"Madeline L' Engle - A Live Coal in the Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (L'Engle Madeleine)

Camilla felt that her voice was under control, she said, "That is a very
strange
question, Raffi. What caused you to ask it?"
Raffi pushed her fingers through her hair, which she had had cut over the
weekend. Always short, it was now shorter than that of the most conservative
males, as though she wanted it to show as little as possible. She said, "I'm
the
only redhead in the family. Is it some recessive gene? Did either of your
parents have red hair?"
Madeleine L'Engle┬╗12
Camilla shook her head. Neither Rose nor Rafferty Dickinson had had red hair.
"There's none in Mom's family, either. A mutation, perhaps?" Raffi's voice
was
harsh.
Camilla placed her hand gently on the girl's knee. "What's brought all this
up,
Raffi? Tell me."
"Something my dad said. Your son. Is he your son, Grandmother? I know he has
black hair, like yours before it went white, and he even sort of looks like
you."
"More than sort of," Camilla said. "Okay. He looks like you. But--2' "Isn't
that
enough for you, Raffi?"
"No." The girl lurched to her feet and began putting more wood onto the fire,
jabbing at the logs with the poker. Camilla looked around the familiar room
as
though she was a stranger, letting her gaze travel along the white
bookshelves,
the comfortable couches and chairs covered in chintz, the soft green of the
Chinese rugs on the floor.
Raffi finished her attack on the fire and sat down. "Grandmother."
"Yes?" Camilla turned from her inspection of the room, from the wall of
windows
which overlooked the lake, softly silver in the dwindling light. Leaves were
drifting down from maples and beeches, occasionally clinging to the window
screens before dropping to the ground.
"Who's Red Grange?" Camilla stiffened. "Grandmother?"
Carefully Camilla said, "He was a well-known football player a great many
years
ago. I didn't know you were interested in football."
"I'm not. My father, the soap-opera star-" There was undisguised bitterness
in
her voice. She shifted. "You know Dad's collection of those weird old
records-78s, he calls them. From 1978?"
"78 r.p.m.s." "What?"
"Revolutions per minute. I'll explain later if you're interested. Raffi,
what's
going on? What about your father's collection?"
"This weekend while I was home, after I drove Aunt Frankie to the airport,
Dad