Willow looked up. No one else was in the deli. "Patrick, I'm sorry I left so abruptly last night. I just couldn't . . . "
"That's O.K.; I won't talk about art anymore."
She smiled at him reprovingly.
"Anyway, I can't live without your sandwiches. How about turkey, today?" He stowed the sandwich in a small army surplus backpack that he'd bought after his first week in town.
"What are you going to do today?"
"I don't know," Patrick said. "Go to the library, I guess. I'm reading a great book on mathematics."
"There's supposed to be a party this weekend, Saturday, on the mountain. Mead's meadow, wherever that is. Music, kegs, a big blowout. Art says it's a good time. They do it every year."
"You going?"
"Yeah, for a while anyway."
"Maybe I'll see you there," Patrick said. "Day after tomorrow—the rain should be over by then." Willow seemed pleased, and Patrick left for the library. Hard to figure, he thought. Last night she wouldn't talk to me; this morning she invites me to a party. He thought he'd go, if he could find it. Maybe Art would fall off the mountain.