"Oh no, your nice landlady?" Patrick nodded. "Is it serious?" Patrick raised his arms and let out a breath.

"Yes," he said. "I called her niece in St. Louis. She's coming today, I think. I need a sandwich. Maybe we could meet later?"

"Sure. I'll be at the Depresso. If you don't show up, I'll figure you couldn't make it."

"O.K." He looked relieved. She made him an enormous sandwich and wished that she could hug him, but another customer was waiting. This was the first time she had seen Patrick sad. His expression was calm, resigned, almost delicate. The energy she was accustomed to seeing in his face seemed to have drawn back, turned inward, as though it were trained on maintaining his balance. "I hope I see you later," she said. His answering smile included her in his balance, if that's what it was. She felt more certain than ever that she was moving in the right direction.

On her way home, she stopped to talk with AhnRee who was seated in a director's chair on his lawn. He was sketching an apple tree. "Nice day, huh, AhnRee?"

"Mmm, yes, Willow."

"Pretty." She pointed at the drawing. "I thought you only painted women."

AhnRee looked up from his labor. "One must take a break occasionally.

It is good for the eye." He selected another colored pencil and rubbed a few darker patches into the ground beneath the tree. "Tone, Willow."

"Yes, tone." Normally, she would have continued on her way at this point. h.e.l.l, normally, she would have waved and not stopped in the first place. AhnRee put down his pencil carefully.

"And are you content here, Willow?" A bit surprising, sometimes, AhnRee.

"I am," she said emphatically. "I love the flowers. It is a wonderful place."

"Pour l'amour." AhnRee smiled. G.o.d, this blushing had to stop.

"Right. L'amour," she said. "Patrick," she added.

"Ah, Patrick . . . Is he the one with the red hair?"

"Yes."

"Marvelous," AhnRee said, looking back at the apple tree.

"AhnRee?" He looked back at her. "Amber said that you said I might use your piano some time."

"Of course, Willow, of course. Amber told me that you were musical." He rubbed his stomach. "I am often out in the middle of the day. Just let yourself in."

"Thanks, AhnRee. You are a sweetheart--no matter what they say about you at the Museum of Modern Art."

His face darkened. "Those idiots . . . "

"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 pa.s.s 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."

"d.a.m.n."

"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."

"Maybe she wasn't so alone," Willow said.

Patrick spread his hands, palms up. "Anyway--I promised, about the chest."

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"Thanks, Eve." Patrick took his beer and considered. "Go home, I guess.

Wait."

"What about the chest? Is it big?"

"Not very," Patrick said.

"Could you hide it somewhere?"

"I guess I could put it under my bed and pretend that it was mine."

"But, the niece may have seen it before."

"You're right," Patrick said.

"You could put it under the bed with a garbage bag around it--just to hide it. Then we could figure out how to move it later, bring it up to my house or take it to the dump."

"I don't know about the dump," Patrick said. "It would be like throwing her away."

"No dump," Willow said.

"The garbage bag is a good idea. That's what I'll do. So . . . " He stood. "I'll miss you. Love that T-shirt." He meant what was underneath. She wiggled in her chair, pleased.

"I've got the day off tomorrow," she told him. "I'd love to see you."

"Good deal. Here, after work?" They agreed and she watched him leave, walking slowly. She wanted to tell him about her decision, but he had a lot on his mind. It could wait until tomorrow. Also, that would give her another day to make sure it was for real. She knew it was, but it wouldn't hurt to sleep on it one more night.

In the morning, she wrote to the Dean at Stanford, requesting a leave of absence. Willow (Clara) Brown, she signed it. It's my name, d.a.m.nit, she said to herself. Every one has always called me 'Willow.' I can't help it if Dad is a Brahms freak. I mean, there's nothing wrong with Clara, but Willow is my name. She was working herself up to call home.

Writing the letter first made the decision more of a fait accompli, even though she hadn't mailed it.