The Good Life Read Free Page B

you.”
    â€œStop right there,” he said.
    â€œYou are my best friend.”
    â€œSo, Best Friend, you’ve been helping poor Martin through a rough patch? Been kind of a long patch, wouldn’t you say?”
    â€œYes, as a matter of fact.”
    â€œMaybe that should have told you something. Jesus.” He shook his head. “You don’t pay attention.”
    â€œYou’re not the first one to tell me that.”
    â€œBut you keep drifting along, expecting all of us to look out for you. Why are you crying?”
    â€œHeadache,” I said.
    â€œI’m only telling you the truth.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œI pay attention to the world that’s in front of me, not the one I want to see.” He waited for me to respond, then said, “Give it a try sometime. No telling what you’ll find out.” He left the diner without yelling. Even so, a waitress came over and rested her hand on my shoulder.
    â€œYou need me to call anybody?”
    I wiped my eyes. “We’re friends,” I said. “We do this all the time.”
    Â 
    Once the party got started, the guests laughing and the music not yet too loud, my spirits surprised me by lifting. Dik and Alice danced like gangly angels, and I was glad I’d resisted the frightened, last-minute impulse to call things off.
    Across the room, beside the drinks table, Martin banged his hands together to laud the happy couple. At his side, peering at the crowd with interest, stood Lora, his date.
    â€œHow nice that you’re here,” I’d said at the door. “Where did you and Martin meet?”
    She smiled crookedly. Her hair, almost white, stuck out in feathery tufts. “The Hot Spot. I don’t usually go there. Marty says he usually doesn’t either.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, stopping myself from telling her that Martin invariably called the place The Wet Spot. He went there more often than he told her. “Marty,” I said.
    He kissed me on the cheek. “The place looks nice. I like the balloons. Where’s Jeff?”
    â€œPouring a drink.”
    Martin took off across the room, and I grabbed Lora’s hand before she could follow him. “I’m very, very glad you’re here.”
    Perhaps she was tipsy enough not to hear the pressure in my voice. She said, “I like parties. I go to every party I can find.”
    â€œWe don’t have them very often,” I said. “You tell us if we’re doing something wrong.” I was tipsy myself, high enough on gin to be unsure whether I was feeling delight or dread. “Promise me you’ll tell.”
    â€œYou’ve been drinking,” she said. “That’s a good start. Make sure everybody’s drinking.”
    As if surveillance were required. Guests hardly paused at the door before they steamed over to our little bar. I smelled scotch, bourbon, lots and lots of gin. Martin stood with a glass in each hand. Even Dik popped open a beer, which might have accounted for his toreador spin at the end of “Walkin’ After Midnight.” Once he started dancing, the man was as light on his feet as a sunbeam. When he and Alice whirled by, he said, “Dancing puts us in harmony with all creation.”
    â€œPreach on,” I said, and he winked.
    Jeff was circulating, telling jokes, freshening drinks. From across the room I noticed for the first time that his yellow shirt, which I had never liked, lent his skin a summery glow. I caught up with him on the way to the kitchen for more ice.
    â€œDid you see Martin?”
    â€œAnd Lora,” he said. “Lora Ruth, first of four daughters. Never divorced, grows tomatoes on her patio, rides a Kawasaki.”
    â€œBlood type?”
    â€œI’d say she’s a universal donor.”
    â€œI hope so,” Martin said, leaning around the other side of the kitchen door. “Felicia thinks I need some new