"Nagle, Patti - Coyote Ugly" - читать интересную книгу автора (Nagle Pati)

piece . . . . "Mrs. Rougier faltered under Eva's silent gaze. "Or maybe you
could carve another one? Yes, your own work! That would be lovely, don't you
think, Frances?"

"Mm," grunted Ms. Messersmith.

Mrs. Rougier's smile fluttered hesitantly around her face. "Well, I think we
should go now. We don't want to keep Eva from her work." She retrieved her shawl
and hurried to the door where Ms. Messersmith waited. "Thank you so much, Eva.
Be sure to bring the snake by when it's finished."

Eva watched from the door as they went down the uneven stone steps to where a
silver Mercedes was parked. Hurrying away from her because she wasn't what they
wanted her to be. It made her angry. She had tried--she'd spent hours on the
snake. Instead they wanted Coyote, whom they could never, never understand.

The air was sharply cool already, hinting of fall. Eva shivered and closed the
door.

She sat down at her work table, but did not pick up her knife. Instead she
stared up at Coyote, crouching in his corner.

The door creaked open; Joe.

"Who were they?"

Eva's gaze dropped to her hands clasped in her lap. "Mrs. Rougier owns the
gallery. She brought a customer over."

"They buy?"

"Maybe a commission."

Joe grunted and headed for the fridge. Eva watched him fix a sandwich. He took
the sandwich and a beer and plopped down on her bed, turning on the TV. She
frowned, wishing he would go away. It was hard to concentrate when he was
around. Sighing she got up and poured herself a cup of coffee, brought it back
and sat down to work. The TV blared.

Slowly, patiently, she began to coax the snake out of its stick. The twist she'd
added lent just the right movement to the form. Eva sighed, anger fading, and
bent closer, beginning to enjoy this new carving. She deepened the scale cuts,
added more detail to the rattles, feeling the snake's emotion begin to emerge.
Forgetting the TV, forgetting demands from Mrs. Rougier and Joe, she lost
herself in the work and felt free; only her hands and the knife, and the beauty
she was creating, existed.

After a while she stretched and looked around, noticing the room beyond her work
light was dim. The Sangre de Cristos glowed pink outside her window; sunset. She
flipped on the light switch on her way to the bathroom. As she washed her hands,