"Yvonne Navarro - Zachary's Glass Shope2" - читать интересную книгу автора (Navarro Yvonne)

in there?"
Zachary gave him a guileless smile. It reminded him of a documentary he'd
once
watched on jungle cats; a lioness had stretched in the sun with that same
sense
of deadly unconcern. The memory left him uneasy; perhaps it was time to tell
the
shopkeeper that the things were pretty but he wasn't interested.
"A life, Mr Mandell." Zachary reached for Channing's palm and turned it up,
then
dropped the golden frame onto it. The glass wobbled there and warmth seeped
into
his skin. "You are holding someone's life in your hand."
Channing's fingers closed protectively around the warm glass.
"I think I'd like to hear about this," he said.



The darkness outside made him nervous. Channing sensed the sly gazes of the
same
people as when he'd arrived, as though they'd done nothing besides sit and
watch, waiting for him to come out. He'd been in the shop for almost an hour,
listening to the tale, half-believing it, all thoughts of the seventy
thousand
convertible forgotten. Yet nothing had happened, no missing wheels or stereo,
though he'd left the door unlocked. His father, a race car driver in his
youth,
had always told him: "Never lock the door on a convertible, Channing. Why
lose
the stereo and have to replace the top?" But there were no rips in the top or
spray-painted obscenities across the hood. The odds of this automobile
surviving
for an hour in this section of the city were astronomical, but Channing
remembered the man who had propositioned him and the way the guy had hoofed
it
when he'd realized where he was.
He got in and started the engine, letting it warm for a few minutes while he
held the small box and looked around at the interior, wondering where he
could
put it to be sure the contents would not be harmed. The most obvious place
was
on the passenger seat, where the heavy upholstery would absorb any roadshock.
But what if he had a wreck?
He shuddered deliciously. It was bullshit, but he couldn't help believing
Zachary's story and it sure as hell would make a gift Miranda could never say
was a duplicate. Zachary would tell him only that the tiny golden frame
contained the life -- in the form of some minute personal object -- of a
woman
with the initials W S. There was a piece of parchment only an inch square in
the