"Too much," Amber said, looking at the view.
"I wonder if Patrick will show," Willow said.
"Did you tell him where it was?"
"I didn't give him directions, but guys on his crew would know."
"He'll come," Amber said. "And if he doesn't, that's his problem. How did they get the piano up here?" she asked Art who was back, holding three paper cups of beer.
"Carried it," he said. "Four guys—one on each corner. They bring it in every year. It's Angus's. He has a band, plays Dixieland and early jazz."
"Oooh," Willow said, "stride piano." She had grown up listening to
Scott Joplin, Jelly Roll Morton, and Fats Waller, her father's nod to
modernity. Straight from Bach, he used to say. She sipped her beer.
Martin Merrill arrived.
"Hey there, Art. Hi, Willow."
"Hey, Martin. This is Amber. Where's your fiddle?"
"Hi, Amber. Fiddle's in the car. Maybe we'll get to a little Cripple
Creek later." Willow flushed.