A man playing a blues harp passed him on the other side of Tinker Street. The blues pulsed up into the evening sky, mournful and elaborate, a peacock tail of sound. Feelings stirred for which Patrick had no words. He pumped one fist in the air like a brother and turned aside to the rooming house. 2 He likes you, as usual," Willow said. "And of course you don't care. You are such a bitch, sometimes." "I am not. I can't help it if he likes me." Amber made a tiny swaggering move with her breasts. "Anyway, he likes you just as much." "Well, why doesn't he look at me?" "If you'd wear something besides jeans and work shirts . . ." Amber's pants and short skirts clung to perfect legs. Her blouses were tight. She was averagely good looking. Her face was open and energetic; her hair was chestnut tending to blonde, shoulder length and wavy. Men found themselves looking at her, talking to her, and then--the more they looked, the more they saw. She was faster than they were; she adjusted effortlessly in flight, becoming more serious or more carefree, more cerebral or more passionate under their gaze. "Men are SO stupid," Willow said. "Don't you think they're cute sometimes? Even AhnRee with his tan and those big white towels he wraps around his belly at the pool. He's old--God, do you think he's fifty?--but he has those big round dark eyes." AhnRee had picked up Amber the second day they were in town. "When I see someone so special, I know! I must paint you. My name is AhnRee," he had said with great dignity. "AhnRee?" Willow asked. "As in Matisse," he said. "It is an honor, such a name. A curse . . . But never mind." He smiled gallantly. Gigi, Willow said to herself. No one should copy Maurice Chevalier. They get the eyes and the teeth, but they don't have the engine. No fire engine inside the doors. "No fire engine," she said to Amber. "Huh?" AhnRee had said something to Amber and Amber was asking why they shouldn't try living in his studio. "You will find it most private," AhnRee said. "It is some distance from the main house. In return, a bit of modeling, say, once a week? Say you will," he pleaded. "Only if it is all right with Willow," Amber said, kicking Willow in the ankle. "Ah, Willow," AhnRee said, wrenching his eyes from Amber who was becoming ever more elusive, more of a muse. "Where is this place?" Willow asked. "A short drive up the mountain. An easy ride on a bicycle. In fact, I have several bicycles--if you don't mind the old fashioned kind with baskets on the handlebars." "And what do I have to do?" Amber kicked her again. AhnRee considered. "You may mow the lawn around the studio. And, if you wish, attend a little to the flowers." Willow had given in, and it had been fine. AhnRee had left them alone. And Amber seemed to enjoy modeling. "It's not so bad, being admired," she told Willow.