She seriously believed that. She would die regretting nothing.
Twenty-five
By the time Frances was feeling better and dressed, she emerged from her room to find everyone gone. Except Marcy.
That one was lying on her side on the couch, her back to the room. When Aaron was a moody teenager, he’d do the same when he didn’t want to talk. Frances walked over to Marcy and roughly pushed her onto her back. Surprised, Marcy blinked up at her with big, light green eyes. “Hi,” she said uncertainly.
“You’ve caused a lot of problems today, missy.”
“Yeah, I am getting that vibe.”
“What are you thinking, chasing your grandma everywhere like she’s some guy you want to catch cheating?”
“I don’t know. It’s just … none of it made sense.”
“Well, obviously it didn’t make sense because we were trying to keep it a damn secret.” Frances sat on the edge of the couch. “What did you find out today, anyway?”
“That my Nana is a thief. You’re all a bunch of common thieves.”
“Common! We prefer to think of ourselves as extraordinary,” Frances said. “Most people our age have put their feet up, but not us. Also, we’re more like thievery adjacent—we’ve always had a good reason.”
Marcy snorted. “The worst of it is, Nana doesn’t know what would happen if she got caught. She’s acting like she doesn’t have a family or anyone who needs her.”
“Mmm,” Frances said, nodding.
“She’s not like this. She’s always been so big on knowing right from wrong. Once, she made me apologize to Tamara Villanova because I was rude to her. How did we go from prim and proper garden society tothis?”
“Well, that’s a bit of a long story,” Frances said.
With a huff of frustration, Marcy threw an arm over her eyes.
Youth. Beautiful and free and, often, a colossal pain in the ass.
Frances moved to sit on the coffee table so she could really get in Marcy’s face. “You could say it was four young women, about your age, with too much time on their hands. Or you could say it was four young women, about your age, with no one to care about them or love them. Or four young women, about your age, who decided to control their own destiny. There are any number of things you might say.”
“Right,” Marcy said with a snort. “Classic Charles Dickens tale.”
“You want a little Charles Dickens?” Frances said sweetly. “For starters, my family was all dead. Edie’s was … well, we’ll never know what Edie’s was, will we? Joan was the black sheep in her family because she was gay at the wrong time in history, and Irene …” She had to pause to think about Irene. “I’m honestly not sure what happened there, but I suspect she was too mean for her family and was asked to leave. We can ask her later.”
Beneath that arm across her eyes, a tiny hint of a smile appeared on Marcy’s lips. “Does my grandpa know about you guys?”
“He knows some, but not all. And he doesn’t know who the rest of us are. Not anymore, anyway. He just knows that he has something to hold over your grandmother’s head.”
Marcy removed her arm and opened her eyes. “That tracks.” She pushed herself up so that she was sitting directly across from Frances.
“Here’s the thing, Marcy. You know you can’t tell anyone about this. Because if you did, it would be disastrous for Edie.”
“And the rest of you,” Marcy said.
“True. We all have varying degrees of disaster ahead of us. But it would be especially bad for Edie. She has a lot more to lose.”
Marcy folded her arms across her and averted her gaze. “What about my dad? Does he know?”
Frances shook her head. “No one knows. Certainly not our kids—it’s not the sort of thing you want them to aspire to. Or to resent you for, you know?”
“I don’t resent her. I wish I knew her. Tell me about my grandmother.”
“Let’s see. She can crack a safe.”
