All the Single Ladies: A Novel (29 page)

“No way. Did he really?”

“Of course not! He said he’d be honored to have me in the family. What else was he going to say? Besides, they’re so happy that your daughter is back home and in a good frame of mind. They kept thanking me as though I was responsible for her turnaround.”

“Maybe you weren’t completely responsible because we know the devil stepped in to snag Bobby. But you surely made a valuable contribution to the cause.”

“I’m just glad we got her back on the right road.”

“And I’m so grateful that you’re so accepting of her.”

“Listen, I don’t have to raise her. You already did that. This is a relaunch situation. We’re just gonna relaunch her in the right direction and it will all work out fine. I love your eyes. Have I told you that before?”

We went over to Suzanne’s late that afternoon with champagne and there was much celebrating and toasting. Marianne was thrilled for us. She threw her arms around me and then Paul.

“Dad!” she said. “No, really. What am I supposed to call you?”

“How’s ‘Paul’?” Paul said. “That’s what you’ve always called me, isn’t it?”

She giggled and hugged me again. I had my little girl back and we were going to be a family. A good solid and reliable family with the paperwork to prove it.

Harry said, “Well, I hope this bodes well for me. Congratulations, you old dog!”

He shook Paul’s hand and gave me the most polite kiss on the cheek.

“I’m really happy for you, Lisa,” Harry said.

“Thanks, Harry.”

Carrie said, “Now, let me have a good look at this ring!” She stared at it and then she stood back and wiped her eyes. “I’m just so happy for you, Lisa. Paul’s such a great match for you.”

“Thanks!” I said. “He sure is. He’s that fairy-­tale guy on the white horse.”

As it turned out, my parents were spending Thanksgiving with my brother and his wife in North Carolina, so we passed that holiday with our core group of friends plus Marianne. My parents promised to come for Christmas and stay through the wedding. My brother, Alan, and Janet, his wife, would be there for the wedding as well.

Over Thanksgiving dinner Paul said, “Hey, Marianne? I spoke to the dean of admissions at Cornell. They got your application and transcript. You only have to take six courses to be able to apply to an architecture graduate school. What do you say to that?”

“Really? I say, hello, Ithaca! Wow!”

“Thanks, Paul,” I said.

“Or, you could take the courses at Auburn,” he said. “I looked at their curriculum.”

“No, I want to go where you went,” she said.

“Okay, then, we’ll figure it out.”

I was worried that Marianne missed her almost husband, Bobby, because every now and then she looked melancholy, but she hardly said a word about him.

“So, what are you thinking, baby?” I said when I saw that sad look in her eyes.

“I’m thinking what a fool I was to love someone like Bobby.”

“No, no,” I said. “You never have to apologize for loving anyone.”

“Well, I’m totally over it now. Did you ever fall in love with a jerk?” she said.

“Do you really want me to answer that question?” I said.

Then we laughed and laughed.

“Oh, Mom! Dad
is
such a jerk, especially when you put him next to Paul.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but at least with Paul I don’t have to sleep with one eye open.”

On another afternoon, I saw her on the little terrace at our new home, her book left open on a chair. She was staring into space.

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” I asked.

“Shakespeare was right,” she said. “ ‘All that glitters is not gold, often you have heard it told, many a man his life has sold . . .’
Merchant of Venice.
I almost sold my soul.”

“But the important thing, my little scholar, is that you didn’t.”

Suzanne sent pictures of her letter opener and magnifying glass to a store in New York on Fifth Avenue, right across from the Plaza Hotel, that specialized in sales of Fabergé anything. They found her a private buyer who offered her a price that was so astronomical she couldn’t even bring herself to repeat it. But it had to have been wildly generous because I came over one day in early December to find men on ladders painting the house and another crew of men digging out a spot for a swimming pool.

“I want you and Paul to be married here and I can’t have a wedding with the paint peeling right off the house,” she said.

“Oh, Suzanne! You are too nice to us!”

“You know it’s my pleasure. Hey! Who’s performing your ceremony?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No, who?”

“Why, Harry is! He’s becoming a Universal Life minister!”

“I’d better check my lightning rods!” she said, and we laughed.

And so on New Year’s Eve I married Paul with my daughter on one side and my dog at my feet, right in the middle of Miss Trudie’s living room. When Harry said, “You may kiss your bride,” I could almost hear Miss Trudie warming up the keys to play a medley of love songs and “Auld Lang Syne.”

My mother and father had prepared a buffet dinner of an enormous fish covered in aspic and stuffed with crabmeat, Hoppin’ John rice, and a collard-­green salad.

I really hated collards, just like I hated kale, but I didn’t say anything about it because no one asked me what I wanted for my wedding supper in the first place. Except for Carrie.

“Shall we talk about your wedding cake?” she asked.

“Surprise me,” I said, knowing she’d do something outrageous.

She’d had our cake made by a pastry chef she knew and it was mouthwateringly delicious.

“What’s in this?” I asked. “It’s familiar but it’s not.”

“Krispy Kreme donuts and Grand Marnier,” she said, and we laughed.

“How’d they get donuts in the cake?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she cut them up in little tiny pieces?”

But back to my mother and the nasty business of collard greens?

“We’re having them tonight. It’s close enough to New Year’s Day,” my mother said. “Don’t worry. I’ve got a big ham and more collards for tomorrow.”

In the Lowcountry, New Year’s Day dinner was ham, collards, and Hoppin’ John rice made with field peas. As you know, traditions here are sacred.

“Thanks, Mom. I wasn’t worried for a minute.”

“I’m just so happy you snagged Paul before he got away, aren’t you? And I’m so glad Marianne didn’t come home pregnant. What would we have done then?”

“You’re right,” I said, because any other answer would only result in memories of the day I didn’t want to have.

The fireworks started at ten. We all went outside to the porch to watch them. Whistling rockets and crackling comets lit up the dark winter sky. Firecrackers and cherry bombs were exploding all over the neighborhood and then more fireworks, ones that bloomed like flowers and others that burst into wide open feathers and plumes of color high in the air. It was the most gorgeous display I’d ever seen, or maybe it was just my excitement.

My folks were the first to leave, followed by my brother and his wife. We hugged and kissed each other and there was another round of congratulations. Finally, it was time for us to go home to our new condo.

“I’m staying at the beach tonight,” Marianne said. “You know, to give you kids some space.”

“Thanks,” we said, and thanked Suzanne again and again.

Paul said, “So, what about you and Harry? Are you ever going to marry the guy and put him out of his misery?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll see. I kind of like being single. Y’all let me know if it’s worth it, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Hey, Suzanne?” Harry said, coming up behind her. “I’ve got some questions I want to ask you. There are only thirty-­six of them.”

It was probably just a matter of time before we’d have another wedding.

Before we got into our car to go downtown, Paul and I walked over the sand dunes to have a look at the ocean and to share a few moments that were only ours. We could still hear the pop of a few remaining fireworks in the distance, and across the water we could see the waning ones light up the sky.

“Tomorrow is a new year,” he said.

“Tomorrow starts a new life,” I said.

“Come on,” he said. “I want to take my wife home. It’s cold.”

Home, I thought.

There were two stars in the sky that were brighter than all the rest. I couldn’t stop looking at them.

“Do you see those two superwhite stars? Were they this bright earlier?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Why? What are you thinking? Someone’s looking down here at us and smiling so brightly that they’re twinkling?”

Kathy Harper. Miss Trudie. It would be wonderful to believe that. Even more wonderful to know it.

“Well, why not? This is the Lowcountry. Magical things happen here all the time.”

They really do.

Acknowledgments

Using a real person’s name for a character has been a great way to raise money for worthy causes. And in the pages of
All the Single Ladies
four generous souls come to life as my characters. I have met these folks only ever so briefly, so I can assure you that the behavior, language, proclivities, and personalities of the characters bear no resemblance to the actual ­people, especially Mark and Marianne, who I hope are really good sports. So special thanks go to Mark and Marianne Barnebey and Jack and Mayra Schmidt for their generous support of the Manatee Library Foundation. I can’t remember having more fun raising money and I hope y’all will get a big hoot out of seeing your names all over these pages. And special thanks to Carol and Alan St. Clair for once again supporting Bishop England High School in Charleston, South Carolina. And special thanks to my good friends Margaret Seabrook and Judy Koelpin for appearing in these pages as nurses and for our shared love of Johns Island tomatoes. I could live on them! More truth: Roy and Mary Anne Smith do not have a reprobate for a daughter and, in fact, to the best of my knowledge, they don’t have a Debbie among their offspring. They are lovely and upstanding citizens in every single way. I hope y’all will be pleasantly surprised to find yourselves in this drama. It was fun being reminded of you each time I wrote your names!

And make sure you do stop in for dinner at The Obstinate Daughter on Sullivans Island. Say hello to the executive chef, Jacques Larson, and tell everyone who works there that I sent you. I really love this charming place that sets the scene for Lisa falling in love with Paul . . . this brings me to Paul, named for the real Paul Gleicher, a superbly talented architect in real life as in these pages, who is married to the real Lisa Sharkey. Together they penned a fabulous book about eco-­friendly architecture called
Dreaming Green
. If you want to learn more about living green, this book is a great resource. And you know, Lisa, I wanted to call this book
Lisa Sharkey Takes a Bite out of Life,
but Carrie said no, she didn’t think so. Well, fine. Anyway, I’ve made your namesake a fallen vegan, backsliding yoga devotee, donut-­addicted, dog-­loving geriatric nurse. She’s my favorite character next to Carrie. Oh, and Miss Trudie, who’s named for no one. And Suzanne, who’s named for Suzanne and that’s all I’m saying about her except that I’m crazy about her and she knows it. However, Mike Kelly is real and wonderful but not as goofy as the character named for him. And Mr. Morrison, guess which one, among the many that I know, is not, in real life, an old codger chasing skirts in a nursing home. He is a brilliant and dignified gentleman. And may I just say to my dear friend Kathy Gordon: Sorry, babe. I didn’t mean to kill you off, but hey, that’s how it goes in fiction land. I shoulda sent flowers! Ha ha! And, your husband, the lovely gentleman that David I. Gordon is, should rush right to the store to buy you a letter opener and magnifying glass just like Suzanne’s.

Clio and Alicia are two of the finest women on the planet and would never behave as they do here. Ben and Giles would never support it, and Clio and Alicia wouldn’t be so awful in the first place. So, to wind up these true confessions, a certain shy character took a walk and was replaced by her mother, Wendy. No last names necessary. You all know who you are! And I hope you both laugh at the antics of this wicked, treacherous woman, who’s definitely not a belle! A true belle would’ve used the sword.

Thanks to Dianne and Cecil Crowley of The Tavern and Table in Mount Pleasant for the restaurant tip on how your waiters take their orders. I had dinner there and ordered exactly what I ordered in these pages. It was absolutely divine. And the
panna cotta
was out of this world! And some serious bowing and scraping to Arthur Aron, PhD, for his marvelous research into how and why ­people fall in love and how to expedite the process using his thirty-­six questions, which went viral after they were mentioned in an essay in the
New York Times
. I even have the app. What a world.

Special thanks to George Zur, who is my computer webmaster, for keeping the website alive. To Ann Del Mastro and my cousin Charles Comar Blanchard, all the Franks love you for too many reasons to enumerate!

I’d like to thank my wonderful editor at William Morrow, Carrie Feron, for her marvelous friendship, her endless wisdom, and her fabulous sense of humor. Your ideas and excellent editorial input always make my work better. I couldn’t do this without you. I am blowing you bazillions of smooches from my office window in Montclair.

And to Suzanne Gluck, Alicia Gordon, Tracy Fisher, Catherine Summerhayes, Clio Seraphim, Siobhan O’Neill, and the whole amazing team of Jedis at WME, I am loving y’all to pieces and looking forward to a brilliant future together!

To the entire William Morrow and Avon team: Brian Murray, Michael Morrison, Liate Stehlik, Nicole Fischer, Lynn Grady, Tavia Kowalchuk, Kelly Rudolph, Shawn Nichols, Frank Albanese, Virginia Stanley, Rachael Brenner Levenberg, Andrea Rosen, Caitlin McCaskey, Josh Marwell, Doug Jones, Carla Parker, Donna Waitkus, Eric Svenson, Dale Schmidt, Austin Tripp, Lillie Walsh, Michael Morris, Gabe Barillas, Mumtaz Mustafa, and last but most certainly not ever least, Brian Grogan: thank you one and all for the miracles you perform and for your amazing, generous support. You still make me want to dance.

To Buzzy Porter, huge thanks for getting me so organized and for your loyal friendship of many years. Don’t know what I’d do without you!

To Debbie Zammit, it seems incredible but here we are again! Another year! Another miracle! Another year of keeping me on track, catching my goobers, and making me look reasonably intelligent by giving me tons of excellent ideas about everything.

To booksellers across the land, and I mean every single one of you, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, especially Patty Morrison of Barnes & Noble, Vicky Crafton of Litchfield Books, and once again, can we just hold the phone for Jacquie Lee of Books a Million? Jacquie, Jacquie! You are too much, hon! Love ya and love y’all!

To my family, Peter, William, and Victoria: I love y’all with all I’ve got. Victoria, you are the most beautiful, wonderful daughter and I am so proud of you. You and William are so smart and so funny, but then a good sense of humor might have been essential to your survival in this house. And you all give me great advice, a quality that makes me particularly proud. Every woman should have my good fortune with her children. You fill my life with joy. Well, usually. Just kidding. Peter Frank? You are still the man of my dreams, honey. Thirty-­two years and they never had a fight. It’s a little incredible to realize it’s been only thirty-­two years, especially when it feels like I’ve loved you forever.

Finally, to my readers, to whom I owe the greatest debt of all, I am sending you the most sincere and profound thanks for reading my stories, for sending along so many nice e-­mails, for yakking it up with me on Facebook, and for coming out to book signings. You are why I try to write a book each year. I hope
All the Single Ladies
will entertain you and give you something new to think about. There’s a lot of magic down here in the Lowcountry. Please, come see us and get some for yourself! I love you all and thank you once again.