Betsy spoke to Martha on the phone after dinner while Molly and I walked Bumpus. True to his word, Quinn had packed everything he needed, called a shipper, and sent his equipment off, overnight express. He then left for Boston and a flight that would arrive a few hours after Julie's.
When I returned Molly was off to bed. Betsy plunked down on the sofa next to me. "We can't let this fall apart on us, Ben. I knew from the start we were a house of cards in a windstorm, but you were the glue that held us together. I know it won't last forever but as long as we can, we have to do everything in our power to keep it alive. Martha sounded horrible on the phone. She's as upset as a jilted lover over Quinn's attitude and I'm afraid she's going to do something irrational. I think she's drinking. I always thought they had a pretty solid marriage, especially with Claire, but she's acting as crazy as a teenager and just watching her marriage crumble."
"Both of them are stubborn," I said but my comment sounded moronic.
"Why don't you go over and talk to her? You've known her all your life." She stood over me, giving me little choice though I dreaded the chore.
The lights were on in the LeBlanc living room as I pulled into the drive. The lawn needed mowing; an indication Quinn wasn't using his recent free time for domestic chores. I rang the bell and I could see shadow movement behind the thin drapes but no one answered. I wasn't surprised. Martha was alone with an infant and it was after nine o'clock. Why should she answer the door? I knocked and called out her name. The drape parted, followed by shuffled footsteps, and Martha opened the door. She stood there in bathrobe and nightgown, a look of panic on Martha's face.
"What happened?" she asked as I stepped in.
"Nothing, Martha. Calm down. Betsy thought you could use some company, that's all." I could hear the sound of a baby breathing coming from a monitor on the coffee table. There was a glass on an end table next to a half full bottle of gin. She saw me notice it.
"I don't even like the stuff," she said as she moved to the kitchen. "Let me get you a glass. I hate getting drunk alone."
"No, thanks," I protested, as I sat on the sofa. She returned in an instant, glass in hand. She poured it nearly full and handed it to me.
"I don't have any what-cha-call-it to mix. Just pretend it's a really dry martini." She toasted my glass and took a long swallow.