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."

His face darkened. "Those idiots . . . "

"Just kidding." She skipped away. He was decent, really. She pedaled to
the studio, ate a carrot that was getting old, cut up an apple and ate
that with a piece of cheddar, and made a mug of tea which she balanced
on her stomach as she lay on her bed. She didn't have a violin, and she
wasn't sure what she'd be getting into if she started going over to