All the Single Ladies: A Novel (8 page)

“I’m sure it’s a pain in the neck but they try to make a shuttle bus schedule that works for everyone. Wednesday is seniors’ day all over town. You can save some money at Publix. Five percent, I think.”

“Well, that’s something, I suppose. This move is just going to take some getting used to. I guess I just don’t like change. At least I’ve got some of my favorite pieces of furniture and so on here with me.”

“And they are lovely. You have the coolest apartment of anyone here.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, I know so!” I reached across the table and patted the back of her hand in solidarity. “I know you think this place is a prison but I’m going to tell you something that you will most likely discover soon and it’s the truth.”

“What’s that?”

“At some point? If we are all lucky enough to live long enough?”

“Yes?”

“It’s our house that’s the prison.”

I looked at Marilyn’s face. The sun was streaming in through the window on a particular slant that made her seem, in that moment, to be a much younger woman. And very beautiful. It was as though I could see who she once was. Then a cloud must’ve passed over the sun because the illusion disappeared. Now she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Her eyes were rimmed in scarlet and her face held hundreds of tiny wrinkles.

“Is anyone ever happy to come here?”

“The truth? No. I mean, just as you said, it’s an enormous change. As we mature, we like our routines more and more. And there’s some comfort in really simple things, like knowing where all the light switches are. But unless I miss my guess, if you’ll just give this place a chance, you’ll be on the go and doing things with a whole lot of new friends.”

“Maybe. I’ll give you a maybe. We’ll just have to see how it goes.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m sure they’ve told you about all the clubs and so forth?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve got a welcome package that looks like a phone book from Atlanta.”

“I know,” I said, and took a bite of my second sandwich half. “It can be very overwhelming.”

“And depressing. You know what I mean? I feel like I’ve given up too much of my personal life. I have a whole host of strangers—­not of my own choosing, may I add—­who know what medications I take. And Marcus? He doesn’t know I’m here anyway. He doesn’t even know me.”

There was no response I could offer that would fix that. I wiped my mouth with my napkin and took a sip of tea.

“You know, Mrs. Brooks, I think I have a pretty good idea of how you must be feeling. There’s nothing you can do for your husband except watch over him and see that he’s being well taken care of. Which he will be. It’s simply a terrible thing to see someone you’ve loved, for most of your life really, in this shape. And you know, no one can tell you whether Palmetto House is right for you except you.”

“Tell my knuckleheaded son and his knuckleheaded wife that.”

I smiled then and she did too.

“I will, if you’d like. They wouldn’t be the first children I’ve told where the bear goes in the buckwheat. Anyway, what I’m thinking is that you seem like a pretty strong lady. You have a fabulous sense of style—­”

“Thank you,” she said, and brightened up a bit.

“And I don’t think you’d let anyone really railroad you into something you really didn’t want to do.”

“Yes. I suppose you’re right. You know what it is that has made me so unhappy?”

“No, ma’am. You can tell me.”

“The love of my life has disappeared into oblivion. And I’m a bit frightened. As long as I was in my own home, I could tell myself that nothing had changed, that I wasn’t this old. I could tell myself that maybe Marcus would snap out of it. You know, some days he’d tell me he loved me even when I wasn’t sure he knew it was me he was telling. Now he doesn’t even know his own name. And being here is hard evidence that my life is almost over too. It just makes me a little sad, that’s all. I thought we would have more time together.”

“Then you have to do what I tell other residents to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Make good use of every day.”

She was quiet then while she considered my Pollyanna advice.

“You’re right, of course. Right now, though, this is like wearing tight shoes.”

“Yeah, you just need to break them in.”

“That’s right. I just need to break them in.”

“Tell me; what are your favorite hobbies, Mrs. Brooks?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I suppose a good book and someone to take a walk with. I like old movies. And I love live music of all kinds.”

“For starters, why don’t you go to the reading room, pick a book off the shelves, have a seat on our newly upholstered sofas, and see what happens?”

“Really? Just walk in?”

“Absolutely! We just got a huge donation of all sorts of novels and biographies. When the residents hear about it, they’ll be gone in a flash. We have lots of book lovers here and several book clubs too.”

“Well, maybe I will.” She smiled and exhaled. “I guess I shall have to take charge of my own happiness. Right?”

“Yes! That’s the spirit!” I drained my glass of tea and said, “I’d better get back to work.”

“Thank you, Lisa. For lunch and . . . well, for this conversation.”

“You’re welcome for lunch. And I enjoyed the conversation too.” I got up and took my plate to the sink.

“Just leave it there,” she said.

I walked toward the door to leave.

“Mrs. Brooks?”

“Yes?”

“If you need anything at all, just call the desk and ask for me. Lisa St. Clair.”

“Okay, Lisa St. Clair, on one condition.” She was smiling.

“What’s that?”

“That you call me Marilyn and that we do this again sometime.”

“That’s two conditions! Ha ha! But it’s a deal!”

I left her then and I felt that her spirits were lifted a little. The transition from private life to fishbowl living could be almost impossible for your emotions to reconcile, especially if you were perfectly healthy. There was always some demoralizing price to pay. Loss of privacy. Condescending health care workers. Nosy residents. But my money was on Marilyn Brooks. She would adapt because she knew that she should give this new life some effort. It was only fair. And if she decided that she didn’t like living at Palmetto House, she was free to leave and her son could go scratch his mad place, like my mother used to say.

Later that day, as I was walking out after work, I passed the reading room. To my surprise, there was Mrs. Brooks seated at the library table on one side and the frisky Mr. Morrison sat opposite her on the other side of the table, smiling wide. There was no evidence of a duck. I wondered if Mrs. Brooks would succumb to his charms and quickly decided she would never dishonor her marriage. However, if Marcus Brooks died, things might take another path. It was interesting to consider. It was just as important for me to remember, though, that familiarity with the goings-­on of our residents and patients did not add up to a personal life for me. As friendly as I was with Judy and Margaret, they were wonderful professional colleagues, not really my personal friends.

That’s exactly why I set my alarm for six the next morning and why I was in the car with Pickle, a bottle of water, and a to-­go cup of coffee by six thirty. I needed a life of my own.

The sun was already climbing and it was going to be another hot day. Every year I had to get used to the heat all over again. Thank goodness my air-­conditioning cooled the car down quickly. But by the time I reached Suzanne’s house and got out of my car, the air felt thick and wet. Suzanne and Carrie were standing on the sidewalk, wearing leggings and running shoes, waiting for me.

“Hey! Good morning!” I called out to them.

Pickle pulled the leash to get closer to them, knowing there was some doggie love coming her way. Carrie was the first to scratch her behind the ears.

“I don’t know about that but I’ll never get a cute husband if I don’t shape up,” Carrie said.

“But your shoes should get you noticed,” I said.

They were hot pink and turquoise with white trim.

“Precious, aren’t they?” she said. “They divert attention from my other declining assets.”

“Oh, come on, now,” I said.

“Quit hogging the dog!” Suzanne said, bending down to talk to Pickle in a baby voice. “There goes Aunt Carrie again. We haven’t even had breakfast and she’s already talking about finding another man.”

“Stop!” Carrie said, pretending to whine.

Suzanne stood up, handed me Pickle’s leash, and said, “Let’s get the misery over with.”

We walked down the path and over the dunes, and happily for us, the tide was low, giving us plenty of room to walk. There was a breeze. A lovely breeze of salted air pushed my hair away from my face. Runners, groups of walkers, and dogs were all over the place.

“Can I let her run off her leash?” I asked.

Every island had its own laws about animals and the beach.

“Yep. This time of year, Pickle can run around until nine.”

“Great!” I leaned down and unhooked the strap from her collar. Pickle took off with so much enthusiasm that we started to laugh.

“Look at her go!” Carrie said.

“This is fabulous!” I said. “Absolutely fabulous!”

“It kind of is, isn’t it?” Carrie said.

“I hate exercise,” Suzanne said. “But if you don’t get some cardio, you can drop dead.”

Carrie said, “Bull dukey.”

“I haven’t heard that term since fifth grade,” Suzanne said. “Lisa? Tell Carrie what sitting around eating donuts does to your blood.”

“Well, basically, it turns it into sludge,” I said. “Then you get high cholesterol, high blood sugar, ingrown toenails, and hemorrhoids. Next thing you know you have a heart attack and a brain tumor and then you’re finito. So, just get some exercise. We could do some yoga. And drink a lot of water.”

“Nicely done,” Suzanne said, and snickered. “And we should swear off donuts until further notice.”

“I’ll take the pledge,” I said.

“Me too, okay? Y’all can giggle all you want about me being on the prowl for another husband,” Carrie said, “but y’all will stop your giggling when I find us all one.”

“One to share?” I said, and laughed.

“He had better be a manly man,” Suzanne said in a deep baritone.

“Oh, brother,” Carrie said. “Well, I’ll have you know I’ve already had four inquiries from four very handsome gentlemen about sharing a glass of wine and or dinner.”

“Jesus Lord, my Savior!” Suzanne exclaimed. “John’s only been dead for ten minutes! And you sound like Amanda from
The Glass Menagerie
waiting on a gentleman caller.”

“But life has to go on,” I said. “It’s okay, Carrie. When you find out where they intend to take you, let me know. Pickle and I will be close by if you need a getaway car.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Better yet,” Suzanne said, “make him pick you up and I’ll have Miss Trudie interrogate him. You know, to see if he’s worthy.”

“What? Are you insane? Rule one of online dating—­you meet somewhere where there are lots of ­people around. Like a busy bar or restaurant,” Carrie said. “You never let them know where you live until you are absolutely certain that they’re normal.”

“Ted Bundy seemed normal,” Suzanne said.

“Until he wasn’t,” I said, and chuckled.

“You’re right,” Suzanne said.

“Good grief,” Carrie said. “Anyway, I’m meeting candidate number one at Rue de Jean tonight at six.”

“I can’t wait to hear all the details,” Lisa said.

We walked a good distance in about twenty minutes and then turned around. Pickle was beside herself with happiness to be chasing seagulls and sandpipers as fast as her little legs would carry her. Without warning, she’d stop and sniff another dog and then take off again.

We said good-­bye at eight, deciding to do it again the next morning.

“This was actually fun,” Suzanne said.

“Sort of,” Carrie said. “I mean, it’s nice to be together and all, but I perspired.”

“Oh! Not that!” I said, and laughed.

“God, what a princess!” Suzanne said. “Hey, y’all?”

“What?” Carrie said.

“What are we gonna do about Wendy? You know that furniture isn’t hers,” Suzanne said.

“But we have to be able to prove it,” I said.

“There are still boxes of things we haven’t gone through,” Carrie said.

“True. Maybe we should all get together one night when Carrie isn’t interviewing for her next husband and dig through them,” Suzanne suggested.

“You’re terrible,” I said to her with a laugh. “I’ll bring the wine.”

“That sounds good,” they said.

“And y’all?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s some advantage to limbering up, you know, stretching out your muscles. We should do a few sun salutations before we walk.”

“Good idea,” they said.

“I’ve got mats. I’ll throw them in the car.”

Later on, after my shower, when I was dressing for work, I thought about how energized I felt. Endorphins. And, in addition to the challenge of solving the mystery of Kathy’s furniture, it appeared that I had gained two new friends. On the way out of the house I looked for Pickle. I went from room to room, calling her name. Finally, I found her exhausted and fast asleep in her bed. She was snoring in tiny gusts. Running full throttle after birds was not the same thing as casually walking the neighborhood on her leash with me.

Sometimes, I told myself, change was good.

Chapter 6

Landscaping

The next morning Pickle and I returned to the Isle of Palms to walk with Carrie and Suzanne as planned. From the moment we made eye contact, I could tell Suzanne was thoroughly annoyed. In fact, they both looked pretty serious. I put Pickle on the ground and hooked her leash to her collar. Then I pulled three yoga mats from the backseat of my car and went up to the porch where they stood.

“G’morning,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

Suzanne pulled an envelope from her pocket and pushed it toward me. I took it and looked at it. It was a bill from Green Carolina, a landscaping company.

“Read it,” she said. “Open it and read it. You won’t believe.”

“By the way, good morning,” Carrie said. “Steady yourself.”

“G’morning,” I said. I unfolded the statement, which was billed to Kathy Harper. “Two thousand fifty dollars and thirty-­eight cents? Are you kidding me? No way!”

“For work done at her landlady’s house?” Carrie said. “It doesn’t make any sense. Right?”

“Why would a tenant pay to landscape a rental property?” I said.

“My point exactly!” Suzanne said. “And the work was done after Kathy died?”

“First, it was the bracelets and then the furniture and now landscaping?” Carrie said.

“You’ve got to ask Wendy about this,” I said.

“I can’t deal with her. She really kind of scares me. I’m
not
kidding,” Suzanne said. “She’s a psycho.”

“Yep. She sure is,” Carrie said. “Who knows? She might stick a knife in between your ribs. That’s the world we live in today, ladies. Sorry, but it’s the truth.”

“Wait a minute. Everybody hold the phone here,” I said. I could feel my face getting hot. “I’m not afraid of that woman. Granted, she must be a little crazy to think she can get away with this. But, this is fraud. Fraud is a felony! She could go to jail.”

What was I saying? I was the biggest sissy in the world! If Wendy scared Suzanne she terrified me!

“Let’s not do yoga. Let’s just walk this morning,” Suzanne said. “I need to burn off some anxiety.”

“Leave the mats,” Carrie said.

“Sure!” I said, and we went downstairs to the sidewalk. “I only have about sixty of them at home.”

Pickle was pulling me toward the beach, so I followed her across the street. Carrie and Suzanne were right behind me. We didn’t need to waste the morning standing around. In seconds, we were over the white dunes and on the beach. It was low tide again. I liberated Pickle from her leash, and in the blink of an eye she was flying down the sand, chasing a Yorkie terrier that was chasing a ball. It was a wonderful sight to see my dog in a state of near rapture. I looked at the backdrop of gorgeous sparkling blue water and hard-­packed silver sand. We began to power walk. Like yesterday, laughing seagulls swooped down, hopped a few steps, pecked at the shore for whatever critters lay there in hiding, and then lifted back into the sky cackling like mad. The closer we came to them, the faster they scattered. But happy dog, glistening water, and crazy birds aside, my mind was spinning about the landlady from hell. Was I choosing to do battle with a nut job?

“Suzanne?” Carrie said. “Lisa is right. This has to be dealt with. Psycho or not. That company is going to want their money.”

“Why don’t we just pay her a little visit?” I said. “I’ll go with you.”

“Me too,” Carrie said.

What was the matter with me? Since when was I so brave? What if the landlady really
was
a psycho? What if she—­I don’t know—­started screaming or something? What if she sued us or called the police?

“Would you all do that?” Suzanne said. “I could just call her but I think it’s better to face her.”

“Absolutely,” I said.

“You bet,” Carrie said.

I agreed wholeheartedly but the truth was that I hated confrontations of any kind. My stomach was already getting knots.

“Definitely,” Carrie said.

“You know, I told her to send me any mail that came in for Kathy and I’d deal with it. I’d see the bills got paid and so forth. And obviously, I’d notify the various ­people who needed to know that she was deceased. You know, like her cell-­phone company and the bank. I’m just so uneasy about this and I don’t know why.”

“Because anyone who would do something like this is definitely off their rocker,” I said. “But take heart. I’ve dealt with all sorts of ­people who are confused about reality. It’s part of my job.”

No, it wasn’t. There was a vast and maybe even an immeasurable difference between helping a very nice but really old lady find her way to wherever she was headed and taking on a raging mental case with possible sociopathic tendencies.

“Okay,” Suzanne said. “Let’s just take it up with her today after work and be done with it. I’ve got a crazy day ahead of me. Bridal showers and birthdays. And it’s gonna be hot like hell. What time do you finish work, Lisa?”

Suzanne was so determined and this fueled my sudden but rarely seen burst of courage. That and a healthy distaste for the witch with the nice house on Wentworth Street who was stealing from the dead.

“Four,” I replied. “Want to get together after that? I can zoom home to walk my dog and then we can meet somewhere and ride over there together.”

“Sounds great,” Suzanne said. “We can park in the Bottles parking lot. It’s huge.”

“That’s settled,” Carrie said. “Let’s pick up our pace, girls. We’re dwaddling.”

“Is that even a word?” I asked, and moved a little faster to keep up.

“Probably not but my daddy used to say it all the time,” Carrie said.

Carrie was really moving quickly down the beach. I struggled to keep pace.

“Dwaddling? Really? I say bull dukey to that,” Suzanne said, catching up to us. “Boy, Carrie, you’re on a mission today!”

Carrie’s face was all red from exertion.

“I’m gonna be so thin y’all’re gonna think I’ve been sick!” Carrie said, adding, “And excuse me. How come neither one of you asked about my hot date last night?”

“Oh! Sorry! I forgot! How was it?” I said.

“Sorry. I was a little distracted by the landscaping bill,” Suzanne said.

“Not so hot,” she said. “He was a lip licker. I hate that.”

“Ew,” Suzanne made a face. “That’s worse than an eye roller.”

“But not as bad as a toupee,” I said. “I went out with a toupee once. He was really tall, so I couldn’t tell it was a wig at first. But then, for some reason, it began to slide.”

“Oh Lord! What did you say to him?” Carrie asked, laughing.

“Well, it was awkward. I think I said something like ‘Honey, you might want to go to the men’s room and make a small but critical adjustment.’ He went to the men’s room and I’m embarrassed to admit that I just sort of left. Really. My dating history is littered with moments I’m not proud of.”

“I would’ve slipped out too,” Carrie said. “Anyway, I’ve got another Mr. Possibility lined up for tonight. We’re meeting at Cypress for a cocktail.”

“You’re wasting no time there, sister,” Suzanne said, remarking on Carrie’s pace.

“I don’t have any time to waste,” Carrie said. “My assets are dwindling.”

“Oh Lord,” I said, and I meant it in a prayerful way, asking the Lord to be merciful to all of us. What becomes of girls like us? Really, what becomes of us?

Later on that morning at work, I was startled by the sound of jackhammers.

“What’s all the ruckus about?” I asked Margaret.

“Like we don’t have enough to do? Now we’re building a neighborhood of group houses out back. It’s a Green House Project model.”

“No kidding,” I said. “How many?” More residents might mean more work for me. That would be great.

“Two for now but the plan is for eight,” she said.

“Wow,” I said. “They’re supposed to be terrific. I’ve been reading all about it.”

“Hey, you know we’re on the cutting edge.”

I giggled and said, “If you say so. But how did I miss this?”

“I don’t know but you should go out there and see what’s going on.”

“Yeah, I might do that later.”

The Green House Project was designed to provide group housing for seniors who didn’t want or need to live in a nursing home environment but for one reason or another had decided to make a change. Each house had up to ten bedrooms, private bathrooms, a common living and dining area, and outdoor porches and patios with gardens. There were windows everywhere, so that on nice days sunlight could flood the rooms. And there was no typical nurses’ station but an open office where a Shahbaz or two kept records and watched a light board. A Shahbaz was a friendly certified nurse’s assistant dressed in street clothes and thusly dubbed with the Persian word for “royal falcon.” If a light came on, it meant that a resident needed something and the royal falcon would sweep in to assist them. A registered nurse was also on staff. It was a far less exacting plan that allowed more independence for the residents and it encouraged social activity, which was especially good for those who had been lonely in their own homes. Loneliness was another curse of old age to add to the list.

Because I have too much time on my hands, I had been reading all about GHP online. Basically, it was the coolest trend in elder care out there. I just hoped it wouldn’t prove to be one of those ideas that looked good on paper but in reality didn’t make life one whit better for anyone. But having some Green House Project homes would make another level of care available for ­people considering life at Palmetto House. Why not? Here was one more option to deal with all the issues of aging.

When my shift ended at four I walked outside intending to take a look at the construction site. There were trucks everywhere and at least a dozen men in hard hats milling around, a few of them taping off areas like a crime scene and others using noisy chain saws that screamed and whined, cutting down a skimpy population of twiggy pine trees. In our neck of the woods, pine trees popped up and grew like weeds right in their own shadows.

Two tanned men in jeans with remarkable biceps were consulting with a third man in khakis and a knit shirt. They were looking over architectural drawings on the bed of a pickup truck. The guy in khakis looked familiar. I walked over toward them.

“Paul?” I said. Since when was I so brazen?

He turned around and smiled when he recognized me.

“Hey! I remember you,” he said, walking toward me. “You were at Kathy’s funeral, right?”

“Yes.” I pushed my sunglasses up and let them act as a headband.

He took off his sunglasses, tortoiseshell Ray-­Bans, for the record, and ran his hand through his hair. Was it my imagination or was he just one helluva lot better looking than the last time I saw him? But then, who looks good at a funeral?

“Funny meeting you here,” he said, and paused, squinting in the brutal sun. “Um, you work here, I guess?”

“Yes, I’m a nurse. I’ve been here off and on for a few years now. So, you must be the architect?”

“Yep. That’s me. This is going to be a Green Ho—­”

“Green House Project,” I said. “I actually know quite a lot about the whole deal. You know, ADA compliance and all that.”

He had nice eyes. Brown. And warm. I’ve always liked brown eyes, for some reason. Especially if they’re warm. And for no good reason in this entire world I felt myself wanting to take a short swim in them. Just a few laps around the chocolate pool. How stupid.

“You do, huh? I’m sorry. What’s your name?” he said.

“Oh!” I said. “Sorry! I’m Lisa. Lisa St. Clair. Well, it was Barnebey, but after my divorce I started using my maiden name again. My daughter, Marianne, uses Barnebey, which she should since it’s her name. At least I think she does. I haven’t spoken to her in six months. She doesn’t call much.”

He was just looking at me, smiling. He wasn’t smiling at me like I was a lunatic but it was a kind expression, so kind it made me want to tell him everything. But now he knew my name, that I was divorced, had one child, and that she was grown and probably not a burden. What in the hell was happening here?

“Why am I telling you all of this?” I laughed and shook my head.

“I don’t know, Lisa St. Clair. Why are you?”

He was grinning from ear to ear like big cats do when they’ve got the little mouse cornered. He was going to taunt me and run me around before he ate my soul. I knew how this game worked. I didn’t know how I got so off-­kilter but I knew I had to get in my car and drive away from him or I was going to say something really stupid and then he would know what an idiot I really was.

“I just came out here to see what the jackhammers were doing. That’s all.”

Another pearl from me. Yeah, boy, those jackhammers are wild things.

“They’re tearing up unnecessary macadam.”

“Right. So, right, well, I gotta go. I gotta go meet some friends and solve a mystery.” I was babbling like the proverbial brook. “Nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too,” he said. “Come back and visit. Maybe you could consult?”

“Oh, right. Very funny. But I would like to see how this progresses. The whole concept is . . . well, I think it’s great. So I’ll be around.”

“Great!” he said, and gave me a little wave as I turned to scurry to my car as fast as humanly possible without seeming like I was rushing from a crime scene.

Oh yeah, I’ll come back and I’ll bring donuts, I thought with glee, and then quickly realized I was in a situation. I was in a situation because for the first time in at least ten years I felt a powerful twitch south of the Mason-­Dixon Line in my personal Lowcountry. That twitch was a profound warning. Part of my brain, the seductress cells that had been in mothballs for a decade, suddenly sang an aria and wanted to lure a man with food, decadent food. Sugar. Caramel. Chocolate. I was on the edge of falling right into a mine shaft of carnal desire. How shocking! But every experience I’d ever had with an adult male had proven to me that love, or whatever it really was, pheromones maybe, wasn’t worth the trouble. I was going to get a grip on myself, and the next time I saw him, I’d be cool. Serene like Grace Kelly in a film with Cary Grant. That’s who I’d be. Grace Kelly. Maybe I’d have a friendship with him. Nothing dangerous or too personal. Sure. Just friends. It might be interesting to see if I could have something platonic with a man. It would be a first. But I was older now. I could manage it. I could control myself. For heaven’s sake, I could control myself.