Patrick looked around. "Nice house," he said.
"We've been here many years." There was a defensive note in her voice
that surprised him. As he was telling her about his job, a tall man in
his late twenties pushed open the kitchen door. He walked directly
over, holding out his hand.
"Patrick O'Shaunessy?"
"Yes," Patrick said, standing and shaking hands.
"Martin Merrill."
"Patrick is working in town; he's not sure how long he will stay."
"What do think of the place?"
"The town, you mean?" Martin nodded. "I like Woodstock, but--everyone's
a painter or a musician. Not that that's bad."
"And you are?"
"Martin, really!" Martin ignored his mother and stared at Patrick.
Questions didn't bother Patrick. He thought. "I don't know--scientist
maybe, someday."
"Good deal. I don't know what I am either." Martin clapped his hands
together and poured himself a cup of coffee. "But I'm working on it.
Lot of good music around town, good musicians showing up. I've got a
little recording studio in back."
"Do you play?"
"Very well," Heidi said.
"Not much," Martin said. "Fiddle. Banjo." Patrick imagined him playing
the fiddle. He had large hands.
"My dad plays the fiddle." Martin was like a softer version of his dad,
tall and thin. Heidi was watching him closely. He began to feel too
warm. He rose to his feet. "Well, I'd better be going. It's been nice
to meet you."
"Wait a minute," Martin said. "It's raining; I'll give you a ride."
"You just got here."
"No problem, I was just picking something up. I'll be back later this
afternoon," he said to his mother.
"Goodbye, Patrick. I hope things work out for you. Do tell your father
that everything's fine. And come and have dinner with us sometime,
won't you?"
"That would be nice," Patrick said.
Martin dropped him at Gert's and wished him luck. "Oh, yeah," Patrick
said as he was half out of the car. "Do you know where Mead's Meadow
is?"
"Sure. It's near the top on the other side, after you pass the Mountain
House. Right up Rock City Road, up and over. You go down a hill, and
the road bends left. You'll see a little logging road on the
right--goes down through the woods a little ways, across a wet spot,
and up onto the meadow."
"Thanks." Patrick waved and watched him drive away. Neat car. He said
hello to Gert and ate his sandwich on the porch, thinking hard. He
started to write a letter to his parents, but he crumpled it after the
first paragraph. He went inside. Gert was busy in the back of the
house. He hesitated and then picked up the telephone and called home,
collect. By good luck, his father answered. "Dad, this is Pat."
"Pat! Where are you?"
"I'm in Woodstock--great town. I just looked up Heidi and Martin
Merrill."
"How are they?" His father's voice sounded far away.
"Fine. They've got a big place. She's nice, makes good coffee. Martin
plays the fiddle." Patrick paused. "His hands, Dad, they are just like
yours--like mine. He reminds me of you." Patrick ran out of words.
There was a brief silence.
"It's a long story, Pat. I'll tell you about it the next time we get
together. Martin is your half-brother."