All the Single Ladies

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Oh, okay.”

  She gave me her sizes and said, “Bring me my purse.” I got it for her from the closet. She took her Belk card from her wallet and handed it to me. “If they want me to authorize a purchase, tell them to call me. Suzanne shops for me all the time.”

  “Okay. See you later! Pickle?”

  Pickle looked up at me.

  “Be a good girl, okay?”

  I have to admit my head was spinning, between thinking about shopping for Miss Trudie and getting tossed out of my house. I really had to do something to stabilize my life. The very idea that someone could just walk in my house and throw me out with no warning was not only demoralizing, it was horrifying. But was a man the answer? It just seemed like prostitution somehow. Unless I found a man who made me a better person, someone I didn’t want to live without. And what were the odds of that?

  I went through the sale racks at Belk’s and chose a number of things I thought Miss Trudie might like. Pull-­on linen pants with pockets, loose shirts and tank tops that matched. And in the shoe department I found some adorable sandals that looked comfortable and cool for the hot weather and a pair of athletic shoes and low socks for chilly nights. If she liked what I bought she could keep it, and if she didn’t I’d return it. I just have to say, I never thought a crusty ninety-­nine-­year-­old lady would be my shelter from a storm. I was so happy to be able to do something for her.

  I paid for everything with her card without a problem and next I went to Lowe’s. The plumbing supply houses were closed on Saturdays. I thought I’d just have a look at what they had in stock. I roamed the aisles as though I was walking a labyrinth, awed by the mountains of merchandise. Five hundred kinds of lightbulbs, hundreds of colors of paint, countless chandeliers and ceiling fans, doorbells, ladders in every size. I finally reached the bathtubs, toilets, and sinks and knew I was getting close. I spotted the fixture aisle a mere football field away and hurried over.

  “Not too bad,” I said out loud to no one.

  Of course they had the utilitarian big fat grab bars made from PVC to every combination of chrome and brass you can dream up. I tried to remember if Miss Trudie’s cabinet pulls were silver or gold and brushed or polished, and of course I could not. But I looked at the prices and decided they were very fair. It wasn’t a wasted trip. At least now I knew that we had options.

  Next I went to Publix and bought fruit and vegetables to make juice. I passed on the kale and opted for spinach instead. I hated kale and I didn’t care who knew it. And I knew there wasn’t a cavernous refrigerator back at the house, so I tried to be judicious regarding the bulk of my choices, thinking it would be best to see if the others even liked raw juices.

  Suddenly I was getting shaky. I looked at my watch. Two thirty. Good! I had an excuse to buy a piece of Publix’s chicken, which is so good it makes my mouth actually water when I think about it. I ate it in the car with the engine running and the air-­conditioning going full blast. If my car smelled like chicken for a week it would be okay with me. The smell of fried, baked, or roasted chicken was my Chanel No. 5.

  By the time I got back to the Isle of Palms and unloaded the car, it was almost time for me to shower and dress for my date with Paul. But I knew that out of simple courtesy I should show Miss Trudie each garment, wait for her to try them all on, and see what she thought. So I did.

  “I look like a red-­hot momma!” she said, looking in the mirror, grinning from ear to ear.

  “That’s your color, Miss Trudie. You should wear aqua all the time. It will look so great with your turquoise jewelry.”

  “I think you’re right,” she said. “I love all the clothes but I can’t tell you that I love these sneakers. I mean, I understand why I need them. But I don’t love them.”

  “Well, good. We’ll take that for now. It makes me very happy that you like the clothes.”

  “I do. Thank you, Lisa. Pickle and I had a grand time while you were gone. And . . . well, it’s awfully nice to have you here.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “For everything. Yesterday wasn’t exactly—­”

  “Lisa? There are bumps in everybody’s road or else you’re not really living.”

  “I think that’s right. I’m just saying I don’t know what I would’ve done if you and Suzanne hadn’t stepped in to help me.”

  “It’s all right now. So, don’t you have a date tonight?”

  “I sure do,” I said. “At six.”

  “Well, then shouldn’t you be getting ready? Or doing something?”

  I started to laugh and she did too.

  I showered and blew out my hair and made some attempt at cosmetic enhancement. By five forty-­five I had the thirty-­six questions in my purse and I was ready. Suzanne and Carrie weren’t home yet, but I knew they’d had a very long day in front of them. I was sitting on the porch with Pickle and Miss Trudie when Paul pulled into the driveway. Miss Trudie sat up in her chair and looked over the banister. She gave him the once-­over as he got out of his Audi.

  “Good car,” she whispered.

  “Yeah,” I said, and stood up.

  He saw me.

  “Hey there! Don’t you look nice? You ready to go?”

  “Yes, but come meet my friend!”

  “Sure!” he said, and came up the front steps onto the porch.

  Pickle, of course, ran to him and sat waiting for his praise and a little love. Paul immediately leaned down and gave her a good tousle and some sweet words.

  “That’s such a sweet girl!” he said in a baby voice. “Yes, she is!”

  “Pickle, give Paul some breathing room,” I said. “Paul, say hello to Miss Trudie. Miss Trudie? This is my friend Paul Gleicher.”

  “Hello, Miss Trudie,” Paul said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you too,” she said. Then she smiled. “Lisa? Would you be a dear and bring me some olives before you go?”

  Olives. That glass of clear liquid next to her was gin. And she wanted a moment alone with Paul. I wondered why.

  “Sure! I’ll be right back.”

  I hurried inside and scooped a handful of olives into a little dish and brought them to her.

  “Here we are,” I said, and put them on the table next to her. “Okay, so I guess we’ll see you later?”

  “Try to get home at a decent hour,” Miss Trudie said. “I don’t want the neighbors to talk.”

  I knew she was just teasing me, so I said, “Well, if we start running late should I stay out all night?”

  She looked at me and laughed. “Yes, you certainly should! I don’t want the neighbors to think I’m running a cathouse!” She paused for a moment and added, “Go have fun. And have fun for me too!”

  “Okay! We will!”

  We got in the car and Paul started backing out of the driveway.

  “She’s a character,” he said. “Do you want to know what she said to me while you went to the kitchen?”

  “I sure do.”

  “She said, ‘Now you listen to me, young man. Lisa is a nice girl and I don’t want to see her get hurt, so you’d better mind your p’s and q’s.’ ”

  “Oh! That is just about the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard! My mother would’ve said, ‘I don’t understand why you’re not taking me with you. I’m more fun than my daughter!’ ”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, definitely. What does ‘p’s and q’s’ mean? Do you know?”

  “Actually I do. Well, this isn’t the only explanation. But there was an expression that came from seventeenth-­century English taverns referring to a method for how the bartenders calculated the alcoholic consumption of their patrons by counting their pints and quarts. Or it might have been for figuring out the tab. But today it just means, ‘you’d better behave.’ ”

  “That’s what I thought,” I sa
id. I most certainly had not ever heard that explanation and I wondered how he knew all these weird things. “If we ever play Trivial Pursuit, I want to be on your team. So, you live downtown?”

  “Yep, I have a loft on Chisolm Street. It’s a great location but it’s probably too small for more than one person. I bought it a long time ago with the intention of flipping it, but I can work from home, so it’s pretty convenient.”

  “Well, I can’t wait to see it,” I said.

  We made pleasant conversation for the remainder of the fifteen-­minute ride to his house. Not to sound too sappy but there was definitely some voodoo in the air between us. I thought I was too old for my hormones or pheromones to start itching for a scratch. Nonetheless, I had this ridiculous smile on my face that was more than a smirk and less than a full-­on gum-­baring grin. So did he. I think the term is “giddy.” Yep. That’s it. We were giddy.

  What can I say about where Paul lived? It was one hundred and eighty degrees different from anyplace I’d ever called home; that was for sure. The loft was open and airy and very modern. It was a tiny industrially finished man cave. Exposed pipes crawled the walls and expanding tubular silver ductwork was draped through the air like the dragons that appear during Chinese New Year celebrations. No amount of fabric, artwork, or rugs could hope to soften this place. Nope. You could bring in trees and ceramics until the cows came home with the sheep and I’d still swear that no woman I’d ever known would want the credit for the decor. Its one redeeming furnishing was a gorgeous, lacquered black piano.

  “So, what do you think?” he said, spreading his arms out and turning around.

  “I think it’s . . . um, it’s sort of incredible!” I smiled and hoped I had sounded complimentary.

  “It could probably use a woman’s touch, right?” he said.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “What do I know? I like the openness of the space. It’s very different.”

  I walked all around the living area and peeked into a powder room. It was spotless, I’ll say that much. There was a dining table near the front window and it was set for two ­people. And there were candles on the table, although darkness was hours away.

  Paul went over to the stove in the kitchen that was smack-­dab in the middle of the living area and lifted the top of a pot, peering inside. He turned on the gas under it, presumably to reheat the spaghetti sauce. I sat on a stool at the breakfast bar. He turned on the heat under another large pot, probably filled with water for pasta.

  “Well, I had all these plans to decorate it but I’ve just been so busy and I travel too much. Basically I’m here to sleep and do a little work. Otherwise, I’m in my office or on a job site. Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Sure. Thanks. So you play the piano, I assume?”

  “Not as much as I’d like to. Too busy. I hated practicing when I was a kid, but now I’m glad I learned to play. Music soothes the savage beast, you know.”

  “Oh, dear! Are you, you know, a savage beast?” I pretended to be horrified.

  “Um, no.”

  He pulled the cork from a bottle of some kind of Italian red wine and filled two goblets a little less than halfway.

  “Here’s to you, Lisa, and to getting to know you better!”

  He raised his glass in the air between us.

  “And here’s to you too! Thank you for this lovely evening!”

  We touched the rims of our glasses. The gentle clink produced pleasant echoing notes, like slight movements of tiny crystal wind chimes. We took a sip. It was really delicious. Not sweet and not sour. I guessed it probably cost more than ten dollars, because even at room temperature it didn’t make me draw up my cheeks like I had just sucked a lemon. And it didn’t need ice.

  “This is probably the most delicious wine I’ve ever tasted,” I said.

  “It ought to be!” he said, and laughed. “It’s an ’83 Barolo. I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.”

  “And I’m a special occasion?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Wow, I thought, I’m a special occasion. There was a first time for everything.

  Chapter 12

  The Fix

  In the end I decided that I liked the fixtures I had seen at Lowe’s better than what I saw anywhere else. I bought what Miss Trudie needed, including a little teakwood bench for her shower so she could sit down to wash her feet. The handyman from Palmetto House gladly installed the grab bars and faucets for a modest fee and Miss Trudie was tickled pink, especially with the bench.

  “I never thought about putting a bench in my shower. What a wonderful idea,” she said.

  “They even have walk-­in bathtubs now. With Jacuzzis! Maybe you’ve seen them on television?” I said.

  “Yes, I have, but let me ask you this. You go in there in your birthday suit, correct?”

  “I imagine so,” I said.

  “And then you have to wait around for the fool thing to fill and you have to wait for it to drain. You could get pneumonia with all that waiting around,” she said. “I’ll stick with my bench, thank you. That’s plenty of excitement for me.”

  “Me too!” I said.

  We both laughed and I realized again that it was still possible to make new friends. Even at my age and even at hers.

  My date with Paul last Saturday night had gone really well. He had not oversold his spaghetti. It had simply been the best Bolognese sauce I’d ever eaten. Ever.

  “What’s in this?” I’d said. “There’s something different.”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s a secret.”

  “Then I’ll have to squeeze it out of you.”

  “That’s what I was hoping for,” he said.

  “You bad boy,” I’d said, and thought, Wow, it’s okay to be silly!

  I’d forgotten how much fun it was to tease and just give in to having fun. What a dreary woman I’d been. And for far too long. Of course I didn’t have a crystal ball to see far into the future and find out if Paul would still be there. It didn’t matter. We just liked each other and he brought out the girl in me. I was glad to know the girl was still there. We never got to go through the thirty-­six questions because we were too busy talking about other things. But I told him about the experiment and he thought it was sort of incredible.

  “I might be up for that,” he said. “Why don’t we have dinner on Tuesday and give it a whirl? There’s a new restaurant on Shem Creek I want to try. It’s where The Trawler used to be. Remember The Trawler?”

  “No Thai food?”

  “Ah! You’re right. I promised you Thai food. We’ll go there another time? Is that okay?”

  “Of course. That sounds great,” I said. “I haven’t had a decent piece of fish in a while.”

  So Tuesday evening he picked me up at seven and very soon we were being seated in The Tavern & Table on Shem Creek. The dining room was beautiful in a rustic and inviting way.

  “Gosh! Somebody spent some money on this place, didn’t they?” I exclaimed.

  “They sure did,” Paul said.

  “I remember it from another incarnation, after The Trawler. It was pretty sticky and disgusting, but they still had ­people lined up out the door and into the parking lot.”

  “That’s when hole-­in-­the-­wall eateries were chic. Now they’re just holes in the wall or maybe I just got old and picky.”

  I thought, Wouldn’t it be wonderful to afford being picky?

  The young server approached our table, poured water, and recited the specials. Paul ordered some white wine—­a bottle of Château de Sancerre—­and we looked over the menus again. Eric, our server, had a deep golden tan, longish sun-­bleached straight hair cut better than mine, and I suspected that when he wasn’t waiting tables he was riding waves and chasing skirts. This suspi
cion was more or less confirmed when he replied to Paul’s wine order.

  “Awesome,” he said, “great choice.”

  But then he stunned us when he continued.

  “That particular Sancerre has truly piquant citrus notes that totally enhance the experience when it’s paired with seafood, but the floral finish complements without being overpowering. The 2014 is total child abuse but the 2009 is pouring really well.”

  You could have knocked us out of our seats with the flick of a finger.

  “I think I need a moment to give this menu the consideration it deserves,” Paul said.

  “Awesome,” he said again, bobbing his head like a wonton just dropped into a steaming bowl of hot soup. “Totally take your time. I’ll get that bottle right away.”

  Eric stepped away to be awesome in the wine cellar. I caught Paul’s eye and we laughed.

  “Nothing like a totally awesome studly sommelier to make me feel like a totally decrepit old dude,” Paul said.

  “Totally,” I said, and giggled. “I guess he’s smarter than he looks.”

  “Never judge a book . . . Okay, so before we ask each other the now infamous thirty-­six questions that will change our lives? I’m thinking of ordering the shrimp beignets and a T-­and-­T charcuterie plate, and I’m hoping you’ll share the whole fish with me. How does that sound?”

  “As long as I can have the salted caramel panna cotta for dessert?”

  “You’ll give me a bite?”

  “Of course!”

  We closed our menus and looked at each other. It was that dreamy time of evening when the ambient light softens, when you need to turn on a few lights, so you do, but you use a dimmer switch. You don’t want to re-­create midday. You want to relax . . . And as for me, I was ready to let the Lowcountry begin its seductive magic.

  I still found myself feeling too shy to peer into Paul’s eyes for more than a few seconds, but I was going to have to do exactly that as a part of the thirty-­six-­question experiment. I hoped that by the time we reached that point it would seem comfortable. As though he read my mind, he reached across the table and covered the back of my hand with his and squeezed.