All the Single Ladies: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page B

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 sundown 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