Seven #2
“Umm …” Mr. Thompson glanced nervously at his wife.
Frances could see the confusion in his eyes, and the way he looked at his wife while unthinkingly maiming his sandwich.
“Allow me, before this makes a mess,” Edie said, and cupped her hands around his hands and his sandwich.
“I need to see the kitchen anyway, for my job. LeeAnn didn’t tell you I was working for the caterer? ”
“Derek?” the new Mrs. Thompson said, and the next thing Frances remembered, she and Joan and Irene were in the house.
Frances made her way to the study. She knew the painting they wanted, knew it from art class, and had it wrapped in her black apron before Derek Thompson could even think of what to say to his irate wife.
“Edie saved the day,” Frances reminded Irene now. “We would never have gotten that painting if it hadn’t been for her.”
“Pittsburgh was so fucking dumb,” Irene said with a shake of her head. “Whatever made us think we could be art thieves? We were fresh off the boat from Sweden, thinking we knew what we were doing.” She suddenly leaned forward. “Hey … are you okay?”
The question startled Frances. She automatically put a hand to her cheek to check for fever. That was something new—random bouts of fever. But her cheek was cool to the touch. “I’m fine.”
“I don’t know, you just look so pale. I thought the tea would help.”
Frances shook her head. She was going to have to do a better job with her makeup, obviously. “I can’t travel like I used to, that’s all.” She forced a smile. “I’m getting old, Irene.”
“I hear you,” Irene said with a sigh. “So, where were we? Oh, right. We’re going to pop in on Joan?”
“Well … she’s not going to agree to a criminal act over the phone,” Frances said.
“True that.” Irene swiveled around and flipped a switch.
Her three computer monitors bloomed to life.
“We’ll fly to Denver. She lives on this property in a remote area between Denver and Colorado Springs.
” On one of the monitors, she pulled up satellite images, then zoomed in on a rooftop surrounded by trees. “There,” Irene said. “That’s her.”
Frances stared at the map. Then at Irene. “You’re kind of scary.”
“Thank you.” She put her hand out. “I need a credit card. This is your idea, so you are paying for the flights.”
Frances didn’t argue. She went to fetch her purse, and thankfully her pills.
Later, by the time they pulled out the sofa bed, they had tickets to Denver and had reserved a car. They were leaving in two days so that Irene could take care of a few things first.
After Irene had gone to bed, Frances lay on the sofa bed, her head aching, her body feeling so tired.
But she couldn’t sleep. Maybe because of all the medicine she was taking, or her general anxiety about pulling off one last glorious heist before she kicked off.
Or worse, because she was beginning to fear she couldn’t pull her own weight.
Just a month ago, she was kicking ass on the pickleball court.
Today, she felt every moment of her seventy-four years and then some.
Defeatist self-talk not allowed. She got out her phone and googled Edie. She’d done this a few times over the years, always curious. But not often, because there was also something about seeing pictures of Edie that made her incredibly sad.
Pictures of Edie popped up. Here she was at some function, seated at a table, her hands crossed demurely in front of her.
She was wearing a fancy hat. Another photo in a rose garden, dressed in flowing silks.
Another one, her laughing, her head tossed back, her hair—not so brightly blond now—falling down her back.
She looked beautiful. She always looked so beautiful.
Another picture of her, with Simon, at a wedding.
Frances zoomed in on that one. The picture turned grainy the closer she got, but Frances could see the telltale signs of fatigue around her eyes, the fine little lines around her mouth.
And there was something in her gaze that didn’t seem right. Something distant.
She suddenly flashed back to the two of them sitting on the seawall in Southampton one moonless night. Edie had looked sad.
“What are you thinking about?” Frances had prodded.
“How life really sucks sometimes.”
It certainly did. “So, if you could have—”
“A family,” Edie said, before Frances could finish. She’d been about to ask if she could have anything to do in the immediate future. Like sailing. Or shopping. Something fun.
“Huh?”
“I would have a family. That’s what you’re asking, right? I’d have a big one. You know, a mom, a dad, lots of kids.” She suddenly looked at Frances. “Do you ever wish you had siblings?”
“Yeah,” Frances said. “Even a cousin would have been okay.”
“Me, too,” Edie said. “I just wanted normal stuff. A family. At least you had parents.”
Frances had shrugged. “I mean, sort of.”
“I never had anyone. A brother I can hardly remember is all.”
“That is, like, so sad,” Frances had said.
“I’m going to get married and have a huge family. We don’t even have to be rich or anything. Just happy.” She sighed softly, then looked at Frances. “What about you? If you could have anything?”
Frances could recall thinking she’d had every material thing in the world, and none of it had really mattered.
She’d brushed off the question because it was too close and too personal.
Too painful, even. The truth was she didn’t even know what she wanted or what she was missing. “A Ferrari,” she’d said. “A fast car.”
“We should steal one,” Edie had said, giggling.
Later, much later … they did. Because they were reckless and carefree and thought life couldn’t catch them.
And also, as Irene would say, because they were so fucking dumb.