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

trite paperback covers she did to make her living. She had done it when she was twenty, as a birthday
gift for him. He'd always been fond of it. It captured her as no photograph had ever done, not just the
lines of her face, the high angular cheekbones and blue eyes and tangled ash-blond hair, but the
personality inside. She looked so young and fresh and confident, and her smile reminded him so much of
Helen, and the way she had smiled on their wedding day. He'd told Michelle more than once how much
he'd liked that smile.

And so, of course, it had been the smile that she'd started on. She used an antique dagger from his
collection, chopped out the mouth with four jagged slashes. She'd gouged out the wide blue eyes next, as
if intent on blinding the portrait, and when he came bursting in after her, she'd been slicing the canvas into
ribbons with long angry crooked cuts. Cantling couldn't forget the moment. So ugly. And to do something
like that to her own workтАж he couldn't imagine it. He had tried to picture himself mutilating one of his
books, tried to comprehend what might drive one to such an act, and he had failed utterly. It was
unthinkable, beyond even imagination.

The mutilated portrait still hung in its place. He'd been too stubborn to take it down, and yet he could not
bear to look at it. So he had taken to avoiding his den. It wasn't hard. The old house was a huge,
rambling place, with more rooms than he could possibly need or want, living alone as he did. It had been
built a century ago, when Perrot had been a thriving river town, and they said that a succession of
steamer captains had lived there. Certainly the steamboat gothic architecture and all the gingerbread
called up visions of the glory days on the river, and he had a fine view of the Mississippi from the
third-story windows and the widow's walk. After the incident, Cantling had moved his desk and his
typewriter to one of the unused bedrooms and settled in there, determined to let the den remain as
Michelle had left it until she came back with an apology.

He had not expected that apology quite so soon, however, nor in quite this form. A tearful phone call,
yesтАФbut not another portrait. Still, this was nicer somehow, more personal. And it was a gesture, the
first step toward a reconciliation. Richard Cantling knew too well that he was incapable of taking that
step himself, no matter how lonely he might become. And he had been lonely, he did not try to fool
himself on that score. He had left all his New York friends behind when he moved out to this Iowa river
town, and had formed no local friendships to replace them. That was nothing new. He had never been an
outgoing sort. He had a certain shyness that kept him apart, even from those few friends he did make.
Even from his family, really. Helen had often accused him of caring more for his characters than for real
people, an accusation that Michelle had picked up on by the time she was in her teens. Helen was gone
too. They'd divorced ten years ago, and she'd been dead for five. Michelle, infuriating as she could be,
was really all he had left. He had missed her, missed even the arguments.

He thought about Michelle as he tore open the plain brown paper. He would call her, of course. He
would call her and tell her how good the new portrait was, how much he liked it. He would tell her that
he'd missed her, invite her to come out for Thanksgiving. Yes, that would be the way to handle it. No
mention of their argument, he didn't want to start it all up again, and neither he nor Michelle was the kind
to back down gracefully. A family trait, that stubborn willful pride, as ingrained as the high cheekbones
and squarish jaw. The Cantling heritage.

It was an antique frame, he saw. Wooden, elaborately carved, very heavy, just the sort of thing he liked.
It would mesh with his Victorian decor much better than the thin brass frame on the old portrait. Cantling
pulled the wrapping paper away, eager to see what his daughter had done. She was nearly thirty
nowтАФor was she past thirty already? He never could keep track of her age, or even her birthdays.
Anyway, she was a much better painter than she'd been at twenty. The new portrait ought to be striking.
He ripped away the last of the wrappings and turned it around.