Patrick thanked Joe and walked fifty yards through trees to a rambling house with clapboard siding stained brown. There was a second smaller house, or studio, some distance behind and to the right. A green Cadillac, at least ten years old, gleamed in front of the house. Patrick knocked on the screen door. A woman with a heart shaped face, wheat colored hair, and clear blue-green eyes answered his knock. "Yes?" "Good morning. Are you Heidi Merrill?" She nodded. "My name is Patrick O'Shaunessy." She straightened. "My father said that you were an old friend. He asked me to say hello for him and see how you're doing." "Well! What a surprise. You must tell Brian that we are doing just fine. Come in." She led Patrick to a spacious kitchen where she poured coffee into hand-painted mugs. "So, Patrick, how long will you be in Woodstock?" "Good question. I think until winter, at least--maybe longer. I like it here, so far." "How long have you been here?" "About a month." "It is a nice town." A red '52 Chevy with a white convertible top drove past the kitchen. "Oh, there's Martin, my son. He lives in the studio behind the house." She looked at him closely. "You do remind me of Brian, but you must take after your mother. You're shorter, broader across the shoulders . . . " "Yes, I guess I do." "Same smile, though. How is Brian? You have a sister, don't you?" "Yep, Molly, a year older than I am. She's married, living in Atlanta. Dad's fine. He's just about to retire from the Army. He and Mom are arguing about whether to live in Florida or Costa Rica. Heidi went over to the door where there was an intercom much like the Van Slyke's. "Martin? Martin, can you come over? Patrick O'Shaunessy is here. His father is an old friend." A voice crackled through the speaker, "O.K., just a minute." 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.