His father was silent for a moment. "Maybe that's best, Pat. We
wouldn't want to upset anybody; only a couple of people know. Come see
us at Christmas in Costa Rica or Florida--wherever we end up; we'll
talk about it. Basically, Heidi was afraid she'd never have a baby."
"Dad, look, I've got to go. Thanks for telling me. I won't say
anything. I'll let you know about Christmas. Say hi to Mom." Patrick
hung up softly. He stood for several seconds and then went back out on
the porch where he sat down again and watched the rain. I'll be damned,
he thought. His father must have been about his age when he was in
Woodstock. Patrick saw him in a new way. Heidi must have been
incredible; she was still good looking. It was cool to have a brother,
but it was strange not to be able to say anything. Martin didn't seem
like a bad guy for someone who had it easy.
"Patrick, the window at the end of the upstairs hall is stuck. Could
you close it for me?"
"Glad to." Keep it quiet, he thought, climbing the stairs. Maybe talk
about it at Christmas. See what happens.
6
Willow followed Amber and Art across a small stream. "Much farther?"
she asked. Art pointed through the trees to a small rise.
"Right up there." They emerged onto a shelf-like meadow that dropped
abruptly into a narrow valley. Willow could see nothing but mountain
after mountain in the distance--no roads, no houses. An upright piano
stood by itself in the meadow, the last point of local focus before her
eyes leaped into the space beyond and below.
"Wow!"
Amber and Art chose a place not far from a fire where a dozen people
were sitting and standing, laughing, drinking beer. Willow removed her
pack. She spread a blanket and weighed it down with the pack which held
a bottle of water, two bottles of wine, a paperback copy of Lawrence
Durrell's Justine, and a loaf of her best honey walnut bread. Art went
immediately to the keg.
"Too much," Amber said, looking at the view.
"I wonder if Patrick will show," Willow said.
"Did you tell him where it was?"
"I didn't give him directions, but guys on his crew would know."
"He'll come," Amber said. "And if he doesn't, that's his problem. How
did they get the piano up here?" she asked Art who was back, holding
three paper cups of beer.
"Carried it," he said. "Four guys--one on each corner. They bring it in
every year. It's Angus's. He has a band, plays Dixieland and early
jazz."
"Oooh," Willow said, "stride piano." She had grown up listening to
Scott Joplin, Jelly Roll Morton, and Fats Waller, her father's nod to
modernity. Straight from Bach, he used to say. She sipped her beer.
Martin Merrill arrived.
"Hey there, Art. Hi, Willow."
"Hey, Martin. This is Amber. Where's your fiddle?"
"Hi, Amber. Fiddle's in the car. Maybe we'll get to a little Cripple
Creek later." Willow flushed.
"I think I've retired," she said.
"Not allowed." Martin was having trouble keeping his eyes off Amber who
had shifted to ground midway between a barnwarmer's dream and a
folksinger's groupie. Here we go again, Willow thought.
"How's that Chevy running?" Art asked.
"Good. I just put new tires on her."
"That's a commitment. Love that car. Have you seen it, Amber--a red '52
convertible?"
"Not yet," she said.