lured
her, not so much for itself, although it was wonderful, but for what
might arise within it.

In the morning, Art's truck was gone; Amber was nowhere to be seen; and
the dishes were dry, upside down in neat piles. Willow ate a bowl of
cold cereal with milk and then rode into town. The first thing she did
at Ann's was to make a pot of coffee. Drinking too much wine gave her a
headache, but dope left her head filled with a dull cloudiness that
drove her nuts. It didn't hurt, but she couldn't think. It was as if
she'd watched a dumb television show all night. "Dumb, dumb, dumb," she
sang. "I'm dumb, dumb, dumb-deedoo-dumb, dumb, dumb. Where's my bass
man?" she asked the coffee pot. "There we go," she said as coffee began
running into the Silex pot. "Dumb, dumb, deedoo."

"So it's a canary I hired?"

"Tweet. What are you doing up?"

"Couldn't sleep--smelled the coffee. We had a late delivery; see if you
can get the stuff out before it gets busy."

"Tweet, tweet." Ann acted grumpy, was grumpy, especially early in the
day, but there was no edge to it. The feeling was directed more at
herself. Willow did what she was told without resentment, agreeing with
Ann's pronouncements whenever possible. Ann wasn't around that much.
The whole idea was that Willow would open the Deli and let her sleep.

Ann took a cup of coffee upstairs, grumbling about the Pentagon and
Johnson's war. Willow began pricing cans of delicacies. Stocking was
easy; it was the little price stickers that slowed her down.

She was in the back room, looking down into a carton, when a voice
called out, "Anybody home?" She saw a familiar head of red hair.
Patrick, she realized as she came to the front of the store.

"Hi, I was in the back." Now that was intelligent, she thought. Patrick
was considering the meat and cheese on display in the counter cooler.
"Is it Patrick?" Brilliant. He straightened and turned.

"Himself," he said. "Good morning, Willow. What are you doing here?"

"Working, natch." She saw him start to grin; probably he thought she
was a little rich girl.

"Oh," he said. "Could you make me a roast beef sandwich? To go?"

"White, wheat, pumpernickel, light rye, dark rye? . . . "

"Dark rye."

"You want some horseradish in there? Mayo? What?" Patrick rubbed his
chin.

"Hell of a decision," he said. He turned his face up to the universe
for guidance. "Horseradish?"

"Horseradish," she said firmly. "And a little mayo on the othe