled.

  “It must be!” Mr. Morrison said. “Mrs. Richards and I have been looking for a good cardplayer for the longest time. And our Lowcountry magic delivered up our Mrs. Brooks!”

  “We might start a poker club,” Mrs. Richards said.

  A nightmare of these rascals playing strip poker ran through my head and I pushed it away. Surely they wouldn’t be able to cajole someone as dignified as Marilyn Brooks into something so risqué. But the persuasive powers of Mr. Morrison were legendary and I decided to keep an eye on them.

  “That sounds like fun!” I said. “See y’all later!”

  I got in my car, texted Paul my address, and drove home. Every so often I’d say “I have a date” to the thin air and laugh out loud. It was so silly really and I knew it, but hey, I had a date. I opened the front door and my dog all but tackled me.

  “Hey, sweet girl! How’s my baby?”

  Lick! Lick! Lick!

  “Oh, now I definitely need a shower, and as long as I’m in there I may as well wash my hair. Did I tell you I have a date tonight?”

  I showered and blew out my hair. The big problem with chemically enhanced blond hair is you get dark roots pretty fast. Dark roots might be trashy but white roots are old. I didn’t have time to do my color and I wasn’t even sure I had things like eyeliner and mascara. I probably did have some makeup somewhere because I had used it for my parents’ party, but was it contaminated? Would it give me sudden-­onset conjunctivitis? That would be attractive.

  What in the world was I going to wear? I checked the website for the restaurant and it looked pretty casual. Most of what I owned was uniforms. I managed to dig around my closet and found a pair of white pants and a pink linen shirt that was reasonably new. I had white sandals but no recent pedicure. So, this might sound really cheesy, but I found my nail polish and just painted over what was already there. Two coats. It didn’t look bad at all and it wasn’t like Paul was going to get out a bottle of nail polish remover and discover that I had, horror of all horrors, painted over an old pedicure. I found the mascara, sanitized the brush with alcohol, and applied it only to the tips of my lashes. I sharpened my eye pencil so it had a fresh tip and used it along my upper lids. I sprayed some cologne on my neck and wrists and gave my lips a swipe of a rosy gloss. Then I looked in the mirror. Well, I decided, I’m still tall and I’m not too fat and my hair’s clean and he’ll be able to see I made some effort in the cosmetic department.

  “Not too bad,” I said, and the doorbell rang.

  Pickle, of course, started going insane. We were unaccustomed to company. I hurried to get her away from the door before she ate her way through the wood trying to protect me. I picked her up in my arms.

  “It’s okay, girl,” I said. “It’s Mommy’s friend.”

  I opened the door.

  “Hi!” I said to Paul, who had showered and put on fresh clothes too. “This is my crazy sweet baby, Pickle.” I put my dog on the floor and she stared at him.

  To his credit, he leaned over slowly and extended the palm of his hand for her to sniff. When she decided he was a benign presence she gave him a slurp.

  “You look so pretty,
Lisa,” he said.

  “Oh! Gosh!” I didn’t know whether to slam the door, run to my room, and hide under the bed, but I sure felt a wave of panic course through my veins. Somehow I managed to say, “Thanks! I’ll just get my bag.”

  He stepped inside and my little Westie just sat by his feet, looking up at him, waiting for some adoration. He leaned over and scratched her behind her ears and Pickle made a funny little guttural noise. At her stage in life, if a human didn’t just almost drool on her, there was something wrong with the human. But that guttural noise was one she saved for states of bliss.

  “Let’s go,” I said to him. “I think she likes you.”

  I closed the door and locked it. I could hear Pickle yipping as we walked to his car as though she was telling us, Hey! Come back! You forgot me!

  “Cute dog,” he said, and opened the passenger-­side door.

  “She’s not a dog,” I said, and slipped into the car as demurely as I could.

  “Oh no? What is she, then?”

  “She’s a teenaged girl,” I said.

  He laughed and closed my door and came around to the driver’s side, getting in.

  “Named Pickle. As I understand it, teenaged girls can be petulant, demanding, sulky, and an all-­around pain in the butt.”

  “Some are worse than others,” I said. “With me? I just give her everything she wants. So she’s a little bit rotten.”

  As he backed out of my driveway, I saw Mayra peeking through her venetian blinds, so I gave her a little wave. The blinds quickly closed. We turned toward Coleman Boulevard.

  “I had a golden for fourteen years. His name was Jake. Best friend I ever had. When he died, I died.”

  “I can’t even imagine life without Pickle. My daughter, on the other hand?”

  “Oh, does she give you a run for your money?”

  “You have no idea.”

  Soon we were sitting on a bench outside of BeardCats, lost in the wonders of Italian gelato, a gift from all the gods to us to remind us of the heavens. And although it was early evening, the gelato was melting quickly. We ate with alarming speed. Well, I did. It was just about the best ice cream I’d ever tasted.

  “I would never have thought you could make gelato with olive oil and sea salt and that it would be this delicious!”

  “I know! Here, taste this. It’s just pistachio but it tastes just like it’s supposed to. This reminds me of the gelato vendors on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.”

  Despite the possibility that I might contract an infectious disease, I leaned in and took a lick. “Wow!” I said. “That’s amazing! Do you mean Florence, South Carolina?”

  “Italy. Florence, Italy.”

  “I’m kidding, Paul.” No, I wasn’t. Geography was never my thing. And who memorizes the names of bridges? Architects! Not nurses. Thank you.

  “Of course you are. Anyway, way back when, during my junior year I spent a semester in Italy, trying to learn about all the great cathedrals and so on. But what I really learned was how to appreciate gelato and pasta and local wines. And this really ancient bridge, the Ponte Vecchio, has all these tiny shops right there on the bridge. You can eat gelato, go next door to buy a pair of Italian leather gloves, go next door and get some earrings or a chain, and then go to the next store and have more gelato.”

  “That must’ve been a fabulous experience,” I said.

  “Well, it was a long time ago, but yeah, I still love Italy and gelato and pasta. And when I go there, I always drink the local wines. Have you ever been to Italy?”

  “No, not yet. I haven’t really traveled too much. Oh no! This is dripping down my arm!” He handed me a napkin and I cleaned up. “Thanks! Colorado a ­couple of times but that’s about it. And I’ve been to the islands a few times.”

  “Well, where would you go if you could go anyplace in the world?” he asked.

  “Hoo! Loaded question! Well, a few places come to mind. Italy, definitely. And as long as I’m already in Europe, I’d try to go to France. And England for sure! But I’d also like to see to some other places, like India.”

  “India? Why?”

  “Yeah, and Thailand. Because they’re exotic to me and I was into yoga for a long time, which fed my curiosity about Hinduism and Buddhism. I mean, didn’t you ever ask yourself how is it that all these really poor ­people in India are so happy? I’d love to see that for myself. And I love Thai food and Indian food.”

  “So do I but is there any really authentic Thai food in town? I mean, I love Basil’s like the rest of the world, but I’d like some un-­Westernized Thai.”

  “Yeah, there’s actually a really good Thai restaurant west of the Ashley. I’ll get the name for you. I’m pretty sure it’s called Taste of Thai.”

  “Hey, I’ll tell you what. If we’re still speaking after tonight, I’ll take you there!”

  I looked at him and his sly grin. Then I stood up and threw the remains of my cone in a trash can. I was practically full from the gelato but I wasn’t ready to go home. Oh, hell no. I liked him and I loved Thai food.

  “That sounds like a deal,” I said.

  We climbed the stairs to the restaurant and stepped inside. It was very slick with baby-­blue bar stools that reminded me of the ones I had in my yoga studio. And it was packed. Regrettably, I was probably not their target customer. But as I looked around while Paul spoke to the hostess, I saw that ­people my age were there, ­couples who would be contemporaries of my parents, families, and young hipsters. That was a great relief. Suddenly I felt at home. Why should the young and hip have all the cool restaurants to themselves? I liked The Obstinate Daughter right away. In fact, it might become my favorite. Wait a minute, I go out to restaurants maybe twice a year. Diners were my specialty. Still, it could be my favorite.

  A young man with a well-­groomed dark beard led us to our table. He didn’t seem old enough to grow one much less be wearing a wedding ring, which he was. I was getting old. He was probably thirty but he looked like a baby to me. That’s what happens as you age. While everything is starting to sag, your judgment goes to hell. Paul and I slid into a booth and sat opposite each other. The young man handed us menus.

  “I’m Jonathan Bentley, one of the managers. Have you dined with us before?” he said.

  “No,” Paul said, “but I’ve wanted to come here and see what y’all have done. Gosh, it didn’t look like this when it was Atlanticville. Not even a little bit! This is just gorgeous. Y’all are a certified green restaurant, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “I’m a LEED architect, which is—­”

  “No kidding? No, I know all about it. My undergraduate degree is in environmental studies. But yeah, over half of what’s here is either reclaimed or sustainable. And most of it’s from within a five-­hundred-­mile radius, except the blue glass backsplash. That’s all recycled and from France. It’s pretty cool, right?”

  “No kidding,” I said, properly impressed.

  Here was a whole new world for me. Sustainable? What was that? LEED? Lead who? Suzanne and Carrie might think Paul was a nerd but didn’t nerds rule the world?

  “It’s wonderful,” Paul said.

  “Well, thanks! I’ll pass that along. Can I get y’all started with a beverage?”

  “Lisa?” Paul said.

  I loved Paul’s manners.

  “I think I’d like a glass of wine, maybe a pinot grigio?” I said.

  “You’ll have to show me some ID, ma’am,” Jonathan said, and grinned.

  “Adorable,” I said, and I knew we were going to have a wonderful time.

  Paul ordered the same and in the blink of an eye our wine was placed before us.

  “Cheers!” he said. “Now tell me why you’ve never been to Italy?”

  “Well, I guess because until recently I was a single parent putting my
daughter through college. It’s not easy you know.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You have kids?”

  “No. I was married once to a certifiable head case. No kids. She’s remarried and lives in Tokyo.”

  “Tokyo! Wow!”

  “She had friends there. She married some textile guy and I never heard from her again.”

  So, there was no ex-­wife or stepchildren to contend with. Very good.

  “Oh. Anyway, I had no one to go with. I don’t think Venice or Florence is somewhere I’d want to go alone. Does that sound silly?”

  “Of course not. In fact, I agree with you. Sometimes business takes me to the most beautiful places and I’m always so sad to be there by myself.”

  “And what exactly is a lead architect?”

  “What? Oh, LEED is an acronym for Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design. It means I’m a certified green eco-­friendly guy.”

  “That’s wonderful! I didn’t even know there was such a thing.” I looked at the menu again. “Do you know what you’re going to have?”

  “I want everything,” he said with a laugh. “This menu is one temptation after another.”

  We ordered Geechie fries with salsa rosa, Mepkin Abbey mushrooms, pappardelle with sausage and tomatoes, and the special fish of the day.

  “Can we share?” I said.

  “Of course!”

  “There’s something else I wanted to ask you.”

  “My life is an open book. Ask away.”

  “You were close with Kathy Gordon, weren’t you?”

  “How much time have you got?”

  “I’ve got the rest of my life,” I said, and thought, Oh, the poor guy had his heart broken.

  “So I met Kathy about six years ago. We met in the lobby of the Palmetto Grande movie theater in Towne Center.”

  “She loved going to the movies,” I said, and had no idea if I was right or not. But who didn’t like the movies?

  “Well, it was pouring rain like you couldn’t believe and I had an umbrella. She didn’t. Still, it was raining too hard to go outside even with one. So we stood there with a lot of other ­people waiting for the weather to improve.”