pool,
accompanied by a placid looking blonde in her forties. Willow waved and
then bumped down to the blacktop road where she picked up speed and
breezed downhill into town, her hair fluttering nicely behind her.

She was early enough to get a table on the patio in front of the
Depresso. She ordered a cup of coffee and read her book, looking up now
and then to watch the regulars gather and the tourists walk
uncomfortably back and forth. Her porch, the clean house, and the baked
bread were satisfyingly present.

"What are you reading?" God! Patrick was standing a few feet away. She
held the book so that he could read the cover. "I've come for my
reward," he said. She dropped the book. "A cold one after a day of
scraping paint," he continued, reaching down and handing her the book.
"Henry Miller--I heard he was good."

"Yes," Willow said, recovering. "Well, don't let me keep you from your
reward; you deserve it."

"Right," Patrick said uncertainly. "Willow, right?" She nodded.
"Where's Amber?"

"She's at a barnwarming party breaking hearts." This was definitely
disloyal.

"Aha," Patrick said, "talk to you later." Willow smiled and went back
to her book. I hate him, she thought. Amber, too. She drank the rest of
her coffee. Time to leave. But she couldn't bring herself to get on her
bike and pedal home.

She went inside and ordered a beer at the bar. Patrick was in deep
conversation with a rugged good looking regular named Wendell. They
seemed to be talking about chisels. Jesus. Bob Dylan was sitting with
Bernard and Marylou, the owners, at a round table near the kitchen
door. They were laughing loudly. Bernard has a handsome mustache,
Willow thought. Dylan looked like he was winding up for an intense
night. He was SO intuitive; he always caught her looking and usually
ignored her. Once, he gave her a quick little shake of his head--it's a
fucked up world, we gotta do something, he seemed to be saying. He was
on the edge of control, major chutzpah.

Willow couldn't get her father to understand Dylan. Her father was a
Brahms expert; how could he? "A generational difference," he suggested.
Willow had snorted, angry with him for evading the argument. "Far be it
from me to suggest that he is a nihilist, simultaneously outdated and
immature . . . not to mention noisy," her father continued. Well, at
least he wasn't treating her like a child.

"He is writing American masterpieces," she said.

"God help us." Her fat