All the Single Ladies: A Novel

Dedication

In Memory of

Tom Warner

Epigraph

If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.

—­
EMILY DICKINSON

Contents

Chapter 1

Meet Lisa St. Clair

June 2014

I hail from a very theatrical climate. Coming to terms with Mother Nature is essential when you call the Lowcountry of South Carolina home. At the precise moment I ventured outside early this morning, my sunglasses fogged. In the next breath I swatted a mosquito on the back of my neck. The world was still. The birds were quiet. It was already too hot to chirp. And, Lord save us, the heat was just beginning to rise. I thought the blazes of hell itself could not be this inhospitable.

But that was exactly how a typical summer day would be expected to unfold. The temperature would climb steadily from the midseventies at sunrise to the edges of ninety degrees by noon. All through the day thermometers across the land would inch toward their worst. Around three or four in the afternoon the skies would grow black and horrible. After several terrifying booms and earsplitting cracks of thunder and lightning, lights would flicker, computers reboot, and the heavy clouds burst as rain fell jungle style—­fast and furious. Natives and tourists declared it “bourbon weather” and tucked themselves into the closest bar to knock back a jigger or two. Then suddenly, without warning, the deluge stops. The sun slowly reemerges and all is right with the world. The good news? The stupefying heat of the day is broken and the sun begins its lazy descent. The entire population of the Lowcountry, man and beast, breathes a collective sigh of relief. Even though every sign had pointed to impending catastrophe, the world, in fact, did not come to an end.

After five o’clock, in downtown Charleston, gentlemen in seersucker, linen, or madras, wafting a faint trail of Royall Bay Rhum, would announce to freshly powdered ladies in optimistic chintz that it appeared the sun had once again traveled over the yardarm. Could he tempt her with an iced adult libation? She would smile and say,
That would be lovely. Shall we imbibe on the piazza? I have some delicious cheese straws!
Or deviled eggs, or pickled shrimp, or a creamy spread enhanced with minced herbs from their garden. Ceiling fans would stir and move the warm evening air while they recounted their leisurely days in sweet words designed to charm.

By six or seven in the evening, across the city in all the slick new restaurants with dozens of craft beers and encyclopedic wine lists, corks were being pulled. Freezing-­cold vodka and gin were slapping against designer ice cubes in shiny clacking shakers, with concoctions designed by a mixologist whose star was ascending on a trajectory matched with his ambition. Hip young patrons in fedoras and tight pants or impossibly high heels and short skirts picked at small plates of house-­cured
salumi
and caponata. At less glamorous watering holes, crab dip was sitting on an undistinguished cracker, boiled peanuts dripping with saline goodness were being cracked open, and pop tops were popping.

An afternoon cocktail was a sacred tradition in the Holy City and had been as far back as the War. Charlestonians (natives and the imported) did not fool around with traditions, no, ma’am, even if your interpretation of tradition meant you’d prefer iced tea to bourbon. When the proper time arrived, the genteel privileged, the hipsters, and the regular folks paused for refreshment. If you were from elsewhere, you observed. We were so much more than a sea-­drinking city.

But I was hours away from any kind of indulgence and it was doubtful I’d run into someone with whom I could share a cool one in the first place. To be honest, I was a juicer and got my thrills from liquefied carrots and spinach, stocking up when they were on special at the Bi-­Lo. And I was the classic case of “table for one, please.” Such is the plight of the middle-­aged divorcée. I had surrendered my social life ages ago. On the brighter side, I enjoyed a lot of freedom. There was just me and Pickle, my adorable Westie. We would probably stroll the neighborhood later, as we usually did in the cool of early evening.

This morning, I finally got in my car and braved the evil heat baked into my steering wheel. I turned on the motor and held my breath in spurts until the air-­conditioning began blowing cool air. My Toyota was an old dame with eighty-­five thousand miles on her. I prayed for her good health every night. As I turned all the vents toward me I thought, Good grief, it’s only June. It’s only seven thirty in the morning. By August we could all be dead. Probably not. It’s been like this every sweltering summer for the entire fifty-­two years of my life. Never mind the monstrous hurricanes in our neck of the woods. I’ve seen some whoppers.

As I backed out of my driveway an old southernism ran across my mind.
Horses sweat, men perspire, but ladies glow.
Either I was a horse or I was aglow on behalf of twenty women. I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m complaining, which I might be to some degree, but during summer my skin always tastes like salt. Not that I went around licking myself like a cat. Even our most sophisticated visitors would agree that while Charleston could be as sultry and sexy a place as there is on this earth, our summers are something formidable, to be endured with forethought and respect. Hydrate. Sunscreen. Cover your hair so it doesn’t oxidize. Orange hair is unbecoming to a rosy complexion.

It was an ordinary Monday and I was on my way to work. Oppressive weather and singledom aside, my professional life was what saved me. I’ve been a part-­time nurse at the Palmetto House Assisted Living Facility for almost five years. The only problem, if there was one, was that I barely earned enough money to fulfill my financial obligations. But a lot of ­people were in the same boat or worse these days, so I counted my blessings for my good health and other things and tried not to think about money too much. I grew tomatoes and basil in pots on my patio, and I took private nursing jobs whenever they were available. I was squeaking along. And when I got too old to squeak along I thought I might commit a crime, something where no one got hurt, so that I could spend the rest of my days in the clink. I’d get three meals a day and health care, right? Or maybe I’d marry again. Honestly? Both of these ideas were remote possibilities.

My nursing specialty was geriatrics, which I’d gravitated toward because I enjoyed older ­people. Senior citizens are virtual treasure troves of lessons about life and the world. They hold a wealth of knowledge on a variety of subjects, many of which would have never been introduced to me if not for the residents of Palmetto House. The truth be told, those ­people might be the last generation of true ladies and gentlemen I’d ever know. They are conversationalists in the very best sense of the term. The time when polite conversation about your area of expertise was a pleasure to hear, I am afraid, is gone. These days young ­people speak in sound bites laced with so many references to pop culture that confuse me. The English language is being undermined by texting and the Internet. LOL. ROTFLMAO. BRB. Excuse me, but WTF? TY.

There was a darling older man, Mr. Gleason, long gone to his great reward, who would exhaust himself trying to explain the glories of string theory and the nature of all matter to me. To be honest, his explanations were so far over my head he could have repeated the same information to me like a parrot on methamphetamine and it never would have sunk into my thick head. But it made him so happy to talk about the universe and its workings that I’d gladly listen to him anytime he wanted to talk.

“You’re getting it, you’re getting it!” he’d say, and I would nod.

No, I wasn’t.

I had a better chance with Russian history, wine, Egyptian art, astronomy, sailboat racing, the Renaissance, engineering—­well, maybe not engineering, but there were Eastern religions—­and a long list of different career experiences among the residents. Whenever I had a few extra minutes, it was a genuine pleasure to sit with them and listen to their histories. I learned so much. And just when things were running smooth as silk, believe it or not, there was always one man who’d have someone from beyond our gates slip him a Viagra or something else that produced the same effect. This old coot would go bed hopping until he got caught in the act or until the ladies had catfights over the sincerity and depth of his affection. Then Dr. Black, who ran Palmetto House, would have to give Casanova a chat on decorum even though his own understanding of the term might have been somewhat dubious. What did he care? The evenings would be calm for a while until it happened again. The staff would get wind of it and be incredulous (read: hysterical) at the thought of what the residents were doing. I’d get together with the other nurses and we’d all shake our heads.

“You have to admire their zest for living,” I’d say.

Then someone else would always drop the ubiquitous southern well-­worn bomb: “Bless their hearts.”

Like many senior facilities we had a variety of levels of care from wellness to hospice and a special care unit for patients with advanced dementia. About half of our residents enjoyed independent living in small, freestanding homes designed for two families. They frequented the dining room and swimming pool and attended special events such as book clubs, billiards tournaments, and movie nights. They used golf carts to visit each other and get around. As their mobility and their faculties began to take the inevitable slide, they moved into the apartments with aides and then single rooms with nursing care where we could check on them, bring them meals, bathe and dress them, and of course, be sure their medications were taken as prescribed. For all sorts of reasons, our most senior seniors were often lonely and sometimes easily confused. But the old guys and dolls always perked up when they had a little company. It was gratifying to be a part of that. Improving morale was just a good thing. The other perk was that the commute from my house to Palmetto House was a breezy fifteen minutes.

This morning I pulled into the employee parking lot and kept the engine running while I prepared to make a mad dash to the main building. I spread the folding sunshade across my dashboard to deflect the heat and gathered up my purse, sunglasses, and umbrella. My shift was from eight until four that afternoon. The inside of my car would be steaming by then, even if I lowered my windows a bit, which I did. Otherwise how would the mosquitoes get in? If I didn’t lower the window a bit I always worried that my windshield might explode, and who’s going to pay for that?

I hopped out, my sunglasses fogged over again, I clicked the key to lock the doors, and I turned to hurry inside as fast as I could. I could feel the asphalt sinking under my feet and was grateful I wasn’t wearing heels, though, to be honest, I hadn’t worn heels since my parents’ last birthday party.

The glass doors of the main building parted like the Red Sea and I rushed toward the cooler air. Relief! By the time I reached the nurses’ station I was feeling better.

“It’s gonna be a scorcher,” Margaret Seabrook said.

Margaret and Judy Koelpin, a transplant from the northern climes, were my two favorite nurses at the facility. Margaret’s laser blue eyes were like the water around the Cayman Islands. And Judy’s smile was all wit and sass.

“It already is,” I said. “The asphalt is a memory-­foam mattress.”

“Gross,” Judy said. “I wanted to go to Maine on vacation this August, but do you think my husband would get off the boat to go somewhere besides the Gulf Stream?”

Judy’s husband loved to fish and won one competition after another all year round.

Margaret said, “That’s a long way to go for a blueberry pie.”

“I love blueberry pie,” I said.

“Before I die, I want to spend an August in Maine,” Judy said. “Is that too much to ask?”

“I think the entire population of Charleston should go to Maine for the month of August,” I said.

“Too far,” Margaret said. “Besides, we’d miss the second growth of God’s personal crop of tomatoes here! True happiness comes from what grows in the Johns Island dirt.”

“Tomatoes and blueberries are not the same thing,” Judy said. “And tomatoes are all but finished by August.”

“I can make them grow,” Margaret said.

“Yeah, and watch them explode in the heat,” Judy said.

I laughed at them. They were always bickering about food, mostly to entertain themselves. Not because they really disagreed on anything.

“You’re right,” Margaret said. “But tomatoes are way more versatile than blueberries. By the way . . . Lisa?”

“Yeah?” I threw my things in my locker and picked up the clipboard from the desk that had notes on all the patients. “How was last night?”

“Not great. Dr. Black wants to see you.”

“Oh no. Don’t tell me. Kathy Harper?”

“Yeah, she had a terrible night. We had to start her on morphine.”

Margaret’s eyes, then Judy’s, met mine. We all knew; morphine marked the beginning of the end. Kathy Harper was one of our favorite patients, but she was in a hospice bed fighting a hopeless battle against fully metastasized cancer. And she was the sweetest, most dignified woman I’d ever known. Her friends visited her every day and they always brought her something to lift her spirits. Brownies, tacos, granola, ice cream, a manicure, or a pedicure. The latest gift had been a documentary on the northern lights, something she had always wanted to witness. Sadly, a
National Geographic
DVD was as close as she would ever get.

“Are Suzanne and Carrie in there?”

“Yeah,” Judy said. “God bless ’em. They brought us a box of Krispy Kremes. We saved you a Boston cream.”

“Which I need like another hole in my head.” I picked the donut up and ate half of it in one bite. “Good grief. There ought to be a law against these things.” I ate the other half and licked my fingers.

“So, don’t forget, Darth Vader wants to have a word,” Margaret said.

“Can’t be good news,” I said.

“When is it ever?” she said.

His actual name was Harry Black but we called him Darth Vader and a string of other less than flattering names behind his back because he seldom brought tidings of joy. Harry was a decent enough guy. It seemed like he was always there at work. It couldn’t be easy for him to watch patient after patient go the way of all flesh and to be responsible for all the administrative details that came with each arrival and departure. If there was one thing in this world that I truly did not want, it was his job. But we enjoyed some sassy repartee, making it easier to contend with the difficult moments.