Monica absently tucked a brunet strand behind one ear. “I have to admit Lance is a phenomenon to behold. He certainly didn’t let any grass grow under his feet getting the ball rolling.”

“He’s a silver-tongued devil all right,” Connie Sue chuckled.

I agreed with both Monica and Connie Sue. Seeing Lance in action had made me a believer. In the blink of an eye, he’d turned bunco night into a casting call. By the time we left Pam’s, none of us knew what had hit us. One by one, we had voluntarily and of our own free will consented to participate in one manner or other in what he referred to as his proposition.

Monica’s dark eyes snapped with irritation. “Imagine me-of all people-the prop princess!”

“That’s mistress-not princess,” I corrected.

None of us wanted to remind her she’d tried out for Gloria’s part and failed miserably. Not even Janine, the casting director, could ignore that Monica didn’t have a theatrical gene in her entire body. Instead, Lance had diplomatically convinced Monica that with her attention to detail, she’d be the right person to collect and organize props. Rita, by the way, had been awarded the plum job of stage manager.

“Enough doom and gloom,” Pam scolded. “Just think, this play could be a lot of fun.”

That’s Pam, my BFF-“best friend forever” in texting jargon, which I’m learning to impress my granddaughters. Pam tends to look on the bright side of things, though sometimes her Pollyanna attitude can be downright annoying.

Batting her eyelashes, Connie Sue placed her hand over her heart. “Forever, My Darling,” she drawled in her best Scarlett O’Hara imitation. “Really, girls, do you think Lance could have found a cheesier title? Sounds like one of those trashy romance novels.”

Now it was my turn to scold. “Connie Sue Brody, bite your tongue. You know you’re addicted to romance novels, and there’s nothing trashy about them.”