All the Single Ladies Read Online Free PDF Page 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.
    â€œSee 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.
    â€œHe used to date Kathy.”
    â€œReally?” I said.
    â€œHe was crazy about her,” Carrie said.
    â€œAnd 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?
    â€œWhat’s his name?” I said.
    â€œPaul 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.
    â€œI was ready to join in,” Suzanne said.
    â€œMe too,” I said, and looked at Carrie, who bobbed her head in agreement.
    Paul leaned forward and whispered to us. Loudly.
    â€œShe 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