All the Single Ladies: A Novel

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Ah! The old damsel-­in-­distress situation.”

  “Exactly. So we were talking and I said something like ‘Where are you parked?’ And she told me she was parked in the same vicinity I was. Behind Belk’s. Anyway, we really hit it off and the rain continued. It was a huge scary thunder boomer.”

  “We have some very memorable storms around here.”

  “No lie. Well, eventually the rain and the pyrotechnics calmed down. We wound up running across the street to this little pub and having dinner and talking for hours. She was one of the nicest women I have ever known. I miss her a lot.”

  “Did you know she was so ill?”

  “I didn’t have a clue. I would’ve come to see her. I felt terrible when I read the obituary. I just happened to see it. No family. Nothing. At one point, I even wanted to marry her. I even converted to Catholicism for her. Good thing I don’t have any family around here. My parents would sit shiva. Anyway, these days I guess I’m more agnostic than anything.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “New York. Anyway, out of nowhere, she broke up with me.”

  “Good grief!” I wasn’t sure if I’d change my religion for anyone. “Why did y’all break up? Did you fight?”

  “No. Never. We got along great. She just said she didn’t want to commit.”

  “Maybe she had an inkling about her cancer.”

  “She never said a word if she did. Somehow, as wonderful as she was, I always felt there was something she wasn’t telling me.”

  The server, an adorable girl with straight brown hair, put the Geechie fries in front of us. They were really fried grits rolled in eggs and seasoned flour and served with salsa. To be honest, I liked fried anything. Who didn’t? I know, I know. I’m a nurse who eats fried food. But listen, I ate enough tofu for half the planet when I was Yoga Girl.

  “Maybe she did have a secret that she never told anyone. Who knows?”

  “Anyway, I really loved her.”

  “I thought the world of her too. She had such grace,” I said.

  “Yes. She did,” Paul said, and looked across the room, remembering her. “Hey! Would you like another glass of wine?”

  I had drunk my whole glass while I listened to him talk. His glass was still half full.

  “Sure! Thanks!”

  He caught our server’s eye and ordered more.

  “Now, tell me some more about you.”

  “Oh, gosh! Next to your life? Mine’s going to put you to sleep!”

  Forty minutes later I had delivered a sketch of my life to him that included my parents’ story, my brother and his long-­suffering wife, my ex-­husband and his bunker business, my yoga studio fiasco, and finally, my daughter’s venture into the world of legalized marijuana. All the while I was describing my adventures and those of my family we were wolfing down some of the most delicious food I’d ever eaten. And I was having a ball watching his eyes grow, especially when I got to the part of the story about Marianne.

  “Your story is not putting me to sleep,” he said.

  “Yeah, I don’t live in a cookie-­cutter world.”

  “So, forgive me. We have to go back for a minute. I must have misunderstood you. Your ex-­husband thinks it’s perfectly fine for his daughter to squire a bunch of stoners around Aspen?”

  “Yes. He says somebody’s going to make money with this and it might as well be Marianne. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

  “And Marianne’s justification is?”

  “That her business keeps stoned tourists off the road. She says they don’t know where they’re going because they don’t know the area and they get too high because the pot is superpowerful and it’s going to be a real problem for everyone’s safety.”

  “Well, she’s probably right about that. But I know how you feel. If she was mine I’d want to lock her in her room. Is she smoking it too?”

  “No. Well, she says no. And unfortunately there are laws about holding adults against their will. It’s called kidnapping. But I know what you mean. Anyway, medical marijuana? I get it. ­People going to Colorado to get toasted? I just can’t. I don’t know. I think there’s not enough medical research that gives guidelines on how to use pot safely and wisely.”

  “I think it’s stupid to smoke anything unless you’re terminal or have some other circumstance that actually warrants the risk,” Paul said.

  “Thank you!” I said. “Thank you! So, Paul? Can I ask you something that might seem like an odd question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you ever visit Kathy when she lived in a guesthouse on Wentworth Street?”

  “Yep, all the time.”

  “Did she ever tell you where her antiques came from?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because . . . well, there’s a strong suspicion that her landlady stole a big chunk of her estate.”

  “Really? Good grief. That’s terrible. Let’s go to her house and get Kathy’s stuff.”

  “It’s not that simple. Did you ever visit her when she lived anywhere else?”

  “No. But I still say let’s go give this woman a little hell and tell her we’ll call the police.”

  “Oh my goodness. Where have you been all my life?” I said, and laughed.

  “Working on being green. It’s not easy, you know.” He grinned and his dimple appeared.

  “Being green?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  I was falling in like (maybe) with Kermit. Great.

  Chapter 10

  On the Sofa

  My last thought before I went to sleep last night was that I was excited to tell Carrie and Suzanne about my evening with Paul. It felt so nice to have met someone, a man, who was sane, age-­appropriate, and talented. And appealing. But when I woke up in the morning I knew there would be no beach walk that day. Rolling nickel-­colored clouds covered the skies, hanging low and dark. It was raining like crazy, hard and fast blinding rain. But the wheels of the Lowcountry still had to turn, and so we were all going to get wet. Running shoes were going to squeak, hair was going to go haywire, and T-­shirts were going to cling. That’s just how it was.

  Driving in this kind of weather gave me anxiety. It was gloomy and the roads would be slick. Drivers unaccustomed to flash flooding would hydroplane, flipping over into ditches when they slammed on their brakes. It happened all the time.

  “Ugh,” I said to Pickle as I opened the back door for her to go out.

  She looked up at me as if to say, Really? You want to send me outside into a hurricane for my morning constitutional? She turned around, trotted back into the kitchen, and hopped into her bed underneath the table. She was having no part of it.

  “I don’t blame you,” I said. “We can try again later.”

  I was reluctant to fill her water bowl or to feed her, for obvious reasons. I knew her well enough to know she couldn’t hold it forever. At some point, she’d go out.

  My shift was from ten to four that day. Maybe the storm front would move through quickly, as they often did in the summer months. I flipped on the television to catch the news. The weather report was not pretty. It was going to pour off and on all day. As I watched the ebullient child meteorologist telling us what to expect for the balance of the day and week, I wondered when it became appropriate to show cleavage at seven thirty in the morning. When I was a young woman, showing cleavage was trashy unless you were Sophia Loren.

  I decided to do a load of laundry. It was one of the less pleasant household tasks on my weekly list but it had to be done. As I was dropping lingerie into the machine it occurred to me that if Paul called it might be a sign that I should invest in some underwear that actually matched. At some point, I’d consider it. I had no budget for that kind of indulgence these days. Maybe I would start clipping Victoria’s Secret or B
elk coupons or watching the newspapers for a sale. The very thought of having sex made me shudder and feel really self-­conscious. It wasn’t like I was exactly a hot babe anymore. In the next breath I told myself to keep my bloomers on and get over myself. I’d had one dinner with him. Okay, it was the best dinner and the most fun I’d had in so long I couldn’t remember, but it was still only one dinner. But hadn’t he said it was a blast too? Yes. But one mutually felt blast did not translate into impending nakedness.

  “Pickle? Mommy’s losing her mind. Want to try again?”

  I opened the back door and she flew out, squatted, and very quickly zipped back in. She ran right to me and the towel I held because she knew the drill.

  “Good girl!” I said, and ruffled her furry round little body until it seemed like enough and then I fed her.

  She was on that bowl of food so fast I wondered how she didn’t make herself sick. But she never did.

  It was getting close to nine by the time I put my clothes in the dryer and an armful of towels in the washer for a second load. My delicates were really pathetic. Maybe I’d actually do a little preemptive shopping even if Paul didn’t call. Heaven forbid I got in an accident with my current inventory of unmentionables. At a quarter of ten I threw the towels in the dryer and left the house, throwing caution to the wind. Am I not the wildest thing you’ve ever heard of, to leave the house with the dryer running?

  It was still raining cats and dogs when I reached Palmetto House. As soon as I got to the nurses’ station, there stood the jury.

  Margaret said, “So are we going to have to wait all day for you to tell us how last night went?”

  Judy said, “Must’ve gone pretty well because she’s blushing.”

  “All right, you two,” I said. “It was really, really fun.”

  “Where’d you go?” Judy said.

  I gave them the pertinent facts but I was smiling so much I knew I seemed like a schoolgirl, smitten for the first time. I didn’t really care.

  “He sounds like a really nice guy,” Margaret said.

  “Yeah,” Judy said. “In my day, we had to go bar hopping hoping against hope to find a decent guy who was halfway sober. Or you had to wait for someone to fix you up. And you met this one at a funeral!”

  “It’s called fate,” Margaret said. “So? Did he put the moves on you?”

  “Margaret Seabrook! What a thing to say!” I said. Is that how it was described these days?

  “Well, did he?” Judy said.

  “Sadly, no. Maybe next time,” I said, and giggled. “If there is one.”

  “Hey, Judy? I’ll bet you five bucks he calls,” Margaret said.

  “You’re on,” she said.

  “I’ll let you know. Now, I’ve got to administer all these medications to our patients. Oh, by the way, I could use some extra hours this month.”

  “What’s going on?” Margaret asked.

  “I need a new place to live, so I’m going to need security-­deposit money and all that,” I answered. “And if you hear of a rental nearby I’d love to know.”

  “Let’s see what we can do,” Margaret said. “If you get desperate let me know. I’ve got a sofa bed in my den.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and hoped I’d not have to call her. I wasn’t a fan of sofa beds.

  Later, just as I was going to lunch, my cell phone vibrated. I looked at the caller ID hoping it would be Paul. It was Suzanne.

  “Hi!” I said. “Good day for the ducks, right?”

  “Yeah, the ducks are swimming all over the streets. Listen, Miss Trudie’s had another fall. This time she grabbed a curtain on the way down to the floor and somehow she twisted her shoulder.”

  Falling down was very bad but especially at her age. You break a hip and it’s the beginning of the end. Although, she was ninety-­nine. Not to be insensitive, but no one lasted forever. She was so with it mentally, it made it hard to believe she was that old.

  “Oh no! Is she in any pain?”

  “She says not, but you know what a stoic she is. I can see her wince when she reaches out, like to open a door or something.”

  “She probably has a wrenched muscle. Make her an ice pack. Just like I told you the last time she fell. Pray it doesn’t go into spasms. Spasms are miserable. I’d hate to think of her in that kind of terrible pain.”

  “Me too. Okay.”

  “If her pain worsens maybe someone ought to take a look at her. I can get a recommendation for an orthopedist if you’d like.”

  “Thanks. I’ll keep an eye on her and I’ll let you know.”

  “It’s probably time to make some changes around the house. I mean, I don’t want to overstep the boundaries.”

  “Like what? A ramp out the front door to the street? She says the day there’s a ramp in this house she’ll check herself into a nursing home!”

  “No, no, I don’t think she needs ramps, but there are lots of little things you can do to make the house safer for her.”

  “Like what? Dilute her gin? I’ve already done that.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh at that.

  “Oh my goodness! You are too much! Listen, why don’t I swing by after work? I’m out of here at four.”

  “That would be great. Obviously, we could use some direction here.”

  By four o’clock that afternoon, the rain had subsided to intermittent drizzles and the sun was struggling to push through the remaining clouds. First, I stopped at home to change clothes and to walk my dog. The door was unlocked. That wasn’t right. I always checked the door to be certain the house was secure. I opened the door slowly. From where I stood I could see that there were suitcases across the entrance to the kitchen where Pickle was. When she saw me, she started barking her head off and leaping into the air behind the luggage. Confused, I stepped into the living room and turned on the overhead light. There was a woman sleeping on the sofa. I nearly fainted from fright.

  “Turn the light off!” she screamed.

  “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” I screamed back, leaving the door open in case I had to grab my dog and run. “I’m calling the police!”

  She got up from the sofa and stared at me. She had a swollen lip that looked like someone had punched her. Her black hair was filthy dirty and she looked like she hadn’t slept in a week.

  “No! You listen to me. This is my house! I’m Debbie Smith, Roy and Mary Anne’s daughter? I just drove here the whole way from Akron, Ohio. I’m exhausted!”

  “I thought you weren’t coming until August first?” I said.

  What did this mean? Did I have to move this afternoon?

  “Yeah, well, I had to get away from my ex-­husband. He’s fucking crazy.”

  “Oh!” I didn’t really need an explanation.

  “So I’m here early. I’m sorry, but you’ve got to pack your stuff and get out of here today. I’m too old for a roommate.”

  “But I have an agreement with your parents!”

  “Not anymore you don’t. And take your dog too. It smells.”

  I gasped. My dog did not smell like anything other than a clean dog. Who did this hateful person think she was talking to?

  “Oh, great,” I said, and thought, What am I going to do? “Okay, look. Give me a ­couple of hours. I don’t have much here. I have to go get boxes. I am supposed to be somewhere right now to see about my friend’s very elderly grandmother who had a fall this morning.”

  “So go see the old lady and go get boxes, and when you come back you can pack and get out. I’m sorry but I’ve been going through some . . .”

  She sank to the couch, put her head in her hands, and began to cry. Suddenly I felt sorry for her. My phone vibrated. I took it out of my pocket and checked the caller ID. It was Paul. Boy, if there was ever an inconvenient time for someone to call, this was it. Against my bette
r judgment, I took the call.

  “Hey, Paul!”

  “Hey, Lisa! I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful time I had with you last night.”

  “Best first date ever!” I said. “But listen, I’m sort of in the middle of something. Can I ring you back a little later?”

  Debbie Smith with the skank hair and fat lip began to bawl her eyes out. I was positive Paul could hear her.

  “Yeah, sure. Is everything okay?”

  No, I’m homeless, I wanted to say. But I didn’t.

  “Just a little snag in my rental agreement but I’ll get it sorted out. Call you later, okay?”

  “Okay,” he said. His voice sounded uncertain and slightly alarmed. “You sure you’re okay?”

  Debbie Smith continued to wail. Loudly.

  “Yep. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, then . . .”

  “Bye bye!” I said, and touched the end call key. “Good grief.” I called Suzanne. “I’m on my way to your house now.”

  Debbie continued to blubber.

  “No problem. I just got home from work. Is everything okay?” she said.

  “Oh, sure,” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

  I ended the call and thought, Oh, brother. No, everything’s not okay. What am I going to do? I’ve got almost no money and nowhere to go. I hooked Pickle’s leash to her collar and started back toward the front door. Debbie was blowing her nose with all the majesty of a foghorn. I stood there and stared at her, waiting for her to stop. Maybe I’d call Margaret and ask for that sofa bed after all.

  “What are you staring at?” Debbie said, wiping her runny black Tammy Faye Bakker mascara away with the back of her fingers.

  “I’ll be back in a ­couple of hours,” I said.

  “I knew that.”

  I wanted to say, You’ve got some nerve to march in here like this telling me to get out. Thanks for nothing. But I didn’t because she was so wretched. Maybe I was temporarily homeless but I had a lot more going for me than she did. She was the poster child for that old saying about there’s always someone worse off than you are. Well, it’s true. Besides, it’s just not nice to kick someone when they’re so down. But Lord in heaven with all His saints, she didn’t have an ounce of grace to her name.