Patrick let out his breath. "I was wondering. I didn't say anything."
His father was silent for a moment. "Maybe that's best, Pat. We wouldn't want to upset anybody; only a couple of people know. Come see us at Christmas in Costa Rica or Florida—wherever we end up; we'll talk about it. Basically, Heidi was afraid she'd never have a baby."
"Dad, look, I've got to go. Thanks for telling me. I won't say anything. I'll let you know about Christmas. Say hi to Mom." Patrick hung up softly. He stood for several seconds and then went back out on the porch where he sat down again and watched the rain. I'll be damned, he thought. His father must have been about his age when he was in Woodstock. Patrick saw him in a new way. Heidi must have been incredible; she was still good looking. It was cool to have a brother, but it was strange not to be able to say anything. Martin didn't seem like a bad guy for someone who had it easy.
"Patrick, the window at the end of the upstairs hall is stuck. Could you close it for me?"
"Glad to." Keep it quiet, he thought, climbing the stairs. Maybe talk about it at Christmas. See what happens.
6
Willow followed Amber and Art across a small stream. "Much farther?" she asked. Art pointed through the trees to a small rise.
"Right up there." They emerged onto a shelf-like meadow that dropped abruptly into a narrow valley. Willow could see nothing but mountain after mountain in the distance—no roads, no houses. An upright piano stood by itself in the meadow, the last point of local focus before her eyes leaped into the space beyond and below.
"Wow!"
Amber and Art chose a place not far from a fire where a dozen people were sitting and standing, laughing, drinking beer. Willow removed her pack. She spread a blanket and weighed it down with the pack which held a bottle of water, two bottles of wine, a paperback copy of Lawrence Durrell's Justine, and a loaf of her best honey walnut bread. Art went immediately to the keg.