"Kathleen Ann Goonan - Angels and You Dogs" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goose Mother)

due to zoning.
I began to long for at least some silent, private mourning instead of
being subjected to Lulu's frequent lectures about "getting over it." Briefly,
I considered selling the Feistaware. Its appraised value was fifty thousand
because of a few extremely rare pieces. I decided against it. The bright
shapes held too many memories. The rare Red Mixing Bowl looked so
vibrant next to the Turquoise Carafe. And I'd have to pay a lot in taxes.
It was, in fact, tax season, so I was buried in work, but one night I drove
across town and down Las Olas Boulevard, turned south on AIA, pulled
into a rare free parking space at the beach, and took a long, fast walk
down the broad concrete esplanade flanking the beach, ignoring the
skateboarders, in-line skaters, and bicycles whizzing past in the twilight.
A chilly wind buffeted the beach. The lights of posh restaurants glowed
across the street, where the al fresco tables stood empty. Cruise boats left
Port Largo a mile south with the precision of planes taking off from a busy
airport, one moving out from behind the massive rock jetty every ten
minutes, mad, happy, glowing cities hauling their willing prisoners further
south on twilit seas toward whatever their warped tropical fantasies might
be. They slept in windowless coffins and emerged sartorially six times a
day to stuff themselves with sterno-warmed food, prisoners of a strange,
claustrophobic fantasy which I could never fathom and in which I never
wanted to participate, despite Charles's urgings. I wondered if Charles and
his lover, who could surely afford a window and even a private lanai,
might be on one of them, escaping the bleak cold of winter Miami when
fronts like this one pressed farther south than tourists believed was
possible. I walked until I was weary. I wondered if I should sell the house
and move back to Boston. But it was not a good time to sell.
I stood on the near-empty beach and opened my cellphone to call him.
After moment, I flipped it shut and returned to my car.




.....



The first time I had a hint of deep weirdness was a month after Lulu
moved in. Ambrose could easily scramble up the dock ramp; I had given
myself permission to smoke a lot of cigars in revenge for the dog, the
house was a wreck, and Lulu took it upon herself to regularly berate me for
my continued attachment to the idea that Charles might someday return.
One evening she told me he had called twice earlier in the day, desperately
demanding some of the Fiestaware in particular, the Cream Soup Bowl,
which I knew had lately tripled in value, but she took it upon herself to tell
him that a deal was a deal, buddy. "I told him that. A deal is a deal, buddy.
Live with it. Move on. Get your new rich honey to buy you one. You made
a big mistake when you left this guy, Charlie." She recounted the
conversation with great passion. Her cheeks flushed. "You would have just
groveled and given it to him. I know it. And don't you dare call him back."