All the Single Ladies (21 page)

“Wow! You look beautiful!” I exclaimed.

“Thanks!” she said.

“Doesn't she clean up good?” Carrie said.

“Get back in the house this minute!” Miss Trudie said.

“Why?” Suzanne said. “It's not like I'm sixteen and going to prom.”

“Oh, I know that,” Miss Trudie said. “I just want to make him squirm a little. Can't I have some fun too?”

“Carrie? Lisa?” Suzanne said, rolling her eyes. “Do y'all have ten milligrams of something I might swallow to unrattle my nerves?”

“Yes,” Carrie said, “you know I do. But if you take it you can't drink any wine.”

“Oh, fine! God! I wish we hadn't given up donuts!”

Suzanne disappeared inside the house and let the screen door slam behind her.

“She's just nervous,” Miss Trudie said. “Can't blame her. She hasn't had a date since George Bush Senior was in office.”

“Junior!” she called back from inside the house.

“Aren't you going out tonight?” Carrie said to me.

“No,” I said, “I'm seeing Paul tomorrow. He's working tonight, getting caught up on some stuff.”

Harry Black's car pulled into the driveway. When he got out, Miss Trudie sat up tall so that she could see over the porch banisters. She gave him the once-­over and turned to me.

“Handsome!” she whispered, arching her eyebrows.

“Meh,” I replied, and shrugged my shoulders.

He rapped his knuckles on the screen door. Pickle hurried to the door ostensibly to protect us from the Dark Side and Darth Vader.

“Hi!” he said. “Can I come in?”

“Hello, Dr. Black,” I said, thinking, Use the Force, Pickle! “Come meet Miss Trudie and Carrie.”

“Call me Harry, Lisa. No formalities tonight,” he muttered, and then brightened up, extending his hand to Miss Trudie. “Miss Trudie! My word! Suzanne has done you a great disser­vice!”

He smelled like the entire men's fragrance counter at Dillard's. And he ignored my dog.

Miss Trudie pulled back and said, “And how is that?”

“She did not tell me how regal you are,” he said, and bowed a little. “You remind me of Maggie Smith.”

I wanted to barf right on his shoes. Regrettably, I did not.

“Regal? Really? Maggie Smith? I adore her,” Miss Trudie said. “Will one of you girls tell Suzanne her handsome date is here?”

“Oh, yes, ma'am! ‘Regal' is the only word there is to describe you.” He turned to Carrie. “And you're Carrie? I remember you from when you came to visit . . .”

“I'll go get her,” I said, although no one heard me.

“Kathy Harper,” Carrie said. “It's nice to see you again.”

“Yes! That was her name. Well, it's nice to see you too. Who's the lucky man?”

“What do you mean?” Carrie said.

“Well, surely, you're going somewhere special because you wouldn't dress up to sit on the porch, would you?”

“Oh! My! Well, yes. Mike Kelly, we're . . .”

I slipped around them and went inside the house. Suzanne was in the living room, listening to everything.

“How's it going?”

I wanted to say,
Well, the disingenuous son of a bitch has them eating out of his hand and he makes me want to throw up and cut off my ears from listening to his bull.

Perhaps that seemed harsh, so I didn't say it. Of course.

Instead I said, “Fine. It's going fine.”

“Should I go out there?”

“If you want to keep your date with him, yes, I expect you have to.”

My smile was involuntary. Suzanne was so excited and nervous. It was just completely priceless to see her this way. Usually, she was a take-­charge-­and-­everyone-­get-­out-­of-­the-­way kind of woman. But Harry Black had unnerved her? I just couldn't help how I was feeling about Harry. I wasn't wild about him at the moment.

“Okay, okay. My hair's okay?”

“Oh, for Pete's sake, go on out there and go have some fun. No worries. I'm in all night.”

“Thanks!” she said, barely able to contain herself.

Suzanne went to the porch and I heard Harry say, “Wow! You look gorgeous!”

“Oh! Really? Wow, thanks! And you look great too!” Suzanne said.

Oh, brother, I thought, and then decided maybe superflowery compliments weren't the worst thing in the world.

I went out to tell them to have a good time just as Mike's car was pulling up to the curb.

Mike came up on the porch and scratched Pickle's ears. She was satisfied with that and went back to Miss Trudie's side to sit. He said hello to everyone, but when he looked at Carrie I could see this guy was completely taken with her. It was genuine. And lovely.

Finally, they all left with their unbridled enthusiasm and pheromones and it was just Miss Trudie and me. Pickle walked in a tiny circle, checking her territory, and then lay down next to my chair.

“How'd you like Harry Black?” I said.

“He's full of it,” she said. “But on the other hand, it's not like I get that many compliments. Maggie Smith indeed. What do you think of him?”

“Well, I only know him professionally. At work he's not that friendly, but he's got a tough job and he keeps his professional distance, which is the right thing to do. He's a great doctor.”

“Well, you could light a small village with the spark between them, don't you think?” she said.

“There's something icky about thinking about my boss that way,” I said. “But what do I know?”

“Me too. So that's that. Want to order a pizza?” she said.

“Sure, why not?” I said. “It's Saturday night. We should live it up.”

“The menu's in the kitchen junk drawer. Get whatever you like. My treat. And if it's not too much trouble?”

“Olives?” I said.

“You're such a dear!”

“A
dear
?” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Who's full of baloney now?”

She chuckled to herself and took a sip of gin, realizing I knew it wasn't Evian in her glass.

I called for a pizza with pepperoni and mushrooms and a house salad. They said they'd deliver within the hour.

I said, “Great! Thanks!” and hung up the phone.

After a gourmet dinner of mediocre pizza, salad, and iced tea, Miss Trudie excused herself for the evening.

“I want to help you get settled upstairs. Is that all right?”

She looked at me curiously, as though I might be on the verge of invading her privacy or overstepping my bounds. But then, probably because she remembered I was a geriatric nurse, she said, “If you want to see how an old dame piles her bones into bed, be my guest!”

We rode up together in the elevator.

To break the ice I said, “You know, I just thought it might be a good idea for me to give a little attention to how your bed is made.”

“I don't mind if you do. Do you think I like to wake up on the floor?”

“No, ma'am. I'm sure you don't.”

The elevator stopped and I held the door for her to get out.

“Old age is like this. Your brain is still fifty but your body betrays you whenever it feels like it. If it wants to throw you out of bed, it will.”

“Well, let's see what we can do to hold back the beast,” I said.

“Good idea.”

When we reached her room, I pulled down the covers on her bed. There was a bottom sheet, a top sheet, two blankets, a blanket cover, and a spread. A quilt was folded over the bottom of the bed in case she got a chill.

“Miss Trudie?
I'd
break my neck with all these linens. What you need is a bottom sheet, a summer-­weight duvet inside a duvet cover, and that's it.”

“You know, I get so cold at night, even though it's as hot as Hades,” she said.

“Most ­people your age have the same complaint,” I said. “It's circulation. If you can make it through the night without killing yourself, I'd be glad to go to Bed Bath & Beyond first thing in the morning and straighten this all out for you.”

“You would? Then I'll be careful.” She leaned against the doorframe. “Thank you, Lisa.”

“Get some sleep and I'll see you in the morning,” I said, and left her for the night.

Back downstairs, I wrapped up the leftover pizza, threw out the box, and washed the dishes. I took Pickle out for her evening stroll. When we got home I decided to tackle a box of Kathy's things.

The first one was all linens. As was the second one. They were in decent shape but not anywhere close to new. We could cut the towels up for cleaning rags. So I shoved them back in their boxes and set them aside. The third box had scrapbooks, much like the other ones I had seen. I began flipping through the pictures and nothing there jumped out at me, even though I wasn't sure what I was looking for, beyond the furniture, magnifying glass, and letter opener that Wendy claimed were hers. It was too late in the evening to scrutinize photographs from someone else's past. I reached back into the box and pulled out a Bible. From the cracks in the leather cover, it was clear that Kathy had spent a good amount of time in its pages. That made sense to me, as it seemed like something someone like Kathy would do—­take some time to read the Bible. I began flipping through it and came upon an official-­looking document folded in thirds. It was a marriage license. I took it over to the bedside table lamp to give it further inspection. Kathryn Gordon Harper had been married to a man named David Harper. I sat down and thought about it for a few minutes. Maybe Carrie and Suzanne knew that but I never did. Wait! They couldn't have known because they would've said they knew Kathy had some family somewhere when she died. They would've notified him. I went back to the Bible. There I found one more document. It was a divorce decree.

I thought, How terribly sad. Oh, Kathy Harper, is this what you wanted me to find?

It was as though I could hear her in my mind saying,
Yes, it was
. And for no good reason other than my unreliable intuition, I felt like there was more to discover.

When Suzanne and Carrie came in later that night, I told them the news. I was positively gushing. They were stunned. We sat around the kitchen table going over and over the documents.

“Lisa! This is an awesome discovery,” Suzanne said. “I had no idea. None whatsoever.”

“Me either. This calls for a glass of wine,” Carrie said.

“It definitely does,” Suzanne agreed.

I got up and opened the refrigerator door. There was a bottle of white wine we had opened a few days ago. It was nearly full, which was unusual. I took three juice glasses from the cabinet and poured some in each one. Juice glasses go into the dishwasher. It was too late to hand-­wash goblets.

“Here you go,” I said, handing a glass to each of them. “Somewhere out there in the world might be Kathy's ex-­husband. He might want Kathy's ashes.”

“Here's to Kathy!” Carrie said. “God bless you, baby, wherever you are!”

We raised our glasses together and then took a sip.

“Wait! Suzanne? How was your date with Harry?” I asked.

“He's a little on the weird side,” she said, “but I liked him.”

“How was dinner?” Carrie asked.

“It was out of this world. He's sweet,” she said. “We'll see.”

“Is he worthy of the thirty-­six questions?” I prayed she'd say no.

“Too soon to tell,” Suzanne said.

“Well, if anybody cares, Mike's taking me to Bermuda for Labor Day,” Carrie said.

“What? Lisa and I certainly hope you'll have separate rooms,” Suzanne said.

“Of course we will or I won't go!” Carrie said, and winked at me.

“I wouldn't either,” I said, and didn't mean it any more than she did.

“God, I hope Mike Kelly has plenty of life insurance,” Suzanne said.

“Very funny,” Carrie said. “He goes by ‘Mike,' not ‘John.' ”

“Let's hope that brings him luck. Not to change the subject but you're right, Lisa. Somewhere out there might be Kathy's former husband and he might want her ashes and he might know things,” Suzanne said. “Y'all! I'm so glad I didn't spread them around my rosemary bushes, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I know she said she wanted me to but—­”

“It's okay, Suzanne. It really is. Poor Kathy!” Carrie said. “She must have really had her heart broken if she never told us she was married.”

Maybe Marianne wasn't speaking to me but at least I knew she was alive. I still had hope of restoring our relationship. Kathy was gone.

“We have to try and find him,” Suzanne said. “He might be able to answer some other questions too.”

“Oh! Speaking of the evil one who thinks she owns the furniture?” Carrie said. “Mike and I took a ride by her house and guess what?”

“I'm not sure I have the strength for any more surprises tonight,” Suzanne said.

“Well, she doesn't have any boxwoods or azaleas!” Carrie laughed.

“What? You mean the landscapers repo'd them?” I started laughing. It was just about the funniest thing I'd ever heard.

“Yes, see?” She showed us a picture she had taken on her phone. Wendy's yard, no shrubs. “That yard's as naked as a jaybird.”

“I love it!” Suzanne said. “Finally, an ounce of justice!”

Later on, when I was getting ready for bed, I plugged my phone into its charger. I had a text message. It was from Marianne.

It said,
Love you, Mom. I'm so sorry.

“Thank you, Lord. Thank you,” I said to the heavens above.

That was all I needed for now. I sat on the side of the bed and tears of joy began to flow. It was a start. In fact, it was more than I expected.

 

The first thing I did Sunday morning was reread Marianne's text. I'd never delete it. I read it over and over sitting on the side of my unmade bed. Here's why I thought my text message worked when the others had not. In those words I had laid my anger aside. My daughter's career choice really and truly was not a personal attack on me, and, in fact, it really didn't have a blooming thing to do with me. It was Paul who'd pointed that out, and once I let the idea rattle around in my head for a while, I came to see things another way. In fact, by viewing Marianne's choice as a personal attack, I had been throwing the proverbial baby out with the bathwater over and over again.

The wood floors felt cool beneath my bare feet and I noticed that overall the room was cooler than normal. And I was relaxed for the first time since my last horrible fight with Marianne, proof positive of the connection between comfort and anxiety. I should have taken my blood pressure because I was sure it was normal for the first time in months.

And now I had to answer her. I wanted to respond in words that would bring her back to me and make her want to stay. This too was something Paul had ever so gently pointed out to me via the Dalai Lama. I decided the best way to do this was to suggest that we talk about other things besides her business. And her father too. He was anything but neutral territory. But there were many safe topics, weren't there? Movies? Books? So, I composed a text to her that said,
You have no idea how happy your message made me. There have been some changes in my life I'd love to share with you. Let's not talk about business for now. Let's just talk about other things and try to get close again. I miss hearing your voice and about your friends and I don't even know if you have someone special in your life. Can I call you at eleven my time? Love you, baby. xxx

I hit the send button and knew because of the time difference that I wouldn't hear from her for a ­couple of hours.

I could smell onions cooking in butter. There was nothing to compare except when you added garlic to the pan. I dressed and went to the kitchen, which, of course, was bustling with breakfast preparations. My little dog was there, ever vigilant, just praying for a piece of bacon or toast to fall to the floor.

“G'morning!” I said. “How'd y'all sleep?”

“Dog's been for a walk,” Carrie said. “She did what she was supposed to do.”

“Really? Thanks, Carrie.” I fixed Pickle's food bowl and gave her fresh water.

“She's growing on me,” Carrie said. “I might get a little dog myself . . .”

Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at her.

“When I get married again! Don't worry!”

Did she really think she was getting married again?

“Whew! Well, I slept great! Lisa, we just told Miss Trudie about what you found last night,” Suzanne said. “Here, you want coffee?” Suzanne filled a mug and handed it to me.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Cream's on the table,” Carrie said as she continued slicing strawberries.

I helped myself. “What are y'all making?”

“Coddled eggs, toast, and fruit salad,” Suzanne said as she stirred the onions around in some butter.

“What exactly is a coddled egg?” I asked.

“It's like a tiny omelet steamed in a cup with a lid,” Miss Trudie answered.

“A steamed omelet. What next?”

“See? Here's the cup.” Suzanne held one out for me to see. It was a simple ceramic cup with a lid that screwed on and a loop of stainless steel on the lid that had some purpose I was sure to see.

“My mother taught me to make coddled eggs. But who cares about that? My goodness! We have a real mystery on our hands, don't we? This is the most peculiar thing that's happened around here in decades!” Miss Trudie said. “Lisa? I want to hear what you think.”

“I think it's kind of miraculous, if you want to know the truth,” I said.

“Miraculous? Why?” Miss Trudie said.

“Because between Suzanne, Carrie, and me, we decided Kathy's landlady was stealing from her estate. Until last night, we were stuck at a dead end. We couldn't prove it. This is our first shred of evidence. Well, not evidence, really. But we know that Kathy had secrets.”

“And,” Suzanne said, “he might be able to help us.”

“The only satisfaction we've gotten out of this whole mess was seeing Wendy's yard without the bushes she tried to say were a gift from Kathy,” Carrie said.

“That was some bull,” Suzanne said.

“What are you talking about?” Miss Trudie asked.

“I'll explain it all to you in a minute,” Suzanne said.

“Anyway, we didn't know of anyone who might confirm our suspicions,” I said. “Now suddenly we have a real possibility of putting this to rest, if we can find her ex-­husband.”

“How are you going to find him?” Miss Trudie asked.

“Internet, Facebook, I don't know,” I said. “We'll start there. What do you think, Suzanne? I'll set the table.”

I went to the cabinet where the dishes were kept, took what we needed, and began placing them around the table.

“White pages on the Internet?” Suzanne said.

“If he's got a landline,” Carrie said. “Hey! Here's a thought. If we can find out where he went to college he might belong to an alumni association. And don't forget about Match.com and all the others. I can search those. I've already paid the membership fees.”

Carrie was right. Not too many ­people had landlines anymore. And she did belong to every Internet dating site there was. Every single one.

I watched Suzanne assemble the coddled eggs. She just cracked a raw egg into each cup, gave them all a bit of salt and pepper, a teaspoon of sautéed onions and minced ham, and about a tablespoon of grated cheese. She screwed on the caps and into the water they went for just five minutes.

So, over fruit salad, toast, and coddled eggs—­which were delicious, by the way—­Suzanne, Carrie, and I brought Miss Trudie up to date. Miss Trudie was completely flummoxed and annoyed to a degree I'd never seen in her before.

“Someone ought to give that insufferable woman a good slap right across her lying mouth!” she exclaimed. “She's a crook!”

I said, “I know. Isn't she terrible?”

Suzanne said, “Don't worry, Miss Trudie. We'll nail the bitch.”

Miss Trudie flinched at Suzanne's choice of words but still she said, “Good!”

When the meal was finished, Miss Trudie went to her room to read and Suzanne, Carrie, and I cleaned the kitchen together. No one was rushing anywhere. It was Sunday, the one day of the week when we all slowed down. Somewhere between the scraping of plates and loading the dishwasher, I told Suzanne and Carrie that I had heard from Marianne. They were delighted.

“This must be such a relief for you,” Suzanne said.

“I just love her so . . .” I choked back tears and they threw their arms around me.

“It's okay, it's okay,” Suzanne said.

“It's going to be fine!” Carrie said.

I finally got a grip on myself and said, “Things are looking up slightly, but this is going to be a process.”

“You have to fight for everything that's truly of any value,” Suzanne said.

“It sure seems like it, doesn't it?”

“Even Kate Middleton,” Carrie said.

Suzanne and I crossed our arms and dropped our heads to one side, looking at her as if to say,
Have you lost your mind?

“Well? She had to stay thin and keep her mouth shut to get the green light to marry William, didn't she?”

“She's going to have to do that for the rest of her life,” Suzanne said.

“Good point,” I said, hanging up my dish towel to dry. “I'm going to drive over to Bed Bath & Beyond. Anybody want to join me?”

“Good luck finding parking,” Carrie said. “You couldn't pay me to go to Towne Centre on the weekend.”

“I'm going to take apart another box,” Suzanne said. “It's weird that the marriage license didn't give her husband's middle name. Not even an initial. So I'm going digging.”

“I'll help you when I get back,” I said.

Half an hour later I was in the Towne Centre parking lot, and, as predicted, riding around and around, looking for a place to park. I finally found a spot by Barnes & Noble, which was a good long walk from Bed Bath & Beyond. But I needed the cardio, so I pulled in and checked my messages. There was a smiley face from Marianne. It was just a few minutes shy of eleven. I called her.

“Mom?”

“Yep, it's me, baby. How are you?”

“I'm good. I'm fine. You?”

“Well, there's a lot going on.”

I told her about Debbie Smith showing up and how I'd had to move out of the house in one day. And I told her about Suzanne and Carrie and, of course, about Miss Trudie and how nice they all were to take me in. She asked about Pickle and I told her our dog was now everyone's darling and watching television all the time. She laughed and my heart melted. I didn't know how much I had missed the sound of her laughter until I heard it.

“I wish I could see you,” I said.

“Well, we could FaceTime,” she said.

“No, I mean in person. FaceTime makes me look like I'm in a fishbowl.”

“It makes everyone look fat and weird,” she said. “So, Mom?”

“Yes?” I said. God, it was just so wonderful to be talking to her again.

“I've met someone, a guy.”

“That's wonderful! Who is he? Where's he from?”

“Well, his name is Bobby and he's really sweet. I think you'd like him. Well, I do.”

“I'm sure I would.”

“He's from a little bitty town in South Carolina right by York called Smyrna. Population forty-­five. It doesn't even have a grocery store.”

“Some of the best ­people come from tiny towns,” I said. I wasn't just listening to my daughter's voice; I was listening to the sound of my daughter in love.

“His family grows pecans and peaches,” she said. “Isn't that amazing?”

“Farmers know the best dirt,” I said, and giggled.

“Oh, Mom! That is so lame!”

“I know, I know. Okay, just tell me that you're fine.”

“I'm fine and I've never been happier in my life.”

“Good, baby. That's all I really wanted to hear.”

“And you're okay too?”

“Yes. I am doing remarkably well. Maybe we should do this next Sunday?”

“Sure. Same time?”

“Yes. That's fine. I really love you, Marianne. You know that, don't you?”

“You have to love me. You're my mother!” She laughed and I did too. “Love you too, Mom.”

We hung up and I stared at my phone. I'd straighten her out but it was going to take time. At some point you can no longer insist that your children do this or that. I had learned this lesson the hard way. You have to let them fall down and then you can help them get back up. But you have to let them become adults. Still, it was not easy to silently stand by on my high moral ground while she continued on this road that was so problematic for me. High Note. What a stupid name for a stupid business.

I quickly bought what Miss Trudie needed and popped into Belk's to see what they had on sale. Well, don't you know there was a huge pre–Labor Day sale in progress? Everything was marked down and that included the lingerie department. Here was my dilemma. I wanted to buy something that didn't scream “whore.” I didn't want to buy anything that screamed “matronly.” I was looking for a middle road that said “she's a lady but she's sexy and she's not trying to pretend that she's in her twenties.” No thongs and no garter belts. Thank you.

Sorry, Carrie, I thought.

I went for Donna Karan because in real life she was in the zone of my actual age. Call it a decision of designer confidence, not consumer confidence. And I saved some money. Now, I don't want anyone to think that tonight was the night I was going to let Paul wander into my secret garden, but I'd been around enough to know that kissing was a gateway drug. For the duration of the relationship I'd be prepared for car accidents and close inspections. Although, I have to say, I had always carried a suspicion that most men could care less about your underwear. Maybe a few viewed it as wrapping paper, but I'd bet twenty dollars that the majority of them never even noticed.

I hurried back to the house with three huge bags. Carrie and Suzanne were in my room going through scrapbooks and manila envelopes filled with papers. Pickle was curled up and fast asleep.

“Hey!” Suzanne said. “You're back! That didn't take too long.”

“I got lucky,” I said. “I'm going to go upstairs and fix Miss Trudie's bed.”

“You are so sweet to do this for her,” Carrie said.

“I may be a lot of things, but sweet ain't one of them.” I laughed.

I thought about that while I was climbing the stairs. No, I wasn't sweet. But I was reliable and honest and surely I had some other redeeming qualities. I was reasonably smart and I had a decent sense of humor. But next to Paul, I certainly wasn't very worldly and sophisticated. Did that matter to him? Well by now, surely he realized what I was and wasn't. But what did I bring to the table for a guy like him? Even though the thirty-­six questions had shown we had a lot in common, the same basic principles, and we liked a lot of the same things, the depth and breadth of his experiences were vastly greater than mine. I decided as I began unpacking the duvet and its cover that I would probably be smart not to invest too much emotionally until I knew more about his feelings. On the other hand, he had given thought to my dilemma with Marianne and it was his guidance that brought us together again . . . well, got us on speaking terms.

I pulled all the linens from Miss Trudie's bed except for the bottom sheet and folded them in a neat pile. Then I pushed the duvet into the cover and buttoned up the opening. I rolled it out across the mattress and restacked her pillows. It looked like a bedroom in a spa hotel.