All the Single Ladies: A Novel

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  Miss Trudie giving bedroom advice to Carrie was enough to make the room go dead quiet.

  “Sure! What?”

  Then Miss Trudie started to laugh and we joined her because the idea that Miss Trudie knew more about the bedroom than Carrie was just so ridiculous.

  “Well, I was just going to say to get in there and have the time of your life, but I suspect you know that.”

  “Well, we all know this is my fourth wedding, Miss Trudie, so I’m not unfamiliar with what goes on behind closed doors.”

  “Yes. I imagine so. But what I really mean is life’s short; so have fun. As much as you can.”

  “I will, Miss Trudie. I promise I will.”

  She hugged Miss Trudie, and watching them made me feel as though we were all suspended in time. Carrie’s wedding would change everything. The countdown had begun. After today we would never be the same. Our sorority was losing a member. I tied the collar of flowers around Pickle’s neck and I promise you my dog preened.

  “I have a flower dog!” Carrie exclaimed.

  “So cute!” Miss Trudie said to Pickle, setting Pickle’s tail in perpetual motion.

  Over the next half an hour, Paul arrived with his Bible. Next Mike and Harry appeared in the kitchen. Paul and Harry were wearing the classic Charleston linen shirt from Ben Silver in pale blue and Mike had on the same shirt in lavender. Everyone had a mimosa and at least half of a donut. When Suzanne slipped the lei over Mike’s head, it became real. I took a few pictures and saved them.

  “Let’s do this thing!” Mike took Carrie’s arm.

  Down the steps and across the dunes we went. I carried the chairs and set one up for Miss Trudie and the other for myself. Carrie and Mike arranged themselves facing Paul. Suzanne stood to Carrie’s left and Harry stood on Mike’s right. Everyone was smiling wide as Paul conducted the ceremony. Pickle, whose experience on the beach was that it was a place to run and play, wanted to run and play.

  She jerked her leash and I gave her the stern face and said, “Shush!”

  She settled down. I took tons of pictures of Carrie and Mike from every angle as they said their “I do’s.”

  “You may kiss your bride!” Paul said.

  It was all over in ten minutes. After hugs and handshakes, we went back to the house. We poured the rest of the champagne and toasted the newlyweds.

  “Congratulations!” we all called out.

  “Thanks!” they said.

  “Hey, Carrie?” Suzanne said. “Are you taking Mike’s last name?”

  “Of course! I always do!” she said, and there was a burst of laughter. “Well, if you can’t laugh at yourself, you may as well hang it up.”

  Brunch at Langdon’s was lovely. There was no strict brunch menu but the manager and I had chosen some very nice dishes from the dinner menu. They served seared foie gras over tempura-­fried shiitake mushrooms to begin. It was an odd combination that turned out to be absolutely incredible. That was followed by a salad of arugula, goat cheese, and pears in a bacon shallot vinaigrette. And for the main course there was a choice of orange-­soy grilled salmon or rack of lamb. And of course the pastry chef baked a small wedding cake and decorated it with a tiny bride and groom on the top. Somehow we consumed five bottles of champagne.

  Paul played the most romantic music and Mike danced with Carrie over and over. Of course, Suzanne danced with Harry, who to my complete surprise was a great dancer. Suzanne was giggling and making faces as he twirled her around and dipped her too.

  “The doctor can really cut a rug,” Miss Trudie said, and we giggled together.

  Finally, Miss Trudie got up and said to Paul, “Go sit with Lisa. It’s my turn to play.”

  So Paul got up and gave Miss Trudie his seat. And Miss Trudie removed her hat, and took her place on the bench, surveying the keys, her old friends.

  She said, “Now listen to me, y’all, the last time I touched a keyboard was twenty-­five years ago in the lobby of the Francis Marion Hotel, so I might be a little rusty. Bear with me.”

  She played some scales to get the feel of the piano and then she launched right in with “Autumn in New York,” “Night and Day,” “More,” “You’re the Top,” “So in Love,” and then she brought it on home with a saucy rendition of “Let’s Do It.” She missed a few notes here and there, but overall we were amazed by her. We snapped pictures, jumped to our feet when she stopped, and applauded her like mad. Even the maître d’ stopped to listen and clapped loudly, stunned by her.

  Before she stopped, we all waltzed to “So in Love” and Paul whispered in my ear, “I love you, Lisa.”

  “Yes,” I said, “and I’m so very happy that you do. I love you too. But you know that.”

  “Yes, but it’s still great to hear the words.”

  Words matter, I thought. They really do. It was so funny. Paul had this effect on me. He made me feel stronger. And somehow I felt like I was a better person around him.

  After Carrie and Mike cut their cake and we all had a slice, I went to the ladies’ room with Suzanne. We were reapplying our lipstick and saying what a perfect little wedding it had been. My cell phone rang. To my great surprise, it was Marianne.

  “Hi! Sweetheart! How are you?”

  “I’m actually in Charleston? I can’t believe this, but I never asked you for your address! How stupid is that? I wanted to come and surprise you but I forgot to ask you where you live!”

  “Oh! This is wonderful!” I said, and wondered what was going on.

  “Yeah, and guess what else?”

  “I can’t begin to guess. What?”

  “Grandma and Grandpa are here too! They’re staying at Shipwatch in Wild Dunes. It’s supposed to be a surprise but we’re here for your birthday! We’re gonna meet for dinner at the Water’s Edge on Shem Creek at five.”

  “But my birthday is in October,” I said, clearly confused.

  “I know, but we couldn’t come then, so we’re here now.”

  “Well, wonderful! Do you think we could move dinner to seven? I’m actually at a wedding and we’ve just eaten ourselves into a complete stupor.”

  “Mom! We’re starving now! Just meet us at five, okay? And, that’s when Grandma and Grandpa wanted to eat.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Well, I can’t wait to see you!”

  We hung up and I thought, This is very fishy.

  “What was that all about?” Suzanne said.

  “Well, my daughter is here and so are my parents,” I said. “It’s all a little bit confusing to me. Why didn’t they tell me they were coming? She said they’re all here to celebrate my birthday, but my birthday’s in October.”

  “We’d better get you a double espresso,” Suzanne said.

  “Maybe two!”

  We went back to the table, where everything was winding up. Mike had already paid the check. The manager took some more pictures of us and he even made a toast to Carrie and Mike.

  “To happiness and good health and a wonderful life together!”

  “Cheers!” we all said.

  “Paul?” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “How’d you like to meet my parents and my daughter at five o’clock?”

  “Holy cow! Sure, of course! I’d love to meet them. But this is obviously a surprise?”

  “Yes. Totally.”

  “Hmm. And you think there’s some mischief afoot?”

  “Correct,” I said.

  “You know what? Life with you in it is anything but dull.”

  After brunch we all went back to Miss Trudie’s house except for Carrie and Mike. He had reserved a room for them at Charleston Place Hotel as the last celebration of the day.

  “It’s just a junior suite. I want to sleep late and have a lazy Sunday,” he said, and we all agreed that it was perfectly understandable after the whirlw
ind week they’d had.

  “You were a really beautiful bride,” I said to Carrie as we were leaving. “I don’t think this wedding could’ve been any nicer if we’d had a whole year to plan it.”

  “Thanks, Lisa. I think so too. Now, what’s this I heard about your daughter being here?”

  “I know. Thanks for the warning, right?”

  “Well, if it was any other night than this, I’d be right there with you,” she said.

  “It’s your wedding night. I understand.” We giggled and then we hugged. Then she pressed her bouquet into my hands.

  “What?” I said.

  “I want you to have them,” she said. “They might bring you some luck!”

  “They’re so pretty,” I said. “Thanks.”

  I was thinking about putting the flowers in a vase on the dining room table at Miss Trudie’s while I was on the way to the car. Suzanne and Harry were walking ahead of Paul and me with Miss Trudie leaning heavily on Harry’s arm. I watched them. I was struck by the thought that Miss Trudie’s gait was less deliberate than usual. Then I thought, Oh, come on, it’s hot and this has been a lot of hullabaloo for her to endure in one day. She’s tired. In fact, we all were.

  It was after three then and Paul and I decided it was pointless for him to go back downtown and then come all the way back to pick me up before five.

  “There’s one tiny problem, Peaches,” he said, and made a face.

  “What’s that, Precious?” I said, and made a face back at him.

  We laughed and he said, “My shirt is all wrinkled. I can’t meet your folks looking like this.”

  It was true. As beautiful as the linen was, the shirt that was picture-­perfect at eleven that morning now looked like he’d slept in it. My father and mother would surely have some sassy remark to say. I didn’t want to hear it.

  “Oh, dear Lord! I’m about to iron a man’s shirt!” I said.

  “You don’t have to! I’m perfectly capable of doing it myself. Just give me an iron.”

  “No way,” I said.

  I went to my room, came back to the kitchen, and gave him a big T-­shirt that I slept in sometimes.

  “Just give me your shirt and nobody gets hurt,” I said.

  Around twenty minutes to five, reironed and freshened up, we were leaving for the restaurant to meet Marianne and my folks. We stopped on the porch, where Suzanne and Harry were chatting away.

  “Paul! We were just saying what a great job you did—­between the ser­vice and the piano—­wow! You are something else!” Suzanne said.

  “I think so too!” I said.

  “Oh, come on, now . . .” Paul said.

  “Where’s Miss Trudie?” I said.

  “She’s upstairs in her spa bed snoring like a little baby bear. I had to help her take her shoes off!” Suzanne said. “Too much action.”

  “Listen, this was a big day for her,” I said. “Big day for all of us. I won’t be too late tonight.”

  “You kids have fun!” Harry said.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  We were pretty subdued on the way to the restaurant. For my part, I was trying to garner what energy I had left so that I could have a civilized conversation with my family. And I could see that Paul was whipped.

  “If I’d known I was meeting your parents this evening I probably wouldn’t have had that glass of champagne.”

  He wasn’t much of a drinker and neither was I.

  “You and me both,” I said. “It’s fun in the moment and then later all you want to do is put your head on the table and sleep for a little bit, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, no alcohol for me tonight.”

  “Me either,” he said.

  We pulled into the parking lot and found a spot right away. It was still early for ­people to be at the restaurant in the droves that would surely arrive over the next hour and a half. Inside the restaurant I spotted my parents on the enclosed porch by the windows that overlooked some docked shrimp boats. The Water’s Edge was one of the most picturesque dining spots in the entire Lowcountry and directly across the creek from The Tavern & Table, the fabled locale of Paul’s first kiss. The hostess led us to their table.

  My father stood to shake Paul’s hand.

  “I’m Alan St. Clair,” he said.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, sir.” Paul gave my father’s hand the classic macho solid one-­two shake. Then he turned to my mother, took her hand in his, then covered hers with his other hand and said, “Now I know where Lisa gets her great beauty.”

  Well, that was it. My mother began to gush and I thought I would die of mortification listening to her go on and on.

  “Oh my goodness! You sit right next to me! Aren’t you a handsome devil? Yes, you are! Sit, sit! I want to hear every single solitary thing about you. Your childhood, your family, where you went to school—­”

  “Mom!” I said, and looked at Dad for help.

  “Carol?” Dad said, signaling the waiter.

  “Oh, sorry,” Mom said to Paul. But then she did the strangest thing. She reached over and pinched him. “I just want to see if you’re real.” Then she snickered and the ice was broken.

  “Oh, Mom! You’re incorrigible!” I laughed.

  “No, you’re not!” Paul said to her. “You’re wonderful.”

  It was then I realized we were seated at a table for six. They didn’t know I was bringing Paul, which meant Marianne was bringing someone. Moments later I felt someone standing right next to me and my father stood. I looked up into my daughter’s face.

  “Mom? I want you to meet my husband, Bobby Floyd Jones!”

  “What?” I bounced to my feet to hug my daughter and tried to process what she had just said to me. “You’re . . . married?”

  I took a good look at Bobby Floyd Jones and felt my blood pressure rise. He was wearing sunglasses indoors, a baseball hat on backward, a T-­shirt printed with a picture of a cannabis leaf under a plaid cotton shirt, shirttail out, sleeves rolled up, and he was chewing gum. He was at least thirty. Maybe thirty-­five. Did I mention the ponytail and the tattoos?

  “Mom!” he said, and held his arms out to me.

  “Merciful Mother of God,” I said, and let him give me a very watered-­down hug, then I fell back down into my chair.

  “Your mom is like . . . hot! I mean, awesome,” he said to Marianne, who for some idiotic reason was grinning from ear to ear. And my daughter had a wedding band of hammered silver that might have cost him five dollars at a flea market.

  I looked at my mother. For once in her life she was speechless. I looked at my dad. I knew that expression. He was lockjawed and his brain was going a thousand miles an hour, trying to stop the nightmare that was unfolding right in front of his eyes.

  Paul—­and this is why I love this man—­stood up and shook Bobby Floyd Jones’s hand and then Marianne’s.

  “I’m Paul Gleicher,” he said to them. “Y’all have a seat.”

  “So this is really not about my birthday, is it?” I said.

  “What? Your birthday isn’t until October,” my mother said.

  “I know! I know!” Marianne said. “But I just wanted you to know I got married before you saw it on Facebook!”

  Good idea, I thought, thank you for your consideration.

  “When did you get . . .” I couldn’t even bring myself to say the word.

  “Last weekend,” Bobby Floyd Jones said. “Her old man flew us to Vegas on his private jet with his biker babe, who’s a trip and a half. Elvis did the ceremony. Not the real Elvis. Yeah. Mark Barnebey is one righ­teous dude. Totally.”

  My eyebrows were in the stratosphere and I could scarcely breathe.

  “Mom? Did you know that Dad has his own reality show on Bravo now? It’s called Going Out in Style. Have you
seen Doomsday Preppers? It’s like that except he renovates bunkers. It’s like The Property Brothers sort of combined with the Apocalypse. He’s making so much money he doesn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Clearly,” my mother said.

  “But, so are you, babe!” Bobby Floyd Jones said. “You must be so proud of your daughter. She’s a real ganja-­preneur! Look what she bought me for a wedding present!” He pulled up his sleeve and there on his scrawny arm hung a Rolex the size of Big Ben. “And! She bought me a brand-­new Ducati 1199 Superleggera!” He scrolled the pictures on his phone and showed the motorcycle to me. It was twice as big as he was.

  “Vodka,” I managed to whisper to Paul. Now I’d have paranoid fantasies about Marianne flying off the side of a mountain on a superpowerful motorcycle.

  “You got it, sweetheart.”

  “If they have Bombay gin on the bar,” my father said. “Dry? Rocks? One olive?”

  “Me too. Thank you,” my mother said.

  “Hold tight. I’ll be right back with fortifications,” Paul said, and got up.

  The waiter appeared with menus and passed them all around while regaling us with descriptions of all the specials for the night. I didn’t know what to do.

  Paul returned and said, “The waiter is bringing our drinks. I didn’t want to make a scene in public. I’d never made a spectacle of myself in my entire life, but I sure was on the verge of a verbal atomic explosion.

  I wanted to call my ex-­husband on the phone right then and read him the riot act. How could he let our daughter get married without me knowing about it?

  And I wanted to throttle my daughter. What was the matter with her? Didn’t she want her mother to be with her when she got married? Didn’t she want a gown and a veil? She got married by an Elvis impersonator? Did she think getting married was a joke?

  And to the completely vulgar young man who was my new son-­in-­law? There were no words. I wanted a rewind button on everything that had just happened.

  We ordered dinner. Well, to be honest, Paul ordered crab cakes for me, asking if I’d share with him. I just nodded. Drinks appeared and were consumed, several rounds in fact. Marianne was oblivious to the fact that we were careening from her choices once again. But in this department of oblivious romance, however, she was operating at a strict disadvantage. She’d always been a bookworm and was not at all experienced in the ways of romance.