"He carries himself like Patrick. Where did the name come from?"
"My father's name is Martin, and also . . . You've got to keep this to yourself." Cree moved closer. "Do you remember Martin Merrill in Woodstock—lived on the Byrdcliffe Road, played banjo and fiddle?"
"Sure," Cree said. "He was around a lot. He had a glamorous mother, right?"
"Right." Willow sipped coffee. "One night, Patrick and I were in the Depresso—about a week before we left town. We'd decided to get married and move to Tallahassee so Patrick could go back to school. We were celebrating. Martin came in, and we told him our plans. He was happy about it and said he had a wedding present for us.
"Patrick said to him, 'Wedding present? All right! We don't even have a date.'
"'Soon,' I said.
"'Nobody knows,' Patrick said.
"'My parents already fear the worst," I said.
"'I've got to call my father,' Patrick said.
"Well, when Patrick said that, Martin leaned across the table. 'You mean our father, don't you?' I thought Patrick was going to fall off his chair; his mouth opened and nothing came out. 'Take it easy,' Martin said. 'It's no big deal.'