"George R. R. Martin - Portraits of His Children" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

sort of insane, drunken, somnambulist episode, Cantling decided. It was the stress of the ongoing quarrel
with Michelle, of course, triggered by the portrait she'd sent him. Perhaps he ought to see someone about
it, a doctor or a psychologist or someone.

After breakfast, Cantling went straight to his den, determined to confront the problem directly and
resolve it. Michelle's mutilated portrait still hung above the fireplace. A festering wound, he thought; it had
infected him, and the time had come to get rid of it. Cantling built a fire. When it was going good, he took
down the ruined painting, dismantled the metal frameтАФhe was a thrifty man, after allтАФand burned the
torn, disfigured canvas. The oily smoke made him feel clean again.

Next there was the portrait of Dunnahoo to deal with. Cantling turned to consider it. A good piece of
work, really.

She had captured the character. He could burn it, but that would be playing Michelle's own destructive
game. Art should never be destroyed. He had made his mark on the world by creation, not destruction,
and he was too old to change. The portrait of Dunnahoo had been intended as a cruel taunt, but Cantling
decided to throw it back in his daughter's teeth, to make a splendid celebration of it. He would hang it,
and hang it prominently. He knew just the place for it.

Up at the top of the stairs was a long landing; an ornate wooden bannister overlooked the first floor foyer
and entry hall. The landing was fifteen feet long, and the back wall was entirely blank. It would make a
splendid portrait gallery, Cantling decided. The painting would be visible to anyone entering the house,
and you would pass right by it on the way to any of the second floor rooms. He found a hammer and
some nails and hung Dunnahoo in a place of honor. When Michelle came back to make peace, she
would see him there, and no doubt leap to the conclusion that Cantling had totally missed the point of her
gift. He'd have to remember to thank her effusively for it.

Richard Cantling was feeling much better. Last night's conversation was receding into a bad memory. He
put it firmly out of his mind and spent the rest of the day writing letters to his agent and publisher. In the
late afternoon, pleasantly weary, he enjoyed a cup of coffee and some butter streusel he'd hidden away in
the refrigerator. Then he went out on his daily walk, and spent a good ninety minutes hiking along the
river bluffs with a fresh, cold wind in his face.

When he returned, a large square package was waiting on his porch.

He leaned it up against an armchair, and settled into his recliner to study it. It made him uneasy. It had an
effect, no doubt of it. He could feel an erection stirring against his leg, pressing uncomfortably against his
trousers.

The portrait wasтАж well, frankly erotic.

She was in bed, a big old antique four-poster, much like his own. She was naked. She was half-turned in
the painting, looking back over her right shoulder; you saw the smooth line of her backbone, the curve of
her right breast. It was a large, shapely, and very pretty breast; the aureole was a pale pink and very
large, and her nipple was erect. She was clutching a rumpled sheet up to her chin, but it did little to
conceal her. Her hair was red-gold, her eyes green, her smile playful. Her smooth young skin had a flush
to it, as if she had just risen from a bout of lovemaking. She had a peace symbol tattooed high on the
right cheek of her ass. She was obviously very young. Richard Cantling knew just how young: she was
eighteen, a child-woman, caught in that precious time between innocence and experience when sex is just
a wonderfully exciting new toy. Oh yes, he knew a lot about her. He knew her well.