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

hippie to you?”
    “No, ma’am!” I said, but thought, Yes, ma’am, you sure as hell do.
    “Maybe I could have been a mother to a hippie, but my Gertie was a stick in the mud, God rest her soul.”
    Suzanne had yet to reveal what happened to her mother, but since Miss Trudie spoke of her in the past tense and prayed her soul to rest well, it was safe to assume she was among the dearly departed with all of Carrie’s husbands.
    “Oh!” I said, and sat in a Kennedy rocker across from them.
    “Yes, sirree, Bob. It’s still a mystery to me how she ever got a husband and where those three girls of hers came from. She never even went on a date, as far as I knew.”
    “Oh, Miss Trudie,” Suzanne said. “You know that’s not the truth. Momma dated all kinds of boys. She was a homecoming queen, for heaven’s sake.”
    “She was? Now, you would think I would remember something like that,” Miss Trudie said, and then she smiled at me. She looked back to Suzanne. “Well, if I am confused about the facts, it is probably because somebody has not given me my glass of sherry!”
    “Oh, Miss Trudie! So sorry!” Suzanne said, and got up. She kissed her grandmother on the cheek before disappearing back inside the house.
    “I have to keep her on her toes,” Miss Trudie said to Carrie and me. “Otherwise our whole routine gets sloppy and goes out the window! Now tell me about yourself, Lisa. Who are your ­people?”
    “Well, my parents are retired and living in Hilton Head. They’re Carol and Alan St. Clair.”
    “St. Clair. St. Clair? Hmm. Did they own an antiques business on lower King Street?”
    “They surely did. They finally sold it when those chain stores came to town. Big chains added to what you can buy on the Internet put a serious cramp in their sales.”
    “Well, darlin’, the whole world is heading straight to hell in a handbasket, if you ask me,” Miss Trudie declared. “And, how do they like living in Hilton Head?”
    “They adore it,” I said.
    “Well, I’ll be. I cannot stand the place. Every building looks the same. No landmarks. I’d get lost going to the grocery store. Anyway, you are awfully lucky to have parents considering how old you are. If my darling Suzanne’s parents did not drive off a cliff in Italy they would be gone by now anyway. Or maybe not. But they would be almost my age!”
    “Goodness!” I said because it was clear she was waiting for a response.
    Then she started to fidget. “I am completely famished. I had tomatoes for lunch, so I think I am going to make myself a cream-­cheese-­and-­olive sandwich.”
    Olive. The key word had been spoken.
    Suzanne, who returned and handed Miss Trudie her glass, arched an eyebrow and smirked. Carrie nodded.
    “My favorite,” I said, adding, “or cream cheese and pineapple.”
    “Yum,” Carrie said.
    “Do we even own any olives?” Miss Trudie asked, and tossed back her shot of sherry like a frat boy swigging from a bottle of tequila.
    “I just opened a new jar,” Suzanne said. “It’s on the second shelf in the refrigerator. Do you want a hand?”
    “I think I can still manage a sandwich. I am not dead yet.”
    Miss Trudie looked from face to face to see if we were horrified, amused, or in agreement. Carrie gave her a smile, Suzanne shook her head, and I thought . . . well, I understood that kind of humor too well.
    “You sound like a lot of our patients,” I said, smiling.
    “What? Are you a doctor?”
    “No, I’m a nurse and I work at Palmetto House.”
    “Humph. I have heard that place is more fun than a barrel of monkeys but I like being in my own home. Even if the ser­vice is spotty.”
    “Miss Trudie!” Suzanne said in mock horror.
    “Well,” I said, “the current wisdom is that you’re better off in your own house for a whole lot of reasons. As long as it’s safe and you don’t have any extraordinary medical needs.”
    “Please. Besides, I am not quite old enough for that joint. I still have all