“We don’t need your money, Joan,” Frances said.
“Then what do you need?”
“Tell her, Franny,” Irene said, gesturing at Frances to speak.
“Oh,” Frances said. She sat up a little straighter. “I’m not sure where to begin. Okay, my husband died after a long illness a few years ago. My son is grown, living in Omaha. He’s married, and he has two precious daughters. Both A students.” She reached for her phone. “Do you want to see?”
“Not just this moment, Fran,” Joan said. “Maybe we start a little closer to now—my mom will be back soon.”
“Right.” Frances slid her phone back into her pocket. “My son wants me to move into senior living.”
“Yikes. But what has that got to do with me?”
“I’m getting there. He’s getting more insistent, and I honestly don’t know how long I can put him off. But I’m not ready for someone to put me in a La-Z-Boy and hand me a remote for the afternoon, you know? I just … I can’t leave the earth that way.” She paused and rubbed her head where it always hurt now, either from the cancer or the nagging prospect of death constantly eating at her. They both caused the same sort of dull pain. “I’ve really missed you all, and I hate the way things ended. I thought maybe after all this time, it would be great to put aside our differences, forget what happened, and …” She hesitated.
“And what?” Joan asked.
“Pull off one more spectacular heist? For old times’ sake, you know, before we’re all old or dead.”
Joan’s eyes widened with alarm. “That’swhat you want? Are you out of your mind, Fran? At our age?” She looked at Irene, presumably hoping she’d agree with her.
“Why not?” Irene asked. “I never say no to money. I don’t have as much as I’d like.”
“Really?” Frances said, surprised by her revelation. “You’re a scam artist. That doesn’t pay?”
“Not as well as you’d think,” Irene admitted.
“Oh my God,” Joan muttered.
“She’s running a Tantric yoga scam in Florida,” Frances added. “And defrauding old people.”
“Will you stop bragging about me? It’s embarrassing,” Irene said. “Let’s back up here.” She turned back to Joan. “What about you? What have you been doing all these years?”
Joan smiled. “Taking care of business.”
“Not gonna lie—that sounds a tiny bit nefarious,” Frances said.
“Maybe it is,” Joan agreed.
“Irene said you were selling weed.”
“And how does Irene know so much about my business?” Joan asked, looking directly at Irene. “I don’t remember including you in the memos.”
“Iguessed,” Irene said. “Frances left that part out. I told you I keep tabs on people. Why is everyone so surprised by that?”
“Well, are you?” Frances pressed. “A drug dealer?”
“Am I a …No, Frances, I am not a drug dealer,” Joan scoffed. “I mean, I am but not like you’re thinking. I have a business. I have my farm. I grow weed legally. And we’ve been dabbling in mushrooms, which is very lucrative. My mother lives with me, my siblings come to visit occasionally, but mostly, I just work. Nothing nefarious. And excuse me, we were talking about why you two just showed up at my door after forty, fifty years and how you have apparently lost your damn minds.” She glanced at the door, then, leaned forward, and whispered, “Have you forgotten that we were literally minutes from federal prison the last time, or has the dementia gotten to you?”
“We weren’tthatclose,” Frances said, in a lame attempt to downplay how seriously close they had come to losing their liberty.
“Maybe not for you, rich white girl, but for us?”
Frances winced. She couldn’t argue.
“We didn’t get caught,” Irene reminded Joan. “And it’s been a long time since then. We’ve all been forgotten, no one is lookingfor us anymore. Fran is right—it could be fun. We were so good together, remember?”
“I remember,” Joan said. “But I’m not a girl anymore. I have officially entered my muumuu era. Bra off by six, in bed by ten. Ilikemy quiet life. I don’t see leaving that for some spur-of-the-moment ill-advised heist.”
