All the Single Ladies: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

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