alnut 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.

God. Willow brought out the honey walnut loaf. "Anybody hungry?"

"Sure," Martin said. She broke off an end, the best part, and handed it
to him.

"Good," he said, chewing.

"Willow can cook!" Art said. People were arriving steadily. It was five
o'clock; the heat of the day was easing. A strong looking man in his
thirties with a short beard and dark curly hair began to play the
piano, his back straight.

"Yo, Angus!" someone called. Martin went for a refill and returned a
few minutes later as Willow was looking around the meadow. She couldn't
stop herself; every few minutes she checked again.

"Looking for someone?" Martin asked.

"Yeah, a guy I met--Patrick O'Shaunessy."

"Patrick O'Shaunessy?"

"Yes."

"I'll be damned. I met him the other day." Patrick, she thought. Martin
reminded her of Patrick; that's who it was. More people arrived. A
soprano sax joined the piano. A man with gray hair set up a drum kit.
Joe Burke stood near the piano with a blonde--leggy, like me, Willow
thought, but better looking. They came over and sat d