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"You young people think we don't feel anything. Well, you're wrong. What's your name?" "Patrick." "We have feelings, too. You think we weren't young once?" "Sorry," he said, unsure. "Night." He moved toward the door. "Remember that, Patrick," she flung at his back. Another upset woman. What was getting into everybody? He looked into the window of the Depresso. Sue and Jim weren't there.
He felt the sweetness again and was glad that they were getting together the next night. Patrick looked out the Depresso window and saw a red Chevy convertible passing with its top down. Willow was riding on the passenger side, her hair blowing. Martin. Willow. So that's why she couldn't meet me, he realized. She looked as though she were having a good time. What do I do now? he wondered.
"This is Patrick O'Shaunessy calling from Woodstock. I hate to tell you this, but Gert is in the hospital." Ginger said that she would come as soon as possible. She thanked him and hung up. What else could he do? He left a note for Bob, explaining the situation, and walked back into town. He kept seeing Gert that clear shake of her head, no. Claude had left the Depresso.
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 Tallahassee 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.
Some help themselves with countenance and gesture, and are wise by signs; as Cicero saith of Piso, that when he answered him, he fetched one of his brows up to his forehead, and bent the other down to his chin; Respondes, altero ad frontem sublato, altero ad mentum depresso supercilio, crudelitatem tibi non placere.
I mean if you wanted me to paint the house or something, that would be different." He liked Gert, but he didn't want to be on call. "Very well, Patrick. Perhaps you'll take a glass of lemonade." She often seemed amused by him. "I will," he said. He took a nap in the afternoon and walked into town refreshed and hungry. The Depresso was mostly empty.
The hug was warm and intense, but there was work, a sandwich, breakfast . . . "Good morning," she said happily, letting him go. "I need a sandwich got to go to work." "Roast beef?" She made the sandwich while Patrick chose a pint of orange juice and a banana. "Want to meet me at the Depresso later?" he asked. "I can't tonight," she said. "Oh." He was surprised by his disappointment.
He finished a beer quickly and checked the crowd gathering in the Depresso. Claude was at the end of the bar. Patrick approached him. "Hey, Claude." "Patrick." "Claude, I've got to go to Kingston." "Some people have all the luck." "My landlady got taken to the hospital. Do you know where the hospital is?" "Benedictine or Kingston?" "Are there two? I don't know. Kingston, I guess."
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.
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.
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