"Garwood, Julie - For the Roses 05 - Come the Spring" - читать интересную книгу автора (Garwood Julie)

Ac1cnowledgments A special thanks to the following: To Jo Ann for
keeping me accurate, focused, and on track . . . and for putting up
with me.

To my agent, Andrea Cirillo, and my editor, Linda Marrow, for believing
in my dreams . . . and for never saying the word "impossible." And,
to all the readers who fell in love with the Claybornes and encouraged
me to continue their story. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

@ For winters rains and ruins are over, And all the seasons of snows
and sins, The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the
night that wins, And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are
slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by
blossom the spring begins.

■From Atalanta in Calydon Algernon Charles Swinburne For winter's rains
and ruins are over, And all the seasons of snows and sins, But for the
grace of God and an untied shoelace, she would have died with the
others that day. She walked into the bank at precisely two forty-five
in the afternoon to close her account, deliberately leaving the task
until the last possible minute because it made everything so final in
her mind. There would be no going back. All of her possessions had
been packed, and very soon now she would be leaving Rockford Falls,
Montana, forever.

Sherman MacCorkle, the bank president, would lock the doors in fifteen
minutes. The lobby was filled with other procrastinators like herself,
yet for all the customers, there were only two tellers working the
windows instead of the usual three. Emmeline MacCorkle, Sherman's
daughter, was apparently still at home recovering from the influenza
that had swept through the peaceful little town two weeks before.

Malcolm Watterson's line was shorter by three heads. He was a
notorious gossip, though, and would surely ask her questions she wasn't
prepared to answer.

Fortunately Franklin Carroll was working today, and she immediately
took her place in the back of his line. He was quick, methodical, and
never intruded into anyone's personal affairs. He was also a friend.

She had already told him good-bye after services last Sunday, but she
had the sudden inclination to do so again.

She hated waiting. Tapping her foot softly against the warped
floorboards, she took her gloves off, then put them back on again.

Each time she fidgeted, her purse, secured by a satin ribbon around her
wrist, swung back and forth, back and forth, like a pendulum keeping
perfect time to the ticktock of the clock hanging on the wall behind