That drew Frances’s attention. She and Joan could share? Because Irene hadn’t been too keen to share with Frances in Florida, or on the way to Colorado, or even here in Tennessee at the roadside motel.
“As long as I have room for my wigs,” Joan said, without looking up from her phone.
Frances was seriously beginning to wonder what was going on with those two. She remembered that there had been occasions in the past when she’d wondered the same. They would seem so close at times, and at other times, cool, indifferent. Like they’d only just met.
Whatever. The most important thing in the moment was that she had a bed and an ice pack.
So, Wilma Thinstone rented the house while they were still in the gazebo, then she and Joan and Irene hiked out the back of Edie’s spectacular property, reversing the way Marcy had brought them in. Edie went to her house to speak to her granddaughter. It was all very taxing on Frances, and she was beginning to worry about her stamina. The same stamina she’d bragged about on the way from Colorado. She could feel herself getting weaker. New Boobs Sue would have a field day with her on the pickleball court now without a hair moving out of place.
Mostly, she was relieved no one had seemed to notice how she flagged every day.
The rental wasn’t bad—a standard little ranch house, furnished almost exclusively by IKEA.
“Not a cockroach in sight,” Joan said. “Let’s make a list of food and drink, and I’ll go shop.”
While Joan was out, Frances and Irene settled into the rooms. “Remember that place Edie and I lived after I got booted off the family property?” Frances asked.
Irene had to think. “That walk-up with the pervy guy acrossthe hall?” She laughed. “Long Island, man. We had some good times there, didn’t we?”
Unbidden tears suddenly sprang to Frances’s eyes. She turned her back so that Irene wouldn’t ridicule her sentimentality. “We did,” she managed to say. Damn it, she was not generally so dewy-eyed. Maybe it was the prospect of death looming large, but she couldn’t help but feel tenderhearted about those four young women left entirely on their own. They didn’t care that the terrible apartment had no hot water and a crack in the window that let in the coldest winter air. That was where they decided to carry on with their thievery. They had no sense. Just an unflagging belief in themselves.
Joan was an artist, and a model. She’d been trying to break into theater and had managed to snag some minor roles, which gave her access to costumes. Irene was taking a class at the community college, learning about “computing.” At the time, none of them really knew what that was. Frances had been nursing a broken heart and feeling directionless and alone, but at least she still had money from the sale of her mother’s antique emerald jewelry box. And Edie had been on a quest to find a sugar daddy. She found him, all right—the first of many. The abuse with that one came a little later. And the heist of his expensive watch collection a little later after that.
“I miss those days,” Frances said. “Do you?”
“In a way,” Irene said. “But I also remember being sick of ramen and beans and being cold all the time.”
“But we had each other,” Frances said wistfully.
“Don’t tell me you’ve turned into one of those sentimental grandmas with a Hallmark Channel addiction,” Irene said.
“Okay, I won’t tell you that.” She smiled. But she couldn’t quite rid herself of the longing for that time.
They heard Joan coming through the kitchen door and went to meet her. She had two bags of groceries. She’d bought legal pads and pens, too.
Edie finally arrived at dusk, coming in through the back door,wearing a large sun hat, even larger sunglasses, and carrying an enormous tote bag. She whipped off the sun hat and gave her hair a shake as she looked around. “This place stinks.”
“I’m sorry, Highness,” Frances said.
“What did you say to my granddaughter?”
“What?”
Edie hoisted her bag onto the kitchen table. “She said she knew we were thieves.”
“Oh.” Frances glanced at Joan and Irene, who had conveniently busied themselves with bustling around the kitchen. “What did you say?”
“What could I say? That she was being ridiculous. That of course we weren’t. I then invited her to imagine how that could possibly be, if she could picture any one of us old broads shimmying up a tree or down a drain spout. And guess what? She couldn’t.”
“We never shimmed up trees or down drain spouts,” Frances said.
“Iknow, Franny, butshedoesn’t. All she knows about heists comes from the movieOcean’s Elevenwhere eleven men do all sorts of physical feats.”
“Did you take the opportunity to tell her that we were much better than a bunch of dudes?” Irene asked. “And smarter, too, because we had to be.”
“That would have defeated the purpose of lying about it to begin with. I told her we weren’t anything but friends. And you’re missing the point—you guys told my granddaughter what we did! How could you?”
“It’s better than telling the FBI,” Irene said, folding her arms.
