He likes you; I'm telling you," Amber said.

"Gee, maybe he'll let me hold his hand someday, comfort his broken
heart." She smiled to soften the edge in her tone, and they pedaled
toward home in the early evening light.

Willow liked Patrick. He thought for himself. And his eyes were cute, a
penetrating blue that changed from hard to soft. He was the right
height and looked strong underneath that funny European work shirt. Her
imagination slowed at his belt. She had shared sleeping bags with Aaron
at a sing-out, but it had been dark. It had been pleasant enough, I
mean, O.K., she wrote in her journal, but men's bodies were basically
terra incognita. What she knew of sex was a fuzzy blend of Michelangelo
and the diaries of Anais Nin. There were plenty of men around--it
wasn't that--it was just that none of them turned her on. She tired of
their talk and endless competition. She'd rather listen to the
Beethoven quartets. That was another thing about Patrick. What did he
say? "Rattled his cage," that was it. Exactly. Her perfect brother,
David, said he liked Beethoven; David always said what he was supposed
to. But he never listened to Beethoven. He liked the Beatles, for God's
sake. I mean, yes, they wrote some catchy melodies, but really. They
were a long way from Dylan, let alone Beethoven.

Willow's indignation carried her to the top of the last hill before
AhnRee's driveway. She got off her bike and waited for Amber. They
walked up the bumpy dirt road, one on each side of the grass strip in
the middle. As they passed the main house, they got on their bikes and
pedaled to the studio along the edge of a small steep hay field rich in
clover and wildflowers, surrounded by trees. The studio was made of
dark weathered wood. It had a deep glow to Willow, perhaps because it
was the first time she had lived anywhere other than home or the
university.

She slept on a screened porch that looked into the woods behind the
house. Amber had the bedroom. The central room had a cathedral ceiling
and a skylight that faced north. It was furnished with an old couch, a
coffee table, and two armchairs drawn up by a stone fireplace. They ate
at a large table in the kitchen, the room through which one entered the
house.

AhnRee explained to Amber that skylights faced north so that the light
for painting would be more even, the changes more gradual. Painters had
been settling in Woodstock for generations. There were many such
houses--ha