Free With Friends Like These... by Gillian Roberts

“Changed his mind. Selling off assets, not buying them.”
    “That’s just a pose, that middle-aged hippie blather.” Nonetheless, Sybil looked momentarily sober.
    “I remember when Lyle really was a hippie,” my mother said. “I remember the beads and the fringes and the beard.”
    “Still has the beard!” the lighting technician said with an air of revelation. “So there.”
    His wife put her hand to her mouth and laughed silently, secretly, like Madame Butterfly.
    Shepard leaned forward and squinted at Quinn. “It wasn’t a TV movie. It was when you played that mass murderer on Second Generation—the one who terrorized me.”
    Quinn shook his head. “Never been on Lyle’s show. Out of touch with him—”
    “Out of touch! How prissy and euphemistic,” Sybil said. “Don’t be so damned civilized! You two didn’t speak to each—”
    Quinn turned up the volume of his voice and let it roll right over her. “—until he married Tiff.”
    This time my mother’s interest wasn’t forced at all. “Your daughter, correct?”
    “Step,” Quinn said. “Married Tiff’s mother.” Yet another shrug. “She died.” The shoulder went up one more time.
    “How touching! You raised that lovely girl, then introduced her to your dear old friend!” Priscilla, the sweet old spinster schoolmarm, head spinning with untested romantic delusions, was nearly giddy with delight. “How perfect!”
    Sybil snorted and called the waiter over for yet another refill. Somebody had to flag her, take away her car keys.
    Quinn shook his head. “Nothing to do with it.”
    “Then it was destiny. And it obviously had a happy ending,” Priscilla chortled. “Just look at those lovebirds.” She smiled innocently at Sybil, whose skin mottled in little patchy blushes. “It thrills me to see that Lyle found happiness at last,” Priscilla cooed.
    Revenge for Sybil’s attempts to muddy the image of her great triumph and former student, Lyle. “I’ve never seen a happier couple,” she added, in case the salt hadn’t yet rubbed into Sybil’s jugular.
    The salads were removed, and by some silent consensus, it was decided that it was time for mid-course milling. People stood to talk to diners at other tables or to make use of the facilities upstairs or down the hall. Our table’s population declined by half. Shepard, the lighting director’s wife, and Priscilla left in succession, and I wondered if there were a social amenity that I, too, should be attending to.
    However, as I stood up, Lyle and Tiffany headed my way.
    They’d been making rounds from table to table, she looking bored and gorgeous, and he shaking hands and exchanging jokes and pleasantries with each guest. I watched as one by one faces brightened at his approach. The old attention thing again. He bent close to hear what an elderly relative said, looked concerned at another’s remarks, laughed along with a third.
    When it was our time to greet Lyle, I stood, as did my mother, and before I knew it, I was enthusiastically wishing him happy birthday and saying what a great party this was, and almost believing myself.
    “Be honest,” he said with a smile. “You’re bored silly, but you’re a great soul and you’re enduring it and helping me have the time of my life. Getting old isn’t bad with friends to share the—”
    Tiffany did not successfully stifle her noisy yawn.
    “Sorry, darling,” Lyle said. “I tend to get carried away. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mandy, we want to check how things are coming along in the kitchen. Tiff’s a perfectionist.” Tiffany impassively watched her husband through a fringe of lashes. She did not seem amused or charmed or feel the need to pretend to be.
    After Lyle and Tiffany left, I realized Richard Quinn had at some point drifted to my side. I was mildly flattered. I wasn’t interested in him, but that didn’t mean I would mind his being interested in me.
    Having approached, Quinn stood aimlessly, as if he had no