A voice crackled through the speaker, "O.K., just a minute."
Patrick looked around. "Nice house," he said.
"We've been here many years." There was a defensive note in her voice that surprised him. As he was telling her about his job, a tall man in his late twenties pushed open the kitchen door. He walked directly over, holding out his hand.
"Patrick O'Shaunessy?"
"Yes," Patrick said, standing and shaking hands.
"Martin Merrill."
"Patrick is working in town; he's not sure how long he will stay."
"What do think of the place?"
"The town, you mean?" Martin nodded. "I like Woodstock, but—everyone's a painter or a musician. Not that that's bad."
"And you are?"