Beginning with Why show up now? What had happened to them after Simon turned them in? Where had they gone? Had they lived happy lives? Unhappy lives? Did they have children or lovers or careers? She’d thought about them so often through the years. She’d even toyed with finding them. She would putter around the internet, but never seriously, because she was afraid of leaving a search history for Simon to find. Not to mention, after everything that happened, they’d made it clear they never wanted to see her again.
So why had they come?
Something soft and wet slid down the side of her face.
“Nana?” Marcy was peering closely at her. “Are you crying?”
“What? No,” Edie said, and hastily swept the lone tear away.
“Why wouldn’t you talk to them?” Marcy asked. “What did she mean, ‘Getting the gang back together for one last go’?”
“That’s just the way we used to talk. You know, like how you say your cousin Max has no rizz.”
“He doesn’t,” Marcy said. “But that’s not the same.”
“It’s a long story, darling. A very long story that doesn’t need to be dug up. Especially not with Pappa around. He can’t knowthey were here.” She reached across the kitchen bar and patted Marcy’s hand. “It’s probably best that things are left in the past.” A sentiment that made her incredibly sad. She downed another shot of tequila, smiled sadly at Marcy, and walked out of the kitchen, unwilling to say more. Quite honestly, she didn’t trust herself to say more—if she did, she might fall apart with grief. She thought that was all behind her, but seeing them again? So many emotions had been dredged up.
She really missed them.
Twelve
After the scene at Edie’s grand home, no one had the energy to drive to an area that could be considered metropolitan, so Irene rented a couple of rooms at a roadside motel with her newly minted ID.
“Holly Gomighty, really?” she asked, glaring at Joan. She was still miffed about the lack of input into fake name assignments.
“Just be grateful you didn’t end up as Wilma Thinstone,” Frances complained as she settled her oversized sunglasses on her face. “And who are you, again, Joan? Diana Moss?”
“Mariah Berry.” Joan tossed her Godiva hair over her shoulder for emphasis.
Frances rolled her eyes.
They had taken up places around the motel’s outdoor pool, which was apparently out of use. Then again, maybe the good people of Hunterville liked their pools to be army green in color. The lounge chairs were rusty and old, and several of the thick plastic straps stretched across the frames were either missing or busted. Joan had identified three that were serviceable, and after a vigorous cleaning, the three of them were seated, with iridescent yellow duckie facial sheet masks on their faces, courtesy of Irene.She was very much into Korean skincare. They looked ridiculous, but Frances wasn’t going to argue—Irene’s skin looked amazing.
A gentleman with an ice bucket was so startled by them as he walked by that he spilled some ice. “What are you looking at?” Irene snapped, and the poor man quickened his pace back to his room, spilling more ice on the way.
Joan made martinis with the gin she’d brought along tucked in between her wigs. It tasted like firewater to Frances.
Irene was the first to broach their failure at Edie’s. “Well? What do we do now?”
Frances’s head hurt. She hoped the martini would cure it.
“We came all the way to Tennessee,” Irene pressed. “Are we really going to leave empty-handed?”
“Not empty-handed—we’ll each go home with a month’s supply of skin care,” Frances said.
“You know what I mean,” Irene said.
Joan sighed. “Edie was clear she does not want to see us, which is rich, seeing as how she’s the one who betrayed us. Anyway, she’s out, and I don’t know if we can accomplish much without the four of us. Which is also rich, as we don’t even know what we’re doing.”
“We could find a replacement,” Irene suggested.
That was the most outrageous thing Frances could imagine. “Just who do you think is going to be up for a heist with the geriatric crowd?”
Irene shrugged. “What about that redhead from back in the day? Remember? Small thing. Cute but dumb.”
Frances tried to claw through the muck of seventy years’ worth of memories.
“She was always hanging around,” Irene reminded them. “Dammit, what was her name?”
