"Fitch-SarahAtTheTidePool" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fitch Marina)

He'd glared at her through hateful, narrowed eyes. God, I'd love to smash your
lab, force you out of your insulated little cave.

But the next morning it was Sarah who did the smashing. Lining up his prized
Waterford crystal on the concrete patio, Sarah had taken Richard's hammer and
shattered each tumbler, each wine, sherry, and champagne glass. "Just try to use
these with her!" she'd shouted. "Just try!"

A giddy elation bubbled through her all day, sustained her whenever a pang of
loss clawed at her in the lab. Sustained her -- until she went home to the wink
and sparkle of splintered crystal.

By the time Richard returned two days later to collect his things, she had
replaced each glass -- after twenty-seven phone calls and a hundred and
thirty-three mile round trip to three specialty stores in San Francisco.

Sarah blinked and turned to watch a spotted nudibranch creep along the bottom of
the tank that stood beside the microscope. Her temples pounded. God, I'd love to
smash your lab, force you out of your insulated little cave. She rubbed her
eyes. Was that what Richard was doing -- smashing her lab by beating her at her
own research? A cold anger built in her. He had his airhead lab tech, why
couldn't he just leave her alone? Why destroy the only thing she had left?

Sarah winced. The only thing?

She remembered the day her father called the lab. No one else had come in that
day; Sarah answered the phone. At the sight of her father's face, she tensed.
Staring at the palm-sized videoscreen, she prayed her mother hadn't found
another melanoma. "What is it, Dad?" she said. "Is Mom all right?"

"She's fine. She's right here beside me, Pumpkin," her father said. Her mother
leaned into view. "We just wanted to wish you a Merry Christmas."

Her eyes suddenly focused on the lab. Snowflakes cut from old memos flurried
across the window while garlands of colored pipette tips hung from the overhead
cupboards. Undoubtedly the work of Freda and Sam, the lab techs. "Is it
Christmas, Dad?" she asked.

"Ho ho ho! Sure is, Pumpkin," her father said.

Her mother smiled. "Merry Christmas, darling."

She hung up the phone, walking to the window to peer out at the woodland beyond.
Richard had always dragged her from the lab on Christmas Eve, bodily if
necessary, and driven her to the snow. Then at midnight they had toasted with
the Waterford champagne glasses. But this year Richard and his airhead toasted
in some alpine cabin.

She'd turned away from the window and gone back to her work. She had her