All the Single Ladies: A Novel Read online

  “And she didn’t want flowers. She worked at a florist but she didn’t want flowers,” Carrie said. “No flowers at her own funeral. Oh God.”

  “But she wanted donations to go to a hospice of your own choosing. I’m sending flowers anyway. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t,” Suzanne said, and collapsed in a chair. Then she sighed so hard that she looked ten years older. “How am I going to handle this?”

  I said, “Don’t worry. I will help you. We do this kind of thing here all the time.”

  Chapter 2

  A Curious Requiem

  THE POST & COURIER—­OBITUARIES

  KATHRYN GORDON HARPER

  Born August 30, 1956; died on June 10, 2014, after a long battle with cancer. A native of Atlanta, Georgia, Ms. Harper adopted Charleston, South Carolina, as her home nearly twenty years ago after having spent many years in Minneapolis. Kathy, as she was known to her many friends, was a devoted volunteer of the South Carolina Coastal Conservation League. She was an avid history buff, a longtime volunteer for the South Carolina Historical Society in membership and the editor of their newsletter. For the past few years she was employed by the SGW Floral Design Team in Mount Pleasant. She held a master’s degree in art history from the University of Georgia and a black belt in karate, and had a special interest in snuff bottles. She will be missed by all who knew her. Friends are invited to attend a Mass in her honor at the Church of Christ Our King in Mount Pleasant on Friday the twentieth of June at ten o’clock in the morning. In lieu of flowers please send donations to a hospice of your own choosing.

  When I arrived at the church I was disappointed by the scant showing of cars. I had been hoping that Kathy had friends I’d never met, scores of ­people I hadn’t seen visit her at Palmetto House who would come out of the woodwork to mourn her passing. In some ways the light showing was a reflection of my worries about my own demise. I mean, didn’t we all wonder from time to time who would come to our funeral? Who would stop their day, cancel appointments, put on the appropriate clothes, get in a car, and drive to our funeral ser­vice? Who did we know who would stand or sit or kneel in a pew, hopefully recite a prayer for us, reflect on the life we had lived, and remember something good and worthy about us, some kindness we had shown them?

  It was true what ­people said about life being too short and time going quickly. One lifetime was never enough to do all the things any person wanted to do. I was still trying to figure out what Kathy Harper could possibly have done to deserve this lousy karma. Nothing, as far as I knew. Nothing at all. There was just no logical reason.

  I opened the door to the church and stepped inside. There were fewer than twenty ­people there, spread among the pews. Two baskets of gorgeous exotic flowers flanked the altar. They had to have been from Suzanne. The organist was playing something lovely that was probably Vivaldi or Bach. I never knew the difference, only that I liked both of them. Whatever the music was, it wasn’t too maudlin or too liturgical. Kathy would not have wanted anyone to be maudlin, and though I was less sure about her feelings on religion, the music seemed appropriately dignified for the occasion.

  I spotted Suzanne and Carrie, recognizing them by the backs of their heads. Carrie was a tall, striking blonde and Suzanne, in contrast, was a beautiful, tiny sprite with long, shiny dark brown hair. They turned when they heard the echo of the closing door and motioned to me to come and sit with them. As soon as I sat down in the pew next to Carrie, Suzanne leaned over her to whisper to me.

  “See that guy playing the organ?”

  I looked around over my shoulder in perfect synchronization with Carrie and Suzanne. We must’ve looked like the Snoop Sisters.

  “He used to date Kathy.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “He was crazy about her,” Carrie said.

  “And she was crazy about him,” Suzanne said. “He’s a tree hugger.”

  I looked at him and thought he seemed like a nice enough guy. His blond hair was sort of long in the front and I liked his shirt. What was the matter with being a tree hugger?

  “What’s his name?” I said.

  “Paul something—­sounds like Glider,” Suzanne said.

  The ser­vice began then with the priest appearing on the altar preceded by an altar server who lit some candles. A large man in a dark suit, presumably from the funeral home, slowly and with great solemnity pushed a rolling cart, a tiny bier, up the aisle to the front of the church. On it stood a box covered in a beautiful lace-­trimmed cloth and a single ivory-­colored candle pressed into a heavy brass candlestick. In that box were the ashes of Kathryn Gordon Harper. The altar server came down from the raised altar and lit the candle. The gentleman from the funeral home turned quietly and walked back down the aisle, taking a seat in the rear of the church.

  Suzanne, Carrie, and I looked at each other with startled expressions, each of us on the verge of tears with a similar question on our minds. How, exactly how, did Kathy’s entire life fit into that tiny little box? Just then, as though he wanted to divert our attention, Paul the tree-­hugger organist began playing “My Favorite Things” for a moment or two and then broke into a wild and rollicking rendition of “When the Saints Go Marching In.” You would have thought we were in the French Quarter of New Orleans at a Cajun funeral. I felt a sudden piercing urge to get up and dance in the aisle. It wasn’t until we were all smiling, and the priest had cleared his throat loudly several times and made some terrible faces and hand gestures indicating his displeasure, that Paul let the music die out. And he didn’t stop playing all at once. He slowed down, dropped his left hand, slowly played a few notes with his right hand, and then let the final notes fade away entirely, without finishing the verse.

  Clearly, Paul the tree-­hugging organist was insulted. We could hear his shoes click across the floor. He took a seat in the pew right behind us.

  “I was ready to join in,” Suzanne said.

  “Me too,” I said, and looked at Carrie, who bobbed her head in agreement.

  Paul leaned forward and whispered to us. Loudly.

  “She loved that music,” he said. “That priest is a stuffy old man.”

  Suzanne turned around and said to him, “You’re right.”

  Then, sensing that wasn’t enough to repair his embarrassment, Carrie turned and said, “Kathy would’ve loved your selections.”

  I turned to see him blush and smile and it appeared that the sting had been soothed. But in my peripheral vision I saw Suzanne roll her eyes, which seemed a little snide. I didn’t know if I agreed with her position or not. Suzanne didn’t suffer fools well and this Paul fellow was obviously a sensitive man. I didn’t have to agree with Carrie and Suzanne on everything to be on good terms with them. Being a medical professional and one who had spent a great deal of time seeing to Kathryn’s comfort gave me a space where I could hold my own opinions. Personally? In my experience, sensitive men were an unusual and beautiful thing. Unfortunately, they often played for the other team.

  I felt a little bad for Paul. He was obviously affected by the death of Kathy. I wondered how close they had been. Had they been lovers? Whatever relationship they had known with each other must’ve ended some time ago because I could not recall ever seeing him at Palmetto House. But that didn’t mean their relationship had been insignificant. Maybe he had thought they might reunite? Maybe he had thought there was time? Maybe he had never even known she was so ill? Or ill at all?

  The priest was circling Kathryn’s ashes and sprinkling holy water all over the place. It was an interesting ser­vice, filled with all the smells, bells, and drama that you always hear go on in the Catholic Church. I wondered if I should go to Communion for Kathy’s sake, but then the priest made a small speech about who was welcome at the Communion rail and who was not. I was a “was-­not.” So were Carrie and Suzanne. In fact, the only people who went to Communion were Paul and a prim older woman
who Suzanne said worked with them at her florist.

  Suzanne leaned over toward me again.

  She said, “He’s a convert.”

  “Converts are the worst,” Carrie said. “He used to be Jewish. But clearly not terribly devout.”

  Soon we were reciting the Lord’s Prayer and being told to “go in peace.” Kathryn Gordon Harper’s Requiem Mass was officially ended. It was the strangest moment. I felt a chill travel from the bottom of my spine to the top of my head, and despite the heat, I shuddered. Not only was Kathy gone from the world but I realized then that I might never see Carrie and Suzanne again. I know that remark probably seems ridiculous. After all, they were Kathy’s friends and I was merely one of the many ­people who saw about her care. But I knew I’d miss them.

  Inside of an hour I had gone from a strong, independent, seasoned nurse to an insecure woman whose insides jiggled a bit over the thought of not having these two women for friends. Was I being pathetic or merely human?

  The priest came down from the altar and removed the linen cloth that covered the tiny box which held Kathy’s ashes. He folded it carefully so that it would not have to be reironed for the next ceremony and handed it to the altar boy, who turned and left. Then he spoke.

  “To whom shall I entrust Kathryn Harper’s remains?”

  “To me,” Suzanne said, and stepped forward. “I’m Suzanne Williams. Her friend and her employer. But mostly her friend.”

  “My condolences,” he said disingenuously, and handed her the horrible box. He then turned on his heel with all the officiousness of a visiting bishop or perhaps a cardinal and simply walked away. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He probably sang it in the shower.

  Suzanne just stood there with the box in her hands, looking at it.

  “How terrible,” she said.

  “What?” I said, silently agreeing with her.

  “Well, there was no wake, no reception, no nothing at all for our friend,” Suzanne said. “Just this Mass with this cranky priest, and oh, I don’t know, it just seems like . . .”

  “She deserved more?” Carrie said.

  “It’s just over too quick,” Suzanne said. “Everything, this ser­vice, her life . . . God. How awful.”

  “I know what. Why don’t we go out for brunch?” I said, thinking I was ripe for an episode of purely emotional eating.

  “I could go for pancakes big-­time,” Carrie said. “Or waffles. Well, just one.”

  “I could go for pancakes anytime,” I said, but I did count carbs.

  “Or an omelet,” Suzanne said. “Maybe a mimosa or . . .”

  We were walking outside and we paused near the door of the church to see an older woman approaching us. She was very chic and could possibly have been wearing vintage Courrèges or Givenchy, which was odd for Charleston, in the middle of the day, in the broiling weather. She didn’t have a drop of perspiration on her and we were practically dripping. When she removed her oversized sunglasses I gasped, wondering how many times she’d had an eyelift. Then there was the alarming matter of her chin and neck to be considered.

  “Excuse me,” she said to Suzanne. “Are you part of Kathy’s family?”

  “No,” Suzanne said.

  “Oh. Well, did she have any family?”

  “No. She was an only child. Her parents died years ago,” Suzanne said. “No siblings.”

  “Who are you?” Carrie asked. She seemed uncomfortable and she whispered to me, “Who knows? These days?”

  I nodded in agreement because sometimes suspicious ­people did turn up in the strangest places.

  “I’m her landlady. Wendy Murray. I have to dispose of her earthly treasures. Will you ladies be helping me to do that?”

  Suzanne and Carrie exchanged looks and said, “Sure, I guess. Of course.”

  “She left everything to me,” Suzanne said.

  This was news. I had wondered about Kathy’s estate.

  “What got her?” Wendy asked.

  “Cancer,” Carrie said. “She sure fought it.”

  “She was incredibly brave,” Suzanne said. “And she never complained. Not one word.”

  “Humph, I knew there was something fishy going on. At first I thought she went on a long vacation, like a Carnival Cruise. She was always getting brochures from them in the mail. And then I had to read her obituary in the paper,” Wendy said. “Sometimes I think the whole world has cancer.”

  “Seems like it, doesn’t it?” Carrie said.

  “We see so much of it,” I said.

  “Who’s we?” Wendy asked.

  Boy, I thought, this is one salty little old lady.

  “I’m Lisa St. Clair. And I was one of her nurses at Palmetto House.”

  “What in the heck was she doing there?” Wendy said, and shook her bangle bracelets. “I thought cancer patients went to hospice.”

  Carrie cringed.

  “She was in hospice,” I said. “We have some hospice beds.”

  “Palmetto House, huh? That’s where I want to go when my time comes! That’s a swinging place,” Wendy said with a wicked grin that stretched across her stretched face.

  I figured she had to be seventy or maybe even eighty if she was a day. Well, I thought, she’d better hurry up and book a room if she wants to be part of the Palmetto House action. How long did she expect to live?

  “After happy hour it can get pretty crazy.” And, you’d better bring an antibiotic for STDs if you know what’s good for you, I also thought but did not say. Party on, babe.

  “So I hear,” Wendy said, still grinning, and began digging in her purse, pulling out a pen and tearing the back from an envelope. She leaned on a car, scribbled her address and phone number, and handed the paper to Suzanne. “It’s already the twentieth of the month. If you could get her stuff this week it would be great.”

  “I’ll try,” Suzanne said.

  “I have to paint and try to rent the place out by the first,” Wendy said. “Life goes on, you know?”

  Wendy Murray turned on her kitten heel and proceeded to cross the parking lot to her car without so much as a “Gee, it was nice to meet you ladies” or “Wasn’t Kathy such a sweet lady?” or even a “What a shame!”

  We stood there together watching her get into her car and I think it’s safe to say there was a collective feeling that we’d been on the receiving end of some very unsouthern and unladylike behavior.

  “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 sund
own 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!”