"Goodbye, Patrick. I hope things work out for you. Do tell your father that everything's fine. And come and have dinner with us sometime, won't you?"
"That would be nice," Patrick said.
Martin dropped him at Gert's and wished him luck. "Oh, yeah," Patrick said as he was half out of the car. "Do you know where Mead's Meadow is?"
"Sure. It's near the top on the other side, after you pass the Mountain House. Right up Rock City Road, up and over. You go down a hill, and the road bends left. You'll see a little logging road on the right—goes down through the woods a little ways, across a wet spot, and up onto the meadow."
"Thanks." Patrick waved and watched him drive away. Neat car. He said hello to Gert and ate his sandwich on the porch, thinking hard. He started to write a letter to his parents, but he crumpled it after the first paragraph. He went inside. Gert was busy in the back of the house. He hesitated and then picked up the telephone and called home, collect. By good luck, his father answered. "Dad, this is Pat."
"Pat! Where are you?"
"I'm in Woodstock—great town. I just looked up Heidi and Martin
Merrill."
"How are they?" His father's voice sounded far away.
"Fine. They've got a big place. She's nice, makes good coffee. Martin plays the fiddle." Patrick paused. "His hands, Dad, they are just like yours—like mine. He reminds me of you." Patrick ran out of words. There was a brief silence.
"It's a long story, Pat. I'll tell you about it the next time we get together. Martin is your half-brother."