All the Single Ladies (5 page)

Carrie said, “Well, you know I am.”

And I said, “I can help after two o'clock.”

We had a plan.

 

At one thirty, my cell phone rang. As always, I hoped it was Marianne. It was Suzanne.

“Are you still coming over this afternoon?” she said.

“Yep. I was just finishing up here. I was gonna run home and change and then meet y'all downtown? How does that sound?”

“That sounds perfect. And if you have boxes . . .”

“Got 'em! I'll load up my car.”

Margaret and Judy had been stockpiling boxes for me. Needless to say, there was continuous headshaking among us over the terrible reality of Kathy's death.

“The poor thing,” Judy would say. “I still can't believe it.”

To which Margaret would add, “What a shame.”

So when I asked them for the boxes they offered to help me carry them out to the car. We were standing in the parking lot then, my car jammed to the roof, and I was thanking them.

“Y'all are the best,” I said.

“You're the one who's the best,” Margaret said. “This is definitely above and beyond your job description to help her friends, but you know that.”

I just shrugged my shoulders and looked up at the sky.

“It got personal,” Judy said. “Didn't it?”

“Yeah, it did,” I said. “Look, when somebody lives to a hundred and then they die, it's okay to go.”

“And this ain't okay,” Margaret said.

“You got it. It makes me really mad,” I said.

“I agree,” Judy said. “If helping them move her things can make you feel better, then go for it.”

“I agree,” Margaret said. “Hey, sometimes life just stinks.”

“Yeah, it does,” I said. “But not all the time.”

“Thank the Good Lord for that,” Judy said. “You working tomorrow?”

“No, not so far,” I said. “Y'all call me if you need me, okay?”

I got in my car thinking that I could use the extra hours of work, but at that moment I was concentrating on trying to honor Kathy Harper's life, hoping to become the third wheel who was missing. I hated to admit it, but a part of me was doing this so I could get something out of it for myself. Did anyone ever do things completely altruistically? I thought for a moment and quickly decided yes. ­People did charitable things all the time. But if you acknowledged that being charitable made you happy, was it altruistic? Did personal satisfaction or a sense of pride negate the good that was done? Certainly seeking recognition for your good works seemed to devalue them on some level. But we were all only human. I'd been taught from the cradle of my parents' arms—­such as they were—­that we were all sinners, victims of the frailties of existence on this earth. There's no guilt like a parent's guilt. Carol and Alan St. Clair could teach a class at Notre Dame about it.

“Face it, babe,” I said to myself out loud, “you're not a living saint.”

So, I put my ego where it belonged and I resolved to help Carrie and Suzanne. If friendship evolved from it then so be it. That would be lovely. If it didn't, then at least I had done something to help. That's what I told myself. I used to be that girl who made friends so easily, never worried about a date for prom, and didn't sweat that some sorority would want me as a sister. But after a failed marriage and a colossally failed business to boot I counted my blessings and didn't torture myself wishing for things that would probably never come my way. Though I had to believe that friendship was not too much to want.

And my bankruptcy? Okay, here's the short story on that. Around ten years ago I had this idea for a business model that was just way, way ahead of its time. So I took out a home equity loan for the maximum they would lend me and rented space for a yoga studio and juice bar. I had been teaching yoga off and on for years and I began experimenting with juices because they made me feel amazing. And, it's probably important to share that I was seeing this guy who was vegan. He was a bass player in a wedding band and, well, inappropriate. But over time he encouraged me to stop eating animals, and slowly but surely I felt wonderful physically and crystal clear mentally. In fact, I felt the best I had ever felt in my entire life. It was hard to make an argument against the facts. I became quite the enthusiast for organic vegan food. I'm completely over that now. Aside from a little juicing now and then and a few planks and downward dogs, I had fallen back into a secular lifestyle.

Anyway, I spent the money building the interior of a gorgeous studio. We had locker rooms with showers that gave the experience of standing in a bamboo rain forest and a retro-­looking juice bar with tables made of blond wood of Scandinavian design and pale blue chairs. I had newspapers from all over the country delivered every day and every magazine under the sun that related to yoga, fitness, and vegan living. I had charging stations for cell phones and mixes of whales singing, Native American drum recitals, and Peruvian flutes. You could take a class, shower up, have a fabulous juice, read the paper, and then be on your way. I offered every single ser­vice I could think of for the classic busy woman who wanted to get healthier. I hosted lectures and book signings. I had a registered nutritionist on call and I even had this sort of avant-­garde doctor from the Medical University who would take hair samples from clients, analyze them, and tell the clients what vitamins they needed. And there was a kinesiology expert on call as well to realign your electromagnetic field and an astrologer to discuss your destiny. Basically, I built it, nobody came, and I went down the tubes. When my inappropriate boyfriend left me for a bartender, I went back to eating bacon. I should've opened a nail salon or a micro pub. Seriously. Now there were yoga studios all over the place.

Looking over the side of the Ravenel Bridge at the container ships below, I watched the sun-­dappled water sparkle all around. It was very hot but the humidity wasn't too high, making the heat infinitely more bearable. I was still thinking about the fact that Wendy was wearing Kathy's bracelets at the funeral and I wondered if Suzanne or Carrie would say anything to her about it. Between them, Suzanne and Carrie had enough nerve to confront a starving grizzly bear on its hind legs. It was hard to believe that someone who looked as respectable as Wendy—­minus the surgical adjustments and enhancements—­could do something so downright sleazy.

I found a place to park on the street and walked the short distance hauling as many boxes as I could carry. I decided to use the kitchen house entrance that had been Kathy's instead of ringing Wendy's bell. There was less opportunity to knock something from a table and I didn't want to make small talk with her anyway. I let myself in. Suzanne and Carrie were there wrapping up Kathy's kitchen equipment in newspaper.

“Hey!” Suzanne said. “Boy. Did she ever have a lot of stuff in these cabinets! Let me take those from you!”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll go get some more.”

I went back outside to my car and brought back another load of boxes. As I returned through the courtyard, I saw Wendy staring at me through the windows. She had a strange look on her face. I wouldn't say that her mouth was twisted into a snarl exactly, but it was the expression of someone defiant and angry, not a good combo. Her bitterness was showing. I had to ask myself how a woman who lived in such a beautiful home and who obviously enjoyed all the benefits that come with money and privilege could do something so low. I was convinced of her guilt. It bothered me so much then that I wanted to confront her about the bracelets myself. What was the matter with her?

I went back inside Kathy's apartment, where Carrie was struggling with a clear tape dispenser whose tape kept sticking to itself.

“Grrr! I hate these things,” she said, shaking a wad of tape away.

“Yeah,” I said, “you lose the edge of the tape and you can never find it again.” I dropped the boxes to the floor. “Okay, so how can I help?”

Suzanne said, “Her clothes. I went through her closet and there's a ton of clothes in there with the tags still on them, including a pile of brand-­new nightgowns. Why don't we take all the stuff that's used and put it in boxes and all the clothes that aren't used in others? You know, separate them?”

“Great idea,” I said. “The used clothes, depending on how used, could go to a consignment shop or to Goodwill? Right?”

“Exactly!” Suzanne said.

Carrie asked, “Could you use the nightgowns at Palmetto House? Maybe someone might need them?”

I thought for a moment about all the really old ­people who were bedridden whose families rarely came to visit them. It would surprise the negligent relatives to find their grandmothers in fresh new gowns and let them guess where they came from.

“Absolutely! We have all these supersweet older ladies who would love a new gown!” I said. “I mean, it's not like their daughters visit too much or ever bring them anything useful.”

“Are you kidding me?” Suzanne said, stopping and putting her hands on her hips. “Is that what goes on?”

“You have no idea. Listen, usually family comes on the weekends and they bring cookies or maybe some DVDs or magazines. Sometimes flowers. But not everyone shows up on a regular basis and a lot of them come empty-­handed, with no concept of what their mother or grandmother might need. And they don't ask.”

“Well, good grief,” Suzanne said. “We've got clothes and books and all sorts of things here . . .”

Before Suzanne could finish, Wendy appeared through the door that joined the hallway and her part of the house.

“I thought it might be a good idea for me to put stickies on the few things that belong to me, you know, so there's no confusion.”

“Good idea,” I said, stepping across the living room but not making eye contact with her.

“We were planning on coming back tomorrow with two men and my van to take everything,” Suzanne said.

There was the spool bed, an older slipcovered sofa with crocheted afghans over its back, and some throw pillows strewn about. A small coffee table, a club chair and ottoman, an end table and some lamps. But the prize pieces of furniture were a gorgeous chest-­on-­chest and a beautiful linen press in the bedroom. I watched as Wendy attached the sticky yellow squares to those exact two pieces and my eyebrows must have shot up to the ceiling. I said nothing.

“That's it,” Wendy said.

She shot me a prissy smirk and left, closing the door behind her.

“Did you see that face she made?” I asked.

“I'll bet she knows we're onto her,” Carrie said.

“I'll bet she doesn't,” Suzanne said. “She's not that smart.”

“I'll bet y'all five dollars that furniture isn't hers,” I said.

Suzanne's eyes narrowed and she said, “You're on, but tell me what you're thinking.”

“I don't know but I just can't understand why anyone would furnish a rental apartment with furniture that's so much nicer than what she has in her own house.”

There was the briefest moment of silence while they pondered the question. Suzanne spoke.

“Why indeed?” she said.

“Because it isn't hers at all,” Carrie said.

“You're right,” Suzanne said, running her hand across the patina of the chest-­on-­chest. “I'm not a furniture expert but I'll bet you this is worth a pretty penny.”

“Before they retired my mother and father were antiques dealers,” I said, and pulled my cell phone from my purse. “I'm going to shoot a picture of this and the linen press and send it to them. They'll know if they're worth anything.”

I was clicking away and Suzanne and Carrie were stunned.

Carrie was wide-­eyed by then and said, “Ladies? We might have a genuine situation on our hands.”

“I'll let you know what my parents think as soon as I hear back from them.”

That evening I sent those pictures to my mother and she called me right away.

“Where did you find this furniture?” she asked.

“In a friend's apartment. What do you think?”

“Well, they are both English. Walnut. Nineteenth century. I'd say 1860. Maybe earlier. There's a lot of it out there, which brings the value down somewhat, especially these days when everyone wants new. I mean, what's wrong with ­people? I'd much rather have an old chest-­on-­chest like this one than some junk made from particleboard and faced with laminate.”

“Me too. Do you think they're worth like a ­couple of thousand dollars or more?”

“Sure. They might be worth tens of thousands, especially if they are polished up and all the handles are secure and original and so on. You have to look at them carefully, the joints and everything. Why? Is she going to try and sell them?”

“I don't think so. She was just curious and so I told her I'd ask you.”

I didn't want to tell her the whole story about Wendy and the bracelets and how we thought she was stealing from Kathy's meager estate. Even though I was all but convinced Wendy was a liar and a thief, I knew five minutes of full disclosure with my mother would result in an hour of inquiry. I didn't have the strength.

“Uh-­huh, well good luck. The antiques market is deader than Kelsey's cow.”

“No one has money anymore.”

“Amen to that. Do you hear anything from Marianne?”

“Not a word.”

“Well, it's very peculiar not to call your mother. Anything from her father?”

“Zero. I saw pictures of his new bunker on Facebook. He's trying to promote his business.”

“Dear Lord, Lisa! What are you doing on Facebook? Aren't you a little long in the tooth for that kind of thing? And isn't it dangerous to put your life out there on the Internet?”

“No, and I don't know what you mean by ‘that kind of thing,' but it's actually sort of fun to reconnect with old friends.”

“If you say so. Here, you want to talk to your father?
Alan? Alan?
He was here just a minute ago. Where did he . . .”