"Yeah, I guess. How come you stopped playing the violin?"
Willow scratched one knee. "I love the old greats," she said. "I mean they are great souls, but . . . "
"They weren't your soul," Art said.
"No. I mean, they are, but they aren't." She put her hands behind her head into her hair and paused, spreading her arms out slowly, letting long dark strands run through her fingers and fan across her shoulders. She shook her head. "I didn't want to be stuck in that scene forever. Doors were closing."
"Willow's father is a music prof," Amber said.
"My mother plays, too," Willow said. "A nice Jewish musical family with perfect children who know how to get along."
"What's wrong with getting along?" Amber smiled meaningfully in Art's direction.
"Maybe you could sing; you look a little like Joan Baez." Art was a decent guy, really. And he had those shoulders. Willow's ears were buzzing.
"I wish," she said.
"You got any Coltrane?" The guy was full of surprises.