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

a pile of brand-­new nightgowns. Why don’t we take all the stuff that’s used and put it in boxes and all the clothes that aren’t used in others? You know, separate them?”
    “Great idea,” I said. “The used clothes, depending on how used, could go to a consignment shop or to Goodwill? Right?”
    “Exactly!” Suzanne said.
    Carrie asked, “Could you use the nightgowns at Palmetto House? Maybe someone might need them?”
    I thought for a moment about all the really old ­people who were bedridden whose families rarely came to visit them. It would surprise the negligent relatives to find their grandmothers in fresh new gowns and let them guess where they came from.
    “Absolutely! We have all these supersweet older ladies who would love a new gown!” I said. “I mean, it’s not like their daughters visit too much or ever bring them anything useful.”
    “Are you kidding me?” Suzanne said, stopping and putting her hands on her hips. “Is that what goes on?”
    “You have no idea. Listen, usually family comes on the weekends and they bring cookies or maybe some DVDs or magazines. Sometimes flowers. But not everyone shows up on a regular basis and a lot of them come empty-­handed, with no concept of what their mother or grandmother might need. And they don’t ask.”
    “Well, good grief,” Suzanne said. “We’ve got clothes and books and all sorts of things here . . .”
    Before Suzanne could finish, Wendy appeared through the door that joined the hallway and her part of the house.
    “I thought it might be a good idea for me to put stickies on the few things that belong to me, you know, so there’s no confusion.”
    “Good idea,” I said, stepping across the living room but not making eye contact with her.
    “We were planning on coming back tomorrow with two men and my van to take everything,” Suzanne said.
    There was the spool bed, an older slipcovered sofa with crocheted afghans over its back, and some throw pillows strewn about. A small coffee table, a club chair and ottoman, an end table and some lamps. But the prize pieces of furniture were a gorgeous chest-­on-­chest and a beautiful linen press in the bedroom. I watched as Wendy attached the sticky yellow squares to those exact two pieces and my eyebrows must have shot up to the ceiling. I said nothing.
    “That’s it,” Wendy said.
    She shot me a prissy smirk and left, closing the door behind her.
    “Did you see that face she made?” I asked.
    “I’ll bet she knows we’re onto her,” Carrie said.
    “I’ll bet she doesn’t,” Suzanne said. “She’s not that smart.”
    “I’ll bet y’all five dollars that furniture isn’t hers,” I said.
    Suzanne’s eyes narrowed and she said, “You’re on, but tell me what you’re thinking.”
    “I don’t know but I just can’t understand why anyone would furnish a rental apartment with furniture that’s so much nicer than what she has in her own house.”
    There was the briefest moment of silence while they pondered the question. Suzanne spoke.
    “Why indeed?” she said.
    “Because it isn’t hers at all,” Carrie said.
    “You’re right,” Suzanne said, running her hand across the patina of the chest-­on-­chest. “I’m not a furniture expert but I’ll bet you this is worth a pretty penny.”
    “Before they retired my mother and father were antiques dealers,” I said, and pulled my cell phone from my purse. “I’m going to shoot a picture of this and the linen press and send it to them. They’ll know if they’re worth anything.”
    I was clicking away and Suzanne and Carrie were stunned.
    Carrie was wide-­eyed by then and said, “Ladies? We might have a genuine situation on our hands.”
    “I’ll let you know what my parents think as soon as I hear back from them.”
    That evening I sent those pictures to my mother and she called me right away.
    “Where did you find this furniture?” she asked.
    “In a friend’s apartment. What do you