Joan ignored her and kept walking toward Frances. She still moved like a model. She was trim, her judo top cinched tightly at the waist with a black belt. Her braids were held at her nape with a leather band, and her skin was smooth as milk. Why did everyone look younger than Frances?
“Frances Delafield, what the ever-loving hell are you doing here?” she asked in that silky smooth voice of hers. She used to sing for them down on the beach, ballads and love songs.
“It’s Deluca now,” Frances said. “I got married. Had a family.”
Joan didn’t speak. Her dark brown eyes narrowed. “Are you in trouble? Wait—amIin trouble?”
“Who is that?” her mother demanded.
“An old friend, Ma,” Joan said.
“No, I’m not in trouble,” Frances said, “and neither are you. I mean, that I know of. But Irene has some interesting theories—”
“Irene?”
A throat cleared behind Frances. Irene was literally hiding behind Frances. She stepped out. “Hey,” she said. “Hi, Joan.”
Joan suddenly pushed Frances aside so she could see Irene. Her gaze moved over her, then to Frances, then back to Irene, clearly disbelieving what she was seeing. Her mother joined them, too, peering at them both like she ought to know them and couldn’t place them.
“Uh-uh,” Joan said suddenly, snapping out of her surprise. “You don’t get to show up here after how many years? I’m not playing whatever game this is.”
“That’s what I said, too,” Irene insisted nervously. “But Franny said it had to be this way.”
“I didn’t say ithadto be this way,” Frances said. “I just thought it was better if we talked in person.”
“Who are they?” her mother demanded. “Should I shoot?”
“No,” Joan said. “Mama, this is Frances,” Joan said, gesturing loosely. “And Irene.”
Was Frances crazy, or did Joan’s voice soften just a bit when she said Irene’s name? And the way shelookedat Irene.
“Well, what are they doing here, uninvited and unannounced?” her mother insisted.
“Fair question,” Frances said. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Harris. We should have called first.”
“You definitely should have,” Joan said, and Irene muttered, “Toldyou.”
“Amazing. You look the same,” Joan said. She was talking to Irene.
“So do you,” Irene said. “Better, somehow.” She smiled sheepishly.
What, no advice for mature skin? No insistence that Joan don undereye patches like she’d made Frances do this morning?
“I don’t remember any Irene or Frances,” Mrs. Harris said.
“Because you’re ninety-two, Ma. You don’t remember a lot of things.”
Well, one thing the elderly woman remembered was how to wield a rifle.
“What is going on?” Joan asked. “Oh no—did Edie die?”
“No!” Frances said.
“At least not as of last week,” Irene added.
“Wait—how do you even know where here is?” Joan asked.
“Irene’s a hacker,” Frances said, and looked sidelong at Irene.
