While my relationship with Martha LeBlanc, nee Rossi, dated back to our play pen years and kindergarten days, lately we've hiked different paths, reducing our contact to Christmas cards and once a month phone calls.
Martha is a trauma nurse in a large Boston hospital.
Martha inherited the property from her grandfather.
Never the less he and Martha have four married years under their belts and are expecting their first child.
While Martha is my kindred spirit, Quinn and I always got along fairly well the few times we're all gotten together.
Martha commutes weekends a hundred miles from their home.
Martha wants to work until she has the baby.
For all of Quinn LeBlanc's intellectual abilities, I not sure Martha isn't the main bread winner while Quinn tinkers in the theoretical world of the intellectual elite.
Martha shouted, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me on the lips while I still clung on to my steering wheel.
"Come on up and see the place," Martha called as she strolled up the path to the cabin.
That Martha LeBlanc is drop dead gorgeous; that's what!
My Betsy is fine looking woman, beautiful in my mind and in the eyes of most, but even I have to admit she lacks the room-stopping allure of Martha LeBlanc.
"I guess you could say Martha is pretty good looking," I answered.
I'd known Martha for all my remembered life.
I've kissed Martha exactly twice.
Martha and I know each other far too well to ever be lovers.
Martha stopped to grab Betsy's hand, leading the way toward the cabin while Quinn and I unloaded the car.
Martha opened the screen door with a flourish Grandpa built this place in the nineteen thirties and wired it years later.
"He's just pulling your leg," Martha answered.
"This was originally an extra bedroom when I was a kid," Martha said, pointing out a converted bathroom with a metal walk-in shower.
Martha smiled at us.
Pregnant Martha abstained, content with an iced tea.
Everyone back in high school figured you and Martha we're the pair.
I know; I'm not jelouss, but you and Martha have this thing between you that goes so far back I get dizzy thinking about it.
You know Martha; she doesn't do no very well.
We'll let Martha and Betsy alone to get acquainted.
Rose remarried; some guy named Ronnie that Martha thinks is an asshole.
Betsy was alone on the porch but as we approached, Martha opened the screen door, her arm around a frail looking man, about five-seven, who wore an off-center toupee and a fragile smile.
"You're not getting away with that excuse every time you want to get out of something," Martha said.
Martha turned the openness up a notch.
I'd known Martha far too long.
In those days a little coloured girl, Martha Washington, the child of our cook, and Belle, an old setter, and a great hunter in her day, were my constant companions.
Martha Washington understood my signs, and I seldom had any difficulty in making her do just as I wished.
The sheds where the corn was stored, the stable where the horses were kept, and the yard where the cows were milked morning and evening were unfailing sources of interest to Martha and me.
Of course I did not know what it was all about, but I enjoyed the pleasant odours that filled the house and the tidbits that were given to Martha Washington and me to keep us quiet.
The younger child was blind--that was I--and the other was Martha Washington.
Martha asked as she passed around butter and syrup.
Martha stopped me upstairs a little later as I was coming out of my room.
Martha caught my eye and winked.
"Go on," Martha prompted.
Martha broke the pause.
"No one is saying anything as outlandish as that," Martha said.