Joe Burke's Last Stand Part 56

having sketched the

waiter on a paper napkin

uses it to blot the marinara sauce

from his blue silk tie.

Cree read and wrinkled her nose. "That's Gino, all right. I think he's happy in the Maine woods. His relationship is good. He doesn't make any money, but what else is new?" She shook her head. "Well, we got Bart made, anyway."

"Go, Bart!" Willow said. "So, how's your business?"

"Every time I think it's going to die, it surprises me and comes back to life."

"Must be fun going to Italy on buying trips."

"It is fun sometimes. And deductible. How does Patrick like it at the university?"

"He enjoys it," Willow said. "He likes the research best, but he doesn't mind the teaching. The kids love him."

"Of course they do," Cree said. "Now, I'm trying to remember--weren't you into music?"

"I was. I mean, I am. I love it, but I don't perform or anything."

"Bart is pretty good on the piano. I'm thinking of changing to a better teacher."

"I grew up on lessons," Willow said. "I think I had too many. When I was in Woodstock, I used to go up to AhnRee's and play his piano, try to write songs. I found that I couldn't. It was a great disappointment.

It was like I was too grooved in the cla.s.sical; I couldn't get loose, couldn't get away from it. I guess if I were really talented I would have blown it off and done my own thing." She paused. "I wouldn't push it too hard. Nudge, maybe. Scone?"

Cree's face lit up as she bit into the scone. "Mighty fine," she said.

"That's what I do best," Willow said. "It's a wonder I can still see my feet. I'm starting a cafe in January."

"Spectacular! I'll be there. You look terrific. I'm the blimp. I'll think about the music lessons. Thanks, Willow." They watched the Mustangs struggle. The other team was doing most of the attacking.

"What's your little one like? . . . Dylan?"

"Right. After Bob," Willow said. "He's more even tempered than Martin, but he's pretty intense. Quiet. He's got a thing for cats, which I take to be a good sign." The attackers lined up for a corner kick. "What ever happened to Joe Burke?"

"Oh, Joe." Cree smiled. "He was something. He and Sally went to Hawaii to live, then they broke up. He's in Maine. They had a daughter. He's remarried, I think."

"He was interesting," Willow said.

"Yeah. If the situation had been a little different . . . " She raised one eyebrow. "I don't think he ever found a place where he fit in. The good old days," Cree said. "When you showed up in Woodstock, you had a friend."

"Amber," Willow said.

"Wasn't she from the Bay Area?"

"Yep--she's in Vancouver, Washington, now. She's a pediatrician. She married a developer with pots of money. They have two spoiled kids."

"She was gorgeous," Cree said.

"She's hanging in there," Willow said. "A line of men was following her around in the mall the last time I saw her."

"Men." Cree shook her head. "They come in handy at a picnic--as my mother used to say. You got the last good one. Patrick is a sweetie."

"As long as you put the pliers back. Jesus." Willow said. There was a great commotion from the attackers as they ran back towards their own goal holding their arms in the air. Mustangs down, one-zip. "Oh, dear."

"We will conquer," Cree said.

"Martin's going to be upset. He's planning to be a World Cup goalie."

"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 Tallaha.s.see 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.

"'n.o.body 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.'

"'The h.e.l.l it isn't,' Patrick finally got out.

"'It is and it isn't,' Martin said.

"'How did you know?' Patrick asked.

"'After my dad died--my other dad--I heard my mom talking. She and her best friend were drinking. They thought I was asleep. She'd never said anything. I guess she was worried that the family would throw her out or disown her or something.' Martin looked sad. 'You remember things like that. When you showed up, I knew right away.'

"'I thought there was something similar about you two,' I said. Patrick held his hands across the table, extending his fingers.

"'Same hands,' he said. Martin spread his fingers to compare, and then they clasped hands for a moment.

"'I figured you knew,' Martin said, 'because of the way you kept watching me."'