And now the only thing that would be even better than the above would be R.A. MacAvoy writing more Martha Macnamara/Mayland Long stories. Because they are ... and I keep overusing this word because it's the only one that really fits ... delightful characters.
"Oh." She dismissed the matter easily and went to the closet to see if the wrinkles had hung out of her favorite dress. "No luck. I'll have to steam it. But then we're not supposed to have luck while playing at Landaman Hall, are we? Because of the north entrance, or the street, or whatever?"
The top of Martha's form had disappeared among Long's suits and her own dresses, and she did not make a very dignified picture from behind. Yet Long appreciated it, full of virus as he was.
She emerged flushed and victorious, brandishing a steam gun in one hand and the dress in the other. "I won't know what to do with myself when this tour is over. Unless I get roped into helping Elizabeth put up the drywall. I hate mudding drywall."
Without opening his eyes Long said. "You could try marrying me. That would take up a good afternoon."
Martha crowed like a cock. "Hah! If you want to be happy for an afternoon, get married. But if you want to be happy for a lifetime, slaughter pigs. Or something like that -- my memory for proverbs is worse than for lyrics." Still giggling, she darted into the other room to look at Marty.
"Still sound. It's a wonder! Probably because she kept waking half up during the night, babbling about Judy."
"You said nothing woke you up at night," Long remarked slyly.
"Nothing does. Except babies. I cannot help having been a mother, and a traveling mother at that." Martha filled the steam gun from the bathroom sink, and called out, "Usually you propose with more enthusiasm, Mayland."
"Usually you reject me with more vigor."