"Where do they live?" she asked as we rolled up and down low hills by bucolic pastures.
"Outside of Boston, in Peabody. Martha wants to work until she has the baby."
My future bride looked envious. "She sounded thrilled about the baby, on the phone." Betsy and I were in agreement on having a family. It was a matter of timing. All four of us are kissing thirty, swinging on that cusp between frantic singles and life commitments. Good bye good times and good wine; bring on the boxed stuff and bills.
I wondered about the step my friends were taking. 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. Be it as it may, both seem happy as pigeons in a bird bath with their modest lives.
Jane, our GPS, as Betsy named her, didn't let us down and we found our friend's cabin at the end of a dusty road, hungry for dinner after a six hour drive.
"Ben Gustefson, the love of my life!" Martha shouted, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing me on the lips while I still clung on to my steering wheel. Hugs, intros and congratulations followed as we emerged from the car.
"Come on up and see the place," Martha called as she strolled up the path to the cabin.
Betsy stopped me as I was about to follow.
"You didn't tell me," Betsy said, hands on her hips, and out of ear shot of the others.
"Tell you what?"
"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.
Betsy didn't buy my toned down assessment but was at least still smiling. "Why were you holding back? Is there some history I should know about?"
I had to laugh. I'd known Martha for all my remembered life. We were cowboy and Indian kids, living in an imagination paradise of rocks and trees and dirt, with her leading the way. She was the first to the top of the monkey bars and the one to suggest strip poker and I was perpetually in awe of everything about her. Martha is stunning by every standard known to man, but acts oblivious to her beauty, as if it's an annoyance while doing her own thing.
"Are you the jilted lover?" Betsy asked.
I thought a moment before answering. "I've kissed Martha exactly twice. The first time I was eight or nine and my action earned me a cracked lip. The second time was when she married Quinn LeBlanc." I looked my lovely future wife in the eye. "Martha and I know each other far too well to ever be lovers." I'd outgrown those feelings, hadn't I?