“Oh, you should go, Franny. I bet it’s nice this time of year.”
“Which airport are we going to?” Dan asked.
Marjorie glared at him. “Intercontinental, Dan. Like all the big blue signs say.” She shook her head and looked out the passengerwindow in a manner that suggested she couldn’t stand her forever love. Marjorie and her stupid ring. Stupid because nothing lasted forever. Not love, not life, not girl gangs.
Frances’s head was beginning to hurt. She reached into her purse and dug around until she found a pill. She popped it into her mouth.
When her oncologist called to schedule a follow-up, she hadn’t wanted to go, but the nice lady on the phone convinced her to come in and speak to the doctor, said he could “make her comfortable” no matter what her decision. That was impossible, but Frances was not so proud she’d turn down a few helpful pills.
She’d gone and he’d prescribed her a few things. Pills that targeted the cancer to keep it from growing. Pills to take when she felt sick. Pills to take when she was in pain. Some other pills for … well, she forgot. She didn’t want to take any of them; she wanted to pretend it had never happened. But she also didn’t want to hurt. Dr. Jackson had urged her to think a little longer about what she wanted to do and call when she got back from her trip.
So far, the only thing Frances wanted to do was get the girls back together. She had built the need to do this last thing to colossal proportions in her mind. Nothing else seemed to matter—she felt like she was racing against an invisible clock to complete this one last quest before she sallied forth into the great beyond.
She’d decided to start with Irene. For one, because she found her, living in Florida. For two, she and Irene had had a great relationship before the big blowup, and Irene was the most straightforward of the group. If she didn’t want to speak to Frances, she would say so. To be honest, Frances wasn’t entirely sure she would—they’d all said so many hurtful things at the end. Things you couldn’t really come back from, unless time and age and wisdom kicked in and maybe helped you let it go. Not to mention she still hadn’t found Joan, and while she knew where Edie lived—she followed her on social media—she wasn’t sure someone wouldn’tpull a gun. But she reasoned if she was going to get them together and patch things up, propose the ultimate swan song of one last heist, she would need backup to approach Edie.
The upshot was that this was a last-minute, last-ditch, everything-could-go-sideways deal she was embarking on. And yet, it might also go right. She’d know when she saw Irene. If Irene didn’t punch her in the throat, there was hope.
“I need to know where you are in case something happens,” Marjorie said.
Frances had to swim her way back through her thoughts to this interminable car ride.
“It’s not safe to go off and no one know where you are.”
She’d been over this very thing with Aaron. “I’ll be in Florida. And you have my cell phone. Nothing is going to happen.” She sincerely hoped those didn’t become her famous last words. She imagined Amelia Earhart climbing into the cockpit, yelling down at her family, “Don’t be silly! Nothing is going to happen!”
When they reached the departure hall—which Frances thought was nothing short of a small miracle, given that Dan missed the exit twice—Marjorie got out of the car with her. For a single, terrifying moment, Frances thought Marjorie was going to come with her. “What are you doing?”
“Look, Franny, I don’t know what is going on with you,” Marjorie said, her expression full of uncharacteristic worry.
“What are you talking about? You’re the one who urged me to get out there and travel.”
“Well, yes, but I never thought you’d chooseFlorida. And honestly, you seem different since the concussion.”
Oh, she just bet she did. Sort of lost and angry and resigned at the same time? Unwilling to speak about life? Stuck between pretending all was well with the horror of having been given a terminal diagnosis? Frances smiled. She wrapped her arms around Marjorie. “You’ve been a great friend, Marge.” She hugged her tight. “It’s nice to know someone cares.”
“Of course I do,” Marjorie said. “I’ll be checking in.”
“Great. Just like my mom.”
Marjorie sighed. “Your mom died when you were twelve. Love you, Franny.”
Frances smiled. “Love you, Marge.” And she did. She was fortunate to have had some good friends and lovers in her life. But it was those friendships formed early, at an age when she was discovering who she was, that became the important ones. Edie, Joan, and Irene had been there to help her pick herself up after her parents, her parents’ wealth, and the life she’d always known disappeared. They had been there when she’d been forged by that fire of loss and rose from the ashes to discover who she could be. They were her touchstone. And even after all these years, she still needed that touchstone.
Six
Irene had been easy enough to find, thanks to marketing herself as an Asian healer practicing the ancient arts.Thistime. Frances had discovered more than one questionable occupation Irene had held herself out to be, including a tai chi instructor, a clairvoyant, a jeweler, a financier, and a big-game hunter. Once a con woman, always a con woman.
What she knew of the real Irene was that she was born in Pennsylvania, the fourth kid to a naturalized Korean couple. She spoke Korean fluently but had never been to Korea. She was short and compact, strong as an ox, incredibly smart, as quick-witted as a child prodigy—but had barely passed high school. And she was as blunt as a hammer.
Frances had found a dozen Irene Kims in the United States, but she’d known immediately that the seventy-six-year-old Asian healer-slash-Tantric yoga instructor was her girl. She traced Irene to a fifty-five-plus community in Miami. (Did all her friends live in STD farms these days?) From what she could glean, it was the sort of place that Aaron had in mind for her.
And now Frances was standing on the grounds, looking up at the massive high rises that encompassed Shady Acres—ironicallynamed seeing as how she was burning to a crisp in the midday sun—when two old men in golf carts went whizzing by, almost knocking her over. “Get off the cart path!” one of them shouted at her.
Frances shuddered. She could never live here.
The three high rises surrounded a central amenities ground that included a very large lap pool, pickleball courts, an open-air pavilion where some residents were currently playing bingo, and a neon-lit digital bulletin board listing all the things to do.
She went to the board where a blinking red light invited her to type in an activity. She started with yoga. Several classes popped up, including one calledYoga for Tantric Sex Over 60.
