Isabelle was looking straight ahead as they walked but she caught some movement in her peripheral vision and turned to the right. “Is that Rusty-the-slut?”

Rosie peered where Isabelle faced. A tall figure was moving away from a parked silver SUV, toward the beach. “Shit. I think it is. I do not want to see her.”

“Come this way. She’s too lazy to climb.” And Isabelle strode ahead, onto a boulder pile that surrounded the bottom of the eroded headland at the edge of the cove. She was used to the climb, but she had to put a hand behind her three times to help Rosie up the steep parts of the vine-bordered track. Spot scampered around them. They emerged onto a cypress-shaded path that ran along the top of the headlands; their view was rock-formed tide pools and crashing surf. They giggled conspiratorially, like giddy 12-year-olds who had just ditched a despised third girl.

“I warned you about Rusty-the-slut,” Isabelle grinned.

Rosie returned the smile, edged with dismay. “Fuck you,” she said fondly. “I had a weak moment.”

Rosie had been celibate for three years, and broke too. Her last relationship took her heart and her savings. Belinda had been a compulsive gambler and Rosie was too naive or too smitten to understand until it was too late. Rosie made next to nothing anyway, and she refused to give up her volunteer work to earn more, so she was accustomed to living a few paychecks away from destitution, but Belinda sent her deep into negative territory. She’d been paying off creditors since Belinda disappeared, and when Rusty-the-slut came along, flirting and admiring and picking up tabs, Rosie decided to disregard what Isabelle said about Rusty’s exploits. She allowed herself to think it would be different with her. She went home with someone who was notorious for graphically describing all of her trysts, and after a night of mediocre sex, Rosie now got to hear pornographic little tidbits with herself in a starring role.

“It wasn’t even good sex,” she mumbled.

“That’s not how Rusty-the-slut tells it,” and Isabelle acted ready to run, as if Rosie were about to tackle her. But Rosie looked serious. Suddenly it wasn’t about Rusty.

“Belle,” Rosie breathed, and her mouth twisted searching for words. Her eyes watered. Her face swelled.

Isabelle spoke instead. “Listen, kiddo. It might just be okay. I mean, maybe I’ll beat it myself. I’m going to take better care of my immune system, and maybe that will fight off the chaotic invader. Hell, I’ve even stopped smoking pot. Or maybe I will weaken (that’s the way I see it now), and turn this mortal coil over to the machinations of the medicos. But let’s look at the worst option. Let’s say I die. I have lots of arguments in favor of that… as someone in a Kingsolver novel once said ‘I’ve already been there.’ And I’m pleased with what I’ve accomplished here: I’ve noticed and appreciated and loved and understood; I’ve figured out the answers to a lot of my questions; my kids are okay without me; there’s not much more I had in mind to do.”

Rosie admitted she didn’t have a response to that … yet. She might have said it was weird how people with low self esteem seemed to cling more to life than folks like Belle, but that wasn’t news. She and Isabelle had agreed long ago that life is kind of like a party; one doesn’t want to leave until one’s had a good time.