All the Single Ladies Read Online Free PDF

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.”
    â€œConverts 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.
    â€œTo whom shall I entrust Kathryn Harper’s remains?”
    â€œTo me,” Suzanne said, and stepped forward. “I’m Suzanne Williams. Her friend and her employer. But mostly her friend.”
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œHow terrible,” she said.
    â€œWhat?” I said, silently agreeing with her.
    â€œWell, 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 . . .”
    â€œShe deserved more?” Carrie said.
    â€œIt’s just over too quick,” Suzanne said. “Everything, this ser­vice, her life . . . God. How awful.”
    â€œI know what. Why don’t we go out for brunch?” I said, thinking I was ripe for an episode of purely emotional eating.
    â€œI could go for pancakes big-­time,” Carrie said. “Or waffles. Well, just one.”
    â€œI could go for pancakes anytime,” I said, but I did count carbs.
    â€œOr 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