All the Single Ladies: A Novel (21 page)

“I have to admire your grit,” I said.

“Oh, girl? I have so much porch it’s not gonna matter. My sweet brother put up these canvas curtains last year. So he’s just going to spread them out and we’ll tell ourselves they’re walls. Besides, it’s supposed to clear up tomorrow in the early afternoon.”

“I hope so,” I said. “Paul and I will be there around one.”

“Great!” she said. “We’re looking forward to having y’all!”

I called Paul.

“Get your galoshes out!” I said.

“Listen, we’ll make the best of it. Are Suzanne and Harry coming?”

“Yep. And they’re bringing Miss Trudie.”

“No kidding! Well, that’s awfully nice. I imagine she doesn’t get out a lot.”

“No, she really doesn’t. We got her this personal alarm device that notifies the fire department if she falls, and she hates it. So she’s doubly thrilled because she’s going to a party
and
she doesn’t have to wear this ugly thing around her neck.”

“Anyone hear from Carrie? I saw some weather report that said bands of this storm are just hovering over Bermuda.”

“Well, Carrie’s a clever girl. She’ll figure out how to pass the time.”

We snickered and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Somewhere in Bermuda there was a mattress that was taking a terrible pounding.

I had spoken to my mother again and she was calmer but still adamant.

“I am sorry I hung up on you. I just couldn’t listen anymore. Somebody in this family needs to have some common sense and find the courage to stand up to Marianne,” she said.

“I did,” I said. “And all it did was bring me misery and pain for months on end.”

And I called Marianne at eleven.

“Hi, sweetheart. How’s it going?”

“Great,” she said. “I had a really busy week and I saw Dad. Oh, wait! We’re not supposed to talk about him, right?”

“It’s probably best if we don’t. There are so many other things we can discuss, aren’t there?”

“Yeah, definitely. Like I’m in love. I really am.”

“Well, how’s this? I might be in love too!”

“What? No way! You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope.”

“Who? How did this happen? Who is he? What are his intentions? I mean, is he a good guy? Does he have a regular job?”

I laughed and so did she.

“Listen to yourself!” I said.

“I know. I sound like your mother now!”

I told her all about Paul, and she was completely blown away to even entertain the idea that I might not be checking into Palmetto House myself quite yet.

“I’m not dead yet,” I said just as I’d heard Miss Trudie say once.

And she was fascinated by Paul’s work.

“He’s a green architect, huh?” she said. “Now,
that’s
something I’d like to learn about.”

“Well, if you come for a visit I’m sure he’d be delighted to tell you everything. He’s always looking for souls to convert.”

“So, you’re okay living with two single women and a really old crone?”

“Actually? Yeah. And Miss Trudie’s anything but an old crone. You’d love her.”

“Awesome,” she said.

I wanted to say no,
awesome
is a sunset on this island,
awesome
is a triple rainbow,
awesome
is the Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus,”
awesome
is holding your newborn child in your arms for the first time . . . oh, what was the point? I just let it go. When Marianne wanted a teachable moment she’d probably let me know.

So, I just said, “Well, happy Labor Day, sweetheart! Let’s talk next week?”

“Sure!”

We hung up and I thought, Well, this is a good sign. She’s interested in something else besides her ridiculous business that’s probably keeping designer clothes on her back and who knows what else. Maybe I needed to tell my mother to stay out of Marianne’s business but I wasn’t really too worried. My mother was really all bluster. In fact, I’d be floored if she said a word to Marianne about it.

I was wandering around the new Harris Teeter on the island to buy pita chips and salsa. I picked up a large container of guacamole too. Everyone loved guacamole, didn’t they? It was still raining like mad. I thought, Well, at least Margaret had the good sense to ask me to bring something that didn’t involve a stove.

Monday morning, I looked outside the window at the property around Miss Trudie’s house. It was pockmarked with pools of standing water like the craters on the moon. The ground was soaked to its ultimate capacity and could not absorb another drop. Unless the temperature soared, soon there would be an epic invasion of mosquitoes. Flying jaws. The water would give rise to thousands of tadpoles. The appeal of life outdoors would be greatly diminished.

I encouraged Miss Trudie to wear her athletic shoes because they were waterproof and I’d had a thought that the floor of Margaret’s porch might be damp and slippery. But when I saw her dressed and ready to go, she was wearing a pair of leather-­bottomed sandals.

“I thought we agreed on rubber bottoms?” I said.

“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m not going to a party in those clodhoppers.”

“Well, if they start a conga line, don’t even think about getting on it!” I said, and she laughed.

“A conga line! Do ­people still do that?” she asked.

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

What could I do? Put her in time-­out?

Paul picked me up at noon right about the time the last drops of rain fell. Harry arrived just as we were leaving. For once he didn’t smell like a whorehouse.

“See you there?” he said.

“You bet!” I said.

“You look pretty,” Paul told me as he opened my car door.

“Thanks! You don’t look so bad yourself,” I said. “I missed you!”

“I missed you too!”

He had been up in Columbia, the state capital, for a few days, working out the budget details on a new project to build a mixed-­use space. There was an old mill that would be converted into retail spaces on the ground level, some hotel rooms on a few floors above, and then condos on the higher floors. We talked about it on the drive over to Margaret’s house on Johns Island.

“I’m excited to show the plans to you. For one thing, it’s going to have thermostatically controlled skylights.”

“In English?”

“Sorry. What it means is when the lobby interior temperature reaches eighty-­two degrees, the skylights open, allowing the warm air to escape.”

“Well, that’s a piece of genius,” I said.

“Yeah, it really sort of is. And we’re putting a whole series of photovoltaic panels on the roof to capture energy from the sun and convert it into electricity.”

Like I knew what he had just said?

“Well, if there’s one thing Columbia’s got, it’s lots of sunlight, and Lord knows, I think summer is hotter there than here,” I said. “If that’s possible.”

“That’s the truth. And we’re using pneumatic elevators. How cool is that?”

“I wouldn’t know. It sounds like they need an antibiotic,” I said.

He laughed so hard it gave me the giggles. We were so silly sometimes.

“Oh! You’re going to make me run off the road!” he said. “No, they’re not ill. Pneumatic elevators work on air pressure from pumps and vacuums so they don’t need cables and pulleys. They’re really an aesthetic choice more than anything else, but they don’t need petroleum products. So, that’s good for the environment. Anyway, they’re slower, but I just like the whole George Jetson feel of them.”

“Aha!” I said.

“Anyway, the lobby is going to have polished concrete floors and we’re going to use lots of salvaged lumber and bricks. It’s very cool. So what did I miss while I was gone?”

I told him about my conversation with Marianne and how my mother was poised to do battle in the name of human decency. And I told Paul that Marianne was fascinated with what he did for a living.

“Really? You know what, Lisa?”

“What?” I said.

“Give your girl a chance. It sounds like she might already be getting bored with what she’s doing now.”

“Wouldn’t that be God’s blessing?”

We knew which house was the party house from half a block away. There were dozens of cars parked on the side of the road on our left and right. We parked, got out, and began walking.

“Here,” Paul said. “Give me that.”

“Thanks!” I said.

It was enough for me to navigate the puddles, so Paul carried my bags of pita chips and dips.

Margaret’s house was bursting with ­people. Adults laughed and chatted with each other over the din of children playing and running in between them. The bartender on the porch was as busy as anyone I’ve ever seen. We scooted through the crowd to deliver our contribution to the kitchen and Margaret was there.

“Hey, Margaret! I even brought two big bowls,” I said. “They’re plastic but they’ll get the job done. You can just toss them or not. Your call.”

“Well, thanks! And you must be Paul,” Margaret said.

“I am,” he said, and put the sacks on the counter. “Lisa speaks so well of you. It’s such a pleasure to meet you at last.”

Margaret took a step back and appraised him from head to toe. Then she nodded and smiled.

“I like him, Lisa,” she said, and her eyes actually twinkled. “Now, y’all go on and mix and mingle. Judy and I can put the chips out.”

“Okay,” we said.

By the time we worked our way through the crowd to the back porch, I spotted Suzanne. She was leading Miss Trudie to a deep wicker chair with overstuffed cushions, probably so she wouldn’t be run over by some well-­meaning but undisciplined youngster. Miss Trudie sat with her trademark “oomph!” From where I stood it looked like Suzanne was asking her a question. Most likely she was offering her a drink and a plate of food. Suzanne had so much love for her grandmother, and her grandmother’s affection for her was nearly palpable.

I didn’t see Harry. I assumed he had dropped Suzanne and Miss Trudie off as close to the house as he could and that he was looking for a place to park, which was what a gentleman would do. I know Harry irked me sometimes, but he did have decent manners. Miss Trudie certainly didn’t need to walk down the muddy road.

Suzanne waved at Paul but motioned for me to come over.

“I’ll go get us a drink,” Paul said. “White wine?”

“Club soda or iced tea, if they have it. Thanks!”

So Paul went in one direction and I went in the other.

The mood was just right. Everyone was smiling and telling stories and eating. There were four long tables covered in red-­and-­white-­checked cloths begging for mercy under the weight of all the food. There was a platter of fried chicken, another piled high with baby back ribs, and burgers with all the fixings in large white ramekins. There were deviled eggs, hot dogs, a slow cooker of chili (these used to be called Crock-­Pots), another of baked beans, a pot of red rice, a platter of corn on the cob glistening with melted butter. And of course there were Margaret’s tomato pies, Judy’s fruit pies, and a huge pan of peach cobbler. There was a cooler nearby that I decided must be holding the ice cream. I lifted the top to peek inside. Yep. Two gallons of vanilla were nestled in five pounds of cracked ice. Too bad there was nothing to eat.

The banisters of the porch were draped with red, white, and blue bunting and a huge, sopping-­wet American flag hung from a pole. And, thank you, Lord, the sun was coming out. That would get the kids out of the house and into the yard, where they could scream their little heads off and get all muddy but their noise wouldn’t bother anyone. I finally reached Suzanne’s side.

“Hey! Is everything okay?”

“No,” Suzanne said. “Harry is driving me crazy.”

“Why, what happened?”

“He’s being too kissy.”

“Kissy? What does that mean?”

“I mean, in the car he was trying to kiss me in front of Miss Trudie.”

“Kiss? You mean like open mouth with tongue action or a peck?”

“More than a peck but less than France, if you—­”

“I got it!” I said. “Men can be so stupid. He just needs a refresher lesson in situational awareness.”

Miss Trudie, whose hearing was still in the range of what dogs can hear, said, “He can’t help himself!”

“What?” Suzanne said with a look of horror on her face. “What do you mean?”

“He’s crazy about you!” Miss Trudie said.

“Well, that’s stupid,” Suzanne said. “We’ve only been seeing each other for five minutes.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Suzanne,” I said, knowing this was the moment to make her understand what had been going on at Palmetto House. “All those visits you paid to Kathy Harper? I saw him mooning over you all the time. He feels like he’s known you for months and months!”

“Good grief,” she said. “Well, he’s going to have to back off or I’m done.”

“Poor Harry,” I said, and laughed. “Miss Trudie? May I fix you a plate of food?”

“I was just going to do that,” Suzanne said. “Let’s help ourselves together.”

“I’ll fix a plate to share with Paul. Otherwise I’m going to eat everything in sight. It all looks so delicious.”

“Yeah, to be honest, this is my favorite kind of food.”

We walked to the other end of the massive but crowded porch, where the buffet was set up. A line had formed, so we had to wait a few minutes. I turned to see Harry coming onto the porch at the same moment Miss Trudie stood up from her chair, took one step, tripped, and fell flat on her face.

“Oh! Oh no!”

In what seemed like the exact same moment Harry zoomed through a mass of ­people straight to her side, scooped her up in his arms, and rushed her into the house. I could see through the windows as he turned left and right looking for a sofa. Suzanne and I were on the move, rushing to get to her. ­People were excited, saying,
What happened? What happened? Someone fell! Move back!
We finally got inside the door and to her.

We watched as Harry handed her his white linen handkerchief. Miss Trudie’s lip was split and bleeding. Harry was standing over her saying, “Miss Trudie? I’m right here. Let me see now.” He took away the handkerchief and inspected the wound. “No stitches. You are perfectly fine. I just want to check a few things.”