"Far out! Moby Dick."
"Shrimp cocktail, gin and tonic--a great way to end the summer. Want to
come?"
"End the summer?" Willow blinked. "No. I mean, I'm working. I don't
want to end the summer. A terrible idea."
"It is." Amber sipped champagne gravely. "It isn't really the end. Art
doesn't want to go until he finishes the outside of his barn. Two
weeks, he thinks. But after that, it will be the first or second week
in August. We might as well see a few things on the way home--and have
a week or so before school."
"School?" Willow twirled her glass. "I'm not going back," she said.
"Let this be a formal announcement: I hereby renounce Stanford AND the
privileges associated thereunto AND all obligation to write useless
papers AND all requirements to be stuck in crowded rooms with people
who are dumb, bored, or lying."
"How sweet of you," Amber said.
"Present company excepted, of course."
"I would think long and hard on this one," Amber said. "It's the
privileges part. And your family will freak out. What are you going to
do?"
Willow put _Highway 61 Revisited_ on the stereo. "That's it," she said.
"That's the point. I don't know what I'm going to do. But I'm going to
find out. I'm going to do what I want and not what someone else wants."
"Is it Patrick? Has he caused you to lose your mind completely?" Amber
smiled as she asked, and Willow saw that Amber had already accepted
this new reality and was being a good friend, playing devil's advocate.
"It's about finding my mind."
Amber came over and hugged her. "I'll make enough for both of us," she
said.
Willow felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She had been thinking
about this all day, but it hadn't felt real until she told Amber. It
was as though a door opened; a breeze blew around the back of her mind,
and the light was brighter. She began to cry. "Hold that door," she
said.
"Hold the bottle--is what I'll hold," Amber said, squeezing her. They
each knew that they had come to a fork in the road, and that the
distance between them would inevitably broaden. They talked late into
the night. Amber volunteered to reassure Willow's parents when she
returned to California, and Willow promised to write letters from the
wild world.
Willow went to bed tired but feeling honest and sure of herself. "It's
a new ball game, squirrelie," she said, turning her head toward the
woods.
In the morning, she waited anxiously for Patrick in the deli. She
rehearsed various greetings, but when he came through the door she took
one look and asked him what was the matter.
"Gert is in the hospital."
"Oh no, your nice landlady?" Patrick nodded. "Is it serious?" Patrick
raised his arms and let out a breath.
"Yes," he said. "I called her niece in St. Louis. She's coming today, I
think. I need a sandwich. Maybe we could meet later?"
"Sure. I'll be at the Depresso. If you don't show up, I'll figure you
couldn't make it."
"O.K." He looked relieved. She made him an enormous sandwich and wished
that she could hug him, but another customer was waiting. This was the
first time she had seen Patrick sad. His expression was calm, resigned,
almost delicate. The energy she was accustomed to seeing in his face
seemed to have drawn back, turned inward, as though it were trained on
maintaining his balance. "I hope I see you later," she said. His
answering smile included her in his balance, if that's what it was. She
felt more certain than ever that she was moving in the right direction.
On her way home, she stopped to talk with AhnRee who was seated in a
director's chair on his lawn. He was sketching an apple tree. "Nice
day, huh, AhnRee?"
"Mmm, yes, Willow."
"Pretty." She pointed at the drawing. "I thought you only painted
women."
AhnRee looked up from his labor. "One must take a break occasionally.
It is good for the eye." He selected another colored pencil and rubbed
a few darker patches into the ground beneath the tree. "Tone, Willow."
"Yes, tone." Normally, she would have continued on her way at this
point. Hell, normally, she would have waved and not stopped in the
first place. AhnRee put down his pencil carefully.
"And are you content here, Willow?" A bit surprising, sometimes,
AhnRee.
"I am," she said emphatically. "I love the flowers. It is a wonderful
place."
"Pour l'amour." AhnRee smiled. God, this blushing had to stop.
"Right. L'amour," she said. "Patrick," she added.
"Ah, Patrick . . . Is he the one with the red hair?"
"Yes."
"Marvelous," AhnRee said, looking back at the apple tree.
"AhnRee?" He looked back at her. "Amber said that you said I might use
your piano some time."
"Of course, Willow, of course. Amber told me that you were musical." He
rubbed his stomach. "I am often out in the middle of the day. Just let
yourself in."
"Thanks, AhnRee. You are a sweetheart--no matter what they say about
you at the Museum of Modern Art."