Free All the Single Ladies: A Novel by Dorothea Benton Frank Page A

hands on her hips. “Do you want to tell this story or am I telling this story?”
    “Sorry,” Carrie said, and made sort of an apologetic face.
    “Naturally, he was married but he said he was going to leave his wife. It was textbook classic. I believed him. I was such a fool for that man it was pitiful. This went on for nearly ten years. He would leave her, she’d threaten suicide, he’d go back to her. It got to the point that it was just stupid. I was so worn out from his lies and the disappointing truth of it all that I quit my job, came home to Charleston, and had a little meltdown.”
    “That is so terrible!” I said.
    “And opened my business. Well, it was especially terrible because by the time I untangled myself from him and got over it, I was almost too old to hope to safely bring babies into the world.”
    “He was a world-­class shit,” Carrie said. “That’s what he was.”
    “Boy, I’ll say!” I said.
    “Look, there are worse ways my life could’ve played out than this,” Suzanne said. “He didn’t hold a gun to my head, you know. I have a pretty sweet business. I have the pleasure of my grandmother’s company and I get the benefit of her wisdom every day. I’m healthy. I live in a magical place. I’m solvent and hell will freeze before I let another man in my bed. Maybe.”
    “That’s right, sugar. Keep your options open!” Carrie said.
    “With any luck,” I said, with a smile as big as I could manage, “someday you might inherit this magical place!”
    I never would’ve guessed that someone as brilliant as Suzanne would get caught in one of those messy affairs. Not in a million years.
    “Are you kidding? I have two sisters, Alicia and Clio, both of them very wealthy with long marriages and tons of kids who are just waiting for Miss Trudie to go to that big cocktail party in the sky so they can get their share.”
    “I have a brother like that,” I said. “Alan Jr., also known as Bubba, and his very annoying wife, Janet, have something to say about every dime my parents spend. You know, it affects their inheritance if my father buys a tire for his car or if my mother buys a new sofa.”
    “Don’t you just love families?” Carrie asked.
    And then we heard what had to be Miss Trudie’s approach from a distance. Shuffle, thunk . Shuffle, thunk . The sound grew louder as she neared us. Suddenly the screen door swung open, hit the wall with a thwack, and there stood Miss Trudie, relying heavily on her tripod cane to propel her forward. Her thin white hair was swept back into a braid that began at the nape of her neck and extended down almost to her waist. She wore a gauze, embroidered Mexican wedding dress and slip-­on canvas shoes with a Mary Jane strap. Her arms were bony and marked with the bruises and ravages of time but she had decorated herself with Native American bracelets and necklaces of beautiful turquoise and hammered silver.
    “Not that I was listening, but families are the bedrock upon which this country was built. If it were not for women, this whole darn society of ours would have fallen apart ages ago!” She turned to me, ignored me, then turned to Pickle and grinned. “Darling baby!”
    Pickle, of course, hopped up, scampered to her side, and sat obediently.
    “Lisa? Meet my grandmother, Miss Trudie. Let me help you to your chair.”
    “How am I to sit in my chair if someone else has parked themselves in it?”
    She glared at me but I knew she was teasing. Nonetheless, I got up promptly. She shuffled over and eased herself down into it with a rather dramatic flourish, exclaiming “Oomph!” as she sat.
    “It is nice to meet you, Lisa. It is even nicer to meet your Pickle!” She laughed.
    “Thanks! It’s great to meet you too! And, I love your turquoise,” I said. “Is it Zuni?”
    “How should I know? I have had these baubles since before Woodstock!”
    “Oh! Did you go to Woodstock?” I asked without doing the mental math.
    “Do I look like a