All the Single Ladies (13 page)

There was a short period of silence on the other end of the phone while she considered my question.

“I think it's time for you to tell me what the problem is between you two. I mean, I want the truth.”

“Then you'd better tell Daddy to pick up the extension.”

“All right.
Alan? Alan? Go pick up the extension! Lisa has something to tell us! Alan?
”

Dad picked up the phone and said, “I'm not deaf, Carol! I heard you the first time! Hi, Lisa. How's my girl?”

“Oh, I'm okay, I guess.”

“Lisa is finally going to tell us why she and Marianne aren't speaking.”

“Okay, I'm ready,” Dad said.

“You know she owns a travel business that caters to high-­end travelers?”

“Yes, and that she's very successful,” my mother said.

“Well, what you have not put together until now is that recreational use of marijuana is legal in Colorado.”

“So what does that have to do with my granddaughter?” Mom asked.

“I heard about that. ­People do crazy things everywhere,” Dad said.

“Y'all? One of the reasons ­people go to Colorado is to smoke pot. Marianne has ­people who visit her website who want to get stoned and she makes it happen for them.”

“What did you say? I don't think I heard you correctly.”

“Yes, you did. She picks them up at the airport, she books a pot-­friendly hotel for them with pot waiting for them in the room, and she takes them on tours of pot shops, and I have a problem with that.”

“Oh, my dear Lord. I think I'm going to faint,” Mom said.

“Get a grip on yourself, Carol. It's legal, isn't it? I mean, Marianne isn't doing anything illegal, is she?”

“No, it's not illegal but it's certainly not morally right,” I said. “And she promised me that she's not smoking it herself.”

“I've got to sit down,” Mom said.

I heard a kitchen chair being dragged across the floor. Then I heard her sigh so hard it sounded like a gale of wind.

“All right, ladies. Here's what I don't understand,” Dad said. “Nobody's getting hurt, are they?”

“Actually, there have been several instances, probably many but I only know of a few, where ­people have smoked too much pot and they had to go to the hospital. The problem is most ­people new to it don't understand its potency.”

“Dear God,” Mom said. “Please tell me this isn't true.”

“Sorry, but you've been hounding me for an answer and here it is.”

“So, help me get this through my head,” Mom said. “How does she justify this?”

“Well, she says now that marijuana's legal, an entire new population of ­people are coming to Colorado to get high. And that the general public is better served if those ­people who are smoking pot for the first time have some supervision. Apparently, there are all sorts of pot that bring on different effects. Some make you hungry, some make you laugh. And while that may be true, as a registered nurse, I cannot condone the recreational use of drugs that are illegal here. She's so defiant you wouldn't believe it. She says it's a free country and she's not breaking any laws and I should be proud of her because she's running a successful business! Can you imagine that? Be proud of her? For facilitating drug use?”

“It's unbelievable to me,” Mom said. “Shameful. This does not reflect the way you raised her, Lisa. It does not.”

“That's right. It's the influence of her father. He could always justify anything.”

“Wait a minute,” Dad said. “Would you say the same thing if she had started a vineyard out in Napa Valley?”

“Of course not,” I said. “That's an entirely different thing.”

“Is it?” he said.

“I'm sorry, Alan, but I'm taking sides with Lisa on this one.”

“Dad? Should I run down the street and brag about this? Should I brag about this to the medical staff at Palmetto House?”

“Of course not,” he said. “It almost always pays to be discreet.”

“Look, if prostitution was legal would that make it okay?” I said.

“It's legal in Nevada the last time I checked,” Dad said.

“Well, don't tell Marianne or her father that. The next thing you know they'll be running houses of ill repute,” I said.

“What were you doing checking on legal prostitution?” Mom said. “Is there something you want to tell me, Alan?”

“I think prostitutes are disgusting,” Dad said. “The very thought of one repulses me.” And then he started to giggle. “I've learned so much from Siri.”

“Oh, boy,” I said. “What is this world coming to?”

 

Marianne never returned my calls yesterday. My only child who carries my blood in her veins made me cry on her birthday. I thought it was so mean to deliberately hurt me when she knew I loved her so very dearly. Surely there had to be a part of her, one brain cell perhaps, that realized the conflict I would have with the way in which she had decided to earn her living? I consoled myself a little with the knowledge that she was healthy, solvent, and probably having the time of her life when she wasn't faced with me. But I had really hoped that the picture I sent her would break down some barriers. She was so precious when she was a little girl. That picture of her grinning and riding her bicycle without training wheels for the first time was irresistible. I was in the background clapping my hands like the very proud mother I was. Could she be that hard-­hearted? All she really had to do to make things right was just acknowledge my issue with her business and perhaps reassure me that it wouldn't go on forever, that she had other dreams too. Jesus, just throw me a bone!

It was early in the morning, and as soon as I finished watering my tomatoes and basil, I'd be on my way to work. The thermometer was expected to climb to one hundred sweltering degrees. Again. Throw in the humidity and the world would feel like a steam bath. The heat was just one more thing to deal with but at least it distracted me from dwelling on my disappointment with Marianne. I put the watering can back under the kitchen sink, begged the tomatoes not to explode, and filled Pickle's bowl with fresh water. I opened her food and filled her dish.

“It's just you and me and Bobby McGee, babe.”

She was so excited to see breakfast she didn't respond.

I wished I could take her to work with me. I hated leaving her at home. But my consolation was that John and Mayra would look in on her several times during the day and they would walk her. I loved living next door to them. And I suspected she spent more time in their house than mine.

“It's like having a granddog!” Mayra always said. “She's a sweet baby!”

John and Mayra Schmidt, for whatever reasons, had never had children. And frankly, at that moment, having children seemed overrated to me. They were so affectionate with Pickle it always made me think what wonderful parents they would've been. I wondered what they would say if I told them the truth about my Marianne. They would probably faint dead on the floor. That reminded me that I had to start looking for a place to hang my hat. I sure would miss them.

I pulled into the parking lot at Palmetto House and began my routine of unfurling my sunshade across the dashboard of my car and gathering up my things. There was a tapping on my window and I turned to see Paul standing there smiling. I gulped, opened my door, and got out.

“Good morning! Where were you yesterday?” he said.

“Good morning! Oh, I don't work every day.”

We were standing face-­to-­face then and he looked at me curiously.

“You don't?”

“No, just part-­time.”

“You okay?”

“Oh, sure. I'm fine.” He had the same molten chocolate-­brown eyes as he did the last time I saw him. I realized then that his lips also carried some sensual promise. There was the hint of an adorable dimple in one of his cheeks. I must be losing my mind, I thought.

“It's not me, is it?”

“Oh! Goodness no! I just—­”

“Somebody took the wind out of your sails, didn't they?”

“Yeah, I guess. Sort of. It's okay.”

“Listen, I have an excellent idea. When do you finish for the day?”

“At four this afternoon.”

“You need cheering up. Why don't we take a ride over to Sullivans Island and try the gelato at BeardCats? Then we can go upstairs to The Obstinate Daughter and get a bowl of pasta? I've been wanting to go there.”

“Eat dessert first?” I said.

“Why not? Life's short, right?”

I started to giggle. He was absolutely irrepressible and it was contagious.

“You don't have to tell
me
. Okay. Wait! Is this a date?”

His face became very serious and he said, “I don't know. Why?”

“Because then I'd have to wash my hair. I haven't been out on a date in at least five years.”

“Please. It's not a date. Don't go to any trouble. I just want to talk to you about compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

“Why do men always want to talk about the ADA with me?”

“Because you're so well versed in the nuances. Now tell me where you live and I'll pick you up at six?”

“Oh, you can't pick me up! What if you're a psycho killer? I'm told it's very dangerous to give someone your address if you don't really, really know them.”

“Okay, so if I text you my résumé and you find it acceptable, would you reconsider?”

“Maybe. No, wait. Yes.”

“Okay, so then may I please have your cell number?”

He pulled his iPhone from his pocket and I dutifully recited my number while he entered it. My phone rang. I answered it.

“Excuse me for a moment,” I said, and stepped away. “Hello?”

Duh. It was Paul calling.

“Guess who?” He was laughing so hard. I thought, I am a total nitwit. I started laughing too. “Eventually I will have your home address and I will pick you up at six. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” I said, and thought, Oh no! I have a date!

“Okay, then. I'll see you later. Don't forget to check your messages. My résumé?”

“Right.” I felt woozy. And I don't think it was heat-­induced. It was, God help me, hormonal. “See you later.”

“Yep, you will.”

Later on, after I had delivered the prescribed medicines to our patients, I was back at the nurses' station. Sure enough, Paul texted his résumé to me. What had I done? I started reading. Then I started talking to myself out loud.

“Undergraduate work at Cornell. Not bad. Graduate work at Yale. Okay, so he's a genius . . .”

“What are you reading? Who's a genius?” Margaret said.

“Oh! I didn't see you there! This guy Paul.” I showed her my smartphone. “Glazer? Glicer? I can't pronounce his last name. He's a complete brainiac. How do you pronounce this?”

“I don't know. Gleicher? Boy, I sure can sneak around in these shoes. You wouldn't believe what I run into.”

“Oh, yes I would.”

“Who's Paul?”

I looked up and there stood Judy and Margaret, waiting for an answer.

“He's Kathy Harper's long-­lost flame, though, and he's supersmart and nice. And he's actually the architect who's building the Green House Project houses.”

“No kidding? You sure have a funny look on your face. What's going on?” Margaret said.

Judy said, “Heck, I know that look. She's been bit by the Love Bug!”

“And you don't even know how to pronounce his last name. Come on, Lisa. You've got to do better than that,” Margaret said.

“I'll find out. We're going out tonight,” I said, deciding Cornell and Yale were beyond my expectations and I should at least find out who he was. I mean, who was I kidding? It wasn't like there were throngs of men lined up to take me out to dinner.

“We'll be expecting a full report in the morning,” Margaret said.

When I was leaving for the day I passed the card room. Marilyn Brooks was playing a game with Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Richards. All of them were smiling and chatting. That did my heart an awful lot of good. Whatever awkwardness may have lingered after the duck-­in-­the-­shower incident had apparently dissipated to the point that no one seemed embarrassed. Or maybe Mr. Morrison and Mrs. Richards had decided to forget it ever happened. I'd take a guess that Marilyn Brooks had not heard the story. I decided to say hello.

“Well, good afternoon!” I said. Mr. Morrison started to get up. “Please don't get up! I'm just saying hello. How are y'all doing?”

Marilyn said, “I have to tell you, Lisa. I was saved by a turkey sandwich with cranberry sauce.” They looked at her like she was crazy. “And a very nice nurse.”

“The turkey here is sprinkled with a little Lowcountry magic,” I said, and smiled.

“It must be!” Mr. Morrison said. “Mrs. Richards and I have been looking for a good cardplayer for the longest time. And our Lowcountry magic delivered up our Mrs. Brooks!”

“We might start a poker club,” Mrs. Richards said.

A nightmare of these rascals playing strip poker ran through my head and I pushed it away. Surely they wouldn't be able to cajole someone as dignified as Marilyn Brooks into something so risqué. But the persuasive powers of Mr. Morrison were legendary and I decided to keep an eye on them.

“That sounds like fun!” I said. “See y'all later!”

I got in my car, texted Paul my address, and drove home. Every so often I'd say “I have a date” to the thin air and laugh out loud. It was so silly really and I knew it, but hey, I had a date. I opened the front door and my dog all but tackled me.

“Hey, sweet girl! How's my baby?”

Lick! Lick! Lick!

“Oh, now I definitely need a shower, and as long as I'm in there I may as well wash my hair. Did I tell you I have a date tonight?”

I showered and blew out my hair. The big problem with chemically enhanced blond hair is you get dark roots pretty fast. Dark roots might be trashy but white roots are old. I didn't have time to do my color and I wasn't even sure I had things like eyeliner and mascara. I probably did have some makeup somewhere because I had used it for my parents' party, but was it contaminated? Would it give me sudden-­onset conjunctivitis? That would be attractive.

What in the world was I going to wear? I checked the website for the restaurant and it looked pretty casual. Most of what I owned was uniforms. I managed to dig around my closet and found a pair of white pants and a pink linen shirt that was reasonably new. I had white sandals but no recent pedicure. So, this might sound really cheesy, but I found my nail polish and just painted over what was already there. Two coats. It didn't look bad at all and it wasn't like Paul was going to get out a bottle of nail polish remover and discover that I had, horror of all horrors, painted over an old pedicure. I found the mascara, sanitized the brush with alcohol, and applied it only to the tips of my lashes. I sharpened my eye pencil so it had a fresh tip and used it along my upper lids. I sprayed some cologne on my neck and wrists and gave my lips a swipe of a rosy gloss. Then I looked in the mirror. Well, I decided, I'm still tall and I'm not too fat and my hair's clean and he'll be able to see I made some effort in the cosmetic department.

“Not too bad,” I said, and the doorbell rang.

Pickle, of course, started going insane. We were unaccustomed to company. I hurried to get her away from the door before she ate her way through the wood trying to protect me. I picked her up in my arms.

“It's okay, girl,” I said. “It's Mommy's friend.”

I opened the door.

“Hi!” I said to Paul, who had showered and put on fresh clothes too. “This is my crazy sweet baby, Pickle.” I put my dog on the floor and she stared at him.

To his credit, he leaned over slowly and extended the palm of his hand for her to sniff. When she decided he was a benign presence she gave him a slurp.

“You look so pretty, Lisa,” he said.

“Oh! Gosh!” I didn't know whether to slam the door, run to my room, and hide under the bed, but I sure felt a wave of panic course through my veins. Somehow I managed to say, “Thanks! I'll just get my bag.”

He stepped inside and my little Westie just sat by his feet, looking up at him, waiting for some adoration. He leaned over and scratched her behind her ears and Pickle made a funny little guttural noise. At her stage in life, if a human didn't just almost drool on her, there was something wrong with the human. But that guttural noise was one she saved for states of bliss.

“Let's go,” I said to him. “I think she likes you.”

I closed the door and locked it. I could hear Pickle yipping as we walked to his car as though she was telling us,
Hey! Come back! You forgot me!

“Cute dog,” he said, and opened the passenger-­side door.

“She's not a dog,” I said, and slipped into the car as demurely as I could.

“Oh no? What is she, then?”

“She's a teenaged girl,” I said.

He laughed and closed my door and came around to the driver's side, getting in.

“Named Pickle. As I understand it, teenaged girls can be petulant, demanding, sulky, and an all-­around pain in the butt.”

“Some are worse than others,” I said. “With me? I just give her everything she wants. So she's a little bit rotten.”

As he backed out of my driveway, I saw Mayra peeking through her venetian blinds, so I gave her a little wave. The blinds quickly closed. We turned toward Coleman Boulevard.

“I had a golden for fourteen years. His name was Jake. Best friend I ever had. When he died, I died.”

“I can't even imagine life without Pickle. My daughter, on the other hand?”

“Oh, does she give you a run for your money?”

“You have no idea.”

Soon we were sitting on a bench outside of BeardCats, lost in the wonders of Italian gelato, a gift from all the gods to us to remind us of the heavens. And although it was early evening, the gelato was melting quickly. We ate with alarming speed. Well, I did. It was just about the best ice cream I'd ever tasted.

“I would never have thought you could make gelato with olive oil and sea salt and that it would be this delicious!”

“I know! Here, taste this. It's just pistachio but it tastes just like it's supposed to. This reminds me of the gelato vendors on the Ponte Vecchio in Florence.”

Despite the possibility that I might contract an infectious disease, I leaned in and took a lick. “Wow!” I said. “That's amazing! Do you mean Florence, South Carolina?”