"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. 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?"