All the Single Ladies (4 page)

“Here I am with my dear friend's ashes in my arms, practically warm, mind you, and her landlady wants me to hustle and get her belongings so she can rerent the apartment. What is this? New York?”

Carrie said, “Pretty cold, if you ask me.”

“Terrible,” I said. “I'm starving.”

“Ravenous,” Suzanne said. “Let's go to Page's.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Can't get there fast enough.” I gave them a little wave and walked toward my car. There was no point in belaboring our departure given the heat.

Page's Okra Grill was where everyone went to eat great food at a great price in an unpretentious atmosphere with friendly ser­vice. It was the perfect choice. Also, it was a mere five minutes from the church.

The restaurant was packed with patrons of every size, shape, ethnicity, and age. There were families with tiny children drawing on placemats with crayons, teenage girls having lunch, taking selfies and comparing pictures while munching on shared french fries, and old geezers shaking their heads, discussing life with other old geezers while they enjoyed their one hot meal of the day. In the front of the restaurant, there were gigantic, delicious-­looking cakes on display, and a counter with a dozen or so spinning stools in the rear. At the far end of the dining room there was a community table and racks of T-­shirts for sale. On the other side was a bar that served alcohol because after all, one never knew when “bourbon weather” or sundown might arrive. The place was alive and thriving and it smelled like a beloved grandmother's kitchen during the holidays. I could smell bacon and gravy and sugar. What else could you ask for?

We must have looked grim, like we were coming from a funeral, because the hostess whisked us through the waiting throng and gave us a roomy booth.

“I'll be right back with your menus,” she said.

We nodded and slid across the seats. I sat opposite Carrie and Suzanne.

“Well, here we are,” Suzanne said. “I left Kathy's ashes in the trunk of my car. Doesn't that sound so weird to say?”

“Yes, it does,” Carrie said. “So, Suzanne? Did you notice anything unusual about Kathy's landlady?”

“Besides her really extreme plastic surgery?” I said just to make myself a part of the conversation. “If she lifts her chin again she'll be able to tie her ears in a knot in the back of her head. Her face is stretched like Saran Wrap.”

Suzanne and Carrie looked at me and giggled.

“Oh, I knew I really liked you,” Suzanne said.

“Meow, me too,” Carrie said, and looked back to Suzanne. “I meant, her bracelets. Didn't they look familiar to you?”

The hostess returned with menus and a waitress put glasses of ice water on the table in front of us.

She said, “Can I tell y'all about our specials?”

“I think we all want pancakes,” I said, “with fried eggs on the side and an order of really crispy bacon to share and sweet tea? How does that sound, y'all?”

“Perfect. And a waffle for the table,” Carrie said.

“And one well-­done sausage patty,” Suzanne said. “For me.”

“I'll get that right into the kitchen for you,” the waitress said.

“Bracelets? Bracelets?” Suzanne said, not making the connection, and then a lightbulb flashed in her brain. “Carrie! They were just like the ones you gave Kathy for her birthday last year. Weren't they?”

“How about they
are
the ones I gave Kathy for her birthday last year,” Carrie said.

“Oh no!” I said. “How terrible!”

“Stealing from a dead person is about as low as you can go,” Suzanne said. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely certain,” Carrie said. “Look, they weren't worth a fortune. I bought them in Asheville from some little artist's gallery. But they were one of a kind.”

“You should tell her you want them back,” I said.

“Oh, right,” Suzanne said. “She'll just say Kathy gave them to her.”

“Exactly,” Carrie said. “I knew I didn't like that woman the moment I laid eyes on her.”

“That's totally disgusting,” I said, and suddenly a familiar face appeared across the dining room. “Wait! Y'all! Isn't that Paul, the tree-­hugging, organist, sensitive guy Kathy dated?”

They both turned as inconspicuously as they could to verify the sighting.

“Yes. It's him all right,” Carrie said. “Should we ask him to join us?”

“Oh, please, no,” Suzanne said. “I'm already exhausted. I can't be nice to anyone new.”

“To be honest? Me either,” I said.

But I was already in the soup because Paul made eye contact with me. I smiled in a way that I hoped would say,
Glad to see you again but don't come over here.

“He saw you, right?” Suzanne said.

“Yeah, but he's not moving toward us. He's sitting at the counter.”

“Good,” Carrie said.

I looked at them and wondered why they didn't like him.

Carrie, who was more sensitive, said, “I just want to be in my misery with you and Suzanne. I don't want to share.”

“That's pretty much how I feel too,” Suzanne said.

“So? Y'all? What about the landlady and the bracelets?” I said. “The thing that's bothering me is that if she'd take those, what else did she take?”

“It makes me ill to think about it,” Suzanne said. “I think I'd better get over there pretty quickly or she'll have a yard sale with Kathy's personal possessions. Not that Kathy probably had much to leave behind.”

“It's all so unbelievable,” Carrie said. “Look, I can help you, you know. All I have to do with my time is fight with lawyers and my idiotic ex-­stepchildren.”

“Oh, them. Dear Mother. Any news?” Suzanne said.

“The little darlings had the judge freeze my bank accounts,” Carrie replied.

“Why would they do that?” I said.

“Because they think they're entitled to every dime I have,” Carrie said.

“Why do they think that?” I asked. I knew Carrie's husband had passed away recently but I didn't know all of the details, only that his children were giving her a hard time.

“Tell her, Carrie,” Suzanne said.

Just then the waitress returned with our tea. A waiter followed her and put everything we had ordered in front of us. My mouth began to salivate. It was a Carb Fest.

Carrie broke off a piece of the waffle, popped the yolk of her fried egg, dipped the waffle into it, and took a bite.

I waited. Suzanne nibbled on her sausage patty.

“It's a rough story,” Carrie said. “Why did I order all this food? Y'all go ahead and start. Cold pancakes aren't as good as hot ones.”

I poured a liberal stream of maple syrup on and around my pancakes and took the biggest bite I could manage, hopefully without looking like I was going for some kind of competitive eating title.

“I lived with John for over seven years before we finally got married. He dropped dead on the altar.”

I swallowed funny, nearly choked, and started coughing. With a totally straight face, Suzanne slid my glass of water to me, which I sipped while I tried to catch my breath.

“I told you it was a rough story. Heart attack,” Carrie said. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said, recovering. “On the altar?”

“Yes. Can you imagine what that was like? All the kids were whipping out their smartphones and taking pictures? Oh God! But we had already signed our marriage license, so we were technically married.”

“So then why is there a problem?”

“Because his kids are so greedy. I'm fighting for common-­law rights. I mean, seven years is a long time. Right? His daughter is saying the marriage is invalid because it was unconsummated. She should only know the things I did to her daddy.”

“Good grief!” I managed to say. I mean, what was the right response to that?

“Unfortunately, North Carolina doesn't recognize common-­law marriage,” Suzanne said, adding, “I could eat pancakes every day for the rest of my life.”

“Me too. And weigh nine hundred pounds,” Carrie said. “Anyway, there's an awful lot of money at stake and my lawyer says he's happy to litigate.”

“I hate lawyers,” Suzanne said. “They're always happy to litigate and send you the bill.”

“Amen,” I volunteered, even though my single experience with a personal lawyer was twenty-­five years ago when my darling husband, Mark Barnebey, left me right after our daughter Marianne was born. Mark was in Montana now, living off the grid, building bunkers, preparing for doomsday. “Well, I can help you clear out Kathy's apartment too. If you'd like. We have a steady supply of boxes at Palmetto House.”

“That would be great,” Suzanne said. “You're right. We're going to need a lot of boxes, I'm sure.”

“Maybe we should take a ride to Miss Wendy's after we eat and do an inventory, you know? So we can see how big of a job it's going to be?” Carrie said.

“Excellent thinking,” Suzanne said, and looked at me. “Want to come?”

“Sure,” I said, “why not?”

“I'll call her. I still can't believe she took—­”

“Believe it,” Carrie said.

Suzanne called Wendy, who said to come whenever, that she was home. Right after we ate, we paid the bill, got in our cars, and drove to Charleston.

Wendy's house was on Wentworth Street downtown, close to East Bay Street, in the historic section of Charleston. It was a classic Charleston single house, built over two hundred years ago of tiny handmade bricks, wide thick planks of wood, and other materials by hands with skills that no longer existed. The shutters with their scores of tiny louvers, the brass door knocker, and the doorknobs appeared to be original to the house because the shutters were so sturdy and the doorknobs were so low. But if they were reproductions someone had done an amazing job of making them authentic to the period. Her flower boxes were filled with bright green asparagus fern that tumbled out over the edges while pretty pink and white begonias poked their heads straight up through the needles and thorns stretching toward the sun for sustenance. What can I say? The witch had a nice house.

We were standing on the sidewalk, waiting for Wendy to answer the door.

“Maybe the doorbell is broken,” I said when it seemed an inordinate amount of time had passed.

Suzanne nodded and used the large knocker several times, letting the heavy hammer fall against the mounded bed for all it was worth. It gave off a thunderous sound and I was sure that if there was a living soul inside, the door would open momentarily. It did.

“Sorry,” Wendy said. “I was in the back of the house on the second floor and I didn't hear you. Come in!”

She had changed her clothes and was now wearing tan capri pants, ballet flats, and a big white cotton shirt, à la Audrey Hepburn, Katharine Hepburn, or what's her name from
An American in Paris
. Leslie Caron! That's who. I wondered how many closets of clothes she had. The bracelets had been removed.

We stepped inside the dark foyer and it took a moment for our eyes to adjust.

“Come with me and I'll take you to Kathy's apartment. Would y'all like a cold drink of something? I have iced tea and, well, water, and that's it, I'm afraid. I don't get a lot of company.”

Because you'd go through their purses when they're not looking, I thought.

“I'm fine,” Suzanne said.

“Me too. But thanks,” Carrie said.

“I'm fine too,” I said. “We just wanted to get an idea of how much . . .”

She squinted her eyes at me, obviously debating saying something sharp.

“Of course!” she finally spat out. “Why else would you be here?”

What a stinker she was! She led us to Kathy's apartment, which was actually an ancient kitchen house that had been attached to the main house with a narrow hallway at some point in its history. There was a locked door on either end of the hall to allow privacy and I could see through the window that there was an outside entrance too. A few steps made of the same tiny bricks as the house led up to a narrow porch. It was completely charming.

“I'll just let y'all in. How long are y'all going to be? I have things to do.”

“Just a few minutes,” Suzanne said.

I thought, Wow, her mother must have weaned her too early.

Wendy opened the door and moved aside. We stepped into a small living room with bare heart-­pine floors, and an uneasy spirit permeated the space. It was too still. To the left there was a tiny, neat Pullman kitchen concealed by curtains, pulled back over hooks as though the cook had just stepped away. In the rear of the apartment was a sparsely furnished bedroom and bathroom. I was focused on the wrong things. Instead of trying to figure out how much time we needed to pack up how many boxes, I was riveted on Kathy's personal possessions. Her toothbrush in a cup. Her towels neatly folded over a rod. Her bathrobe hung from a hook on the back of the door. I had to turn away or I was going to lose it.

The spool-­post bed was covered with a handmade quilt, probably a family treasure, and comfortable-­looking pillows were piled high. Kathy's framed photographs covered tabletops and the mantelpiece. Books—­scrapbooks and novels—­were stacked on shelves and everywhere under tables and in corners. And snuff bottles. She must've had a hundred of them or more. Some of them were quite beautiful. All her furnishings were evidence of a life lived rather well. In a strange way it felt like Kathy would walk in the room any second, happy to see us all. We'd plop ourselves down and start talking about anything and everything. Except that she wouldn't.

Suzanne and Carrie seemed to be having similar thoughts, but after a few questions, the ever-­practical Suzanne summed it all up.

“Well, if the furniture was hers I think we can do this with my van, two men, and three trips to the beach and back. We'll be back tomorrow? Are y'all free?”