It's not like I haven't been thinking about these ladies lately.
I've actually done a bit of thinking about why I haven't done an update for over a week.
I think it stems from some kind of interpersonal rebellion. I don't really have to do this; it's a complete elective. I can do whatever I want with the blog. That's what I love about it.
But then I remember how nice it felt; the undistracted sense of space I created during the Free Time and Cents and Sensibility projects, and the residual dusting of calm that followed each.
Like writing every day, I've missed that easy, disciplined sense of calm I'd created.
I don't have long until summer is officially over. And there was a time, not very long ago, that I wrote every single day. These gals are frightfully close to the coast, which is their destination, although I have no idea what will happen when they get there.
Maybe the not knowing is what's keeping me away from creating a conclusion.
Maisie dug through her ample D Cups until she found the collection of bills. Stella was shocked and a bit overwhelmed, not only by having been cornered into a bowling alley bathroom by ex-Carrie Wilder's malevolent ex-husband, but for the sheer volume of money Maisie was producing from her bosom.
"Maisie," Stella said, with a somewhat judgmental, skeptical tone. "That's one hell of a lot more money than we found in that envelope."
Maisie had reached her limit of being treated like she was a dim-witted novelty. She was done being tolerated. She wanted some respect, because she had a plan.
She peeled ten damp $100 bills from her stash of cash.
"Give this to Bob," Maisie instructed. "Tell him we're paying him for helping us fix the tire. You can tell him the money's in honor of Carrie's memory, too. You might throw something into the conversation about how we know what he did in Reno, and we promise not to tell a soul. Wink at the same time, maybe. I've seen my share of Bob and his kind in my lifetime."
She looked into the bathroom mirror, fluffed her hair and dabbed a bit of road weariness from her eyes. "I think that should do the trick."
Money can't buy happiness. Maisie knew that. But she'd lived long enough to know that money can buy freedom.
Stella was speechless as Maisie sauntered from the sink and its unforgiving mirror to the door of the women's room of the Lucky Strike.
"He'll believe you," she said, relying more on intuition than pure knowledge. "I'll meet you at the buffet."