"Just kidding." She skipped away. He was decent, really. She pedaled to the studio, ate a carrot that was getting old, cut up an apple and ate that with a piece of cheddar, and made a mug of tea which she balanced on her stomach as she lay on her bed. She didn't have a violin, and she wasn't sure what she'd be getting into if she started going over to Tom Merrill's. She played piano well enough to fool around, to maybe get at what she was feeling. Her eyes closed, and, without opening them, she lowered the half empty mug to the stone floor.
An hour later, she brushed her hair and put on a slinky black T-shirt. She folded a sweater, weighed it down with a book in the bike basket, and coasted down the mountain. Her favorite table was empty, a good sign. She ordered a beer and put the book on the table, but she did not read it, preferring to watch cars and people pass by, enjoying a feeling of community. I mean, I live here, she thought. I'm not going back. The words still thrilled her.
Patrick arrived 45 minutes later looking pretty much as he had in the morning. "How are ya?" she asked, not wanting to throw herself at him.
"Thirsty . . . Gert died."
"Damn."
"Yeah. This morning. I just called." She pushed her bottle in his direction and watched him take two long swallows. "Thanks," he said. "Ginger—that's her niece—is supposed to arrive tonight. She's staying at the house, so I said I'd be there."
"I'm sorry, Patrick."
"I am, too. I keep seeing Gert lying in that hospital bed all alone." He paused. "Strange thing happened: she asked me not to let her niece have a chest that was in the attic. It was like her last wish. She said the chest was hers. 'Mine, my love,' she said. She was whispering. I could barely hear her. When she said it, her face changed and she looked like a girl."
"Oh, Patrick."
"She seemed almost happy. I think she was happy."