Ann took a cup of coffee upstairs, grumbling about the Pentagon and Johnson's war. Willow began pricing cans of delicacies. Stocking was easy; it was the little price stickers that slowed her down.
She was in the back room, looking down into a carton, when a voice called out, "Anybody home?" She saw a familiar head of red hair. Patrick, she realized as she came to the front of the store.
"Hi, I was in the back." Now that was intelligent, she thought. Patrick was considering the meat and cheese on display in the counter cooler. "Is it Patrick?" Brilliant. He straightened and turned.
"Himself," he said. "Good morning, Willow. What are you doing here?"
"Working, natch." She saw him start to grin; probably he thought she was a little rich girl.
"Oh," he said. "Could you make me a roast beef sandwich? To go?"
"White, wheat, pumpernickel, light rye, dark rye? . . . "
"Dark rye."
"You want some horseradish in there? Mayo? What?" Patrick rubbed his chin.
"Hell of a decision," he said. He turned his face up to the universe for guidance. "Horseradish?"