"park_9781436290630_oeb_c36_r1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert B Parker- [Spenser 36] - Rough Weather)

“‘Roll on,’” I said, “‘thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sail over thee in vain.’”

“Is that Byron?” Susan said.

“Maybe,” I said.

Outside our picture window, the seabirds were very busy at the edge of the waves, scooting back and forth as the waves came in and broke and spread out on the beach. I assumed they were looking for things edible that the waves had roiled up. But I never did know for sure, and when I brought the question up to Susan, she trivialized it. I got up and added wood to the fire and came back and re-propped my pillow and lay on the bed beside her.

“Are we just going to lie on the bed all afternoon and look at the ocean?” Susan said.

“We can look at the fire, too,” I said.

“That’s it?”

“Except for occasional outbursts of scandalous sexuality,” I said.

“Oh,” Susan said.

She stood up and took off her tank top, and unsnapped her bra and let it slide down her arms.

“Do you feel such an outburst approaching?” I said.

“I fear that I’m in its grasp,” Susan said.

She unzipped her skirt and dropped it to the floor and stepped out of it, and wiggled out of her fairly exotic underpants.

“Would you experience it as depravity,” I said, “if I suggested that you leave the high heels on?”

“I would,” she said.

“But?” I said.

“I admire depravity,” she said.

“Does this mean I should disrobe?” I said.

“Yes,” Susan said.

So I did. And when I was done, Susan smiled, gave me a thumbs-up, and jumped on me. Then, for a while, the rest was silence . . . of a sort.

By the time we were finished it had gotten dark, and the ocean was visible mostly as the white foam of the beached waves showed in the moonlight. As soon as we were through making love, Susan squirmed under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.

“Um,” she said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said.

“We left the shades open,” Susan said.

“So we did,” I said.

“What if someone had passed by?”

“Might have been instructive for them,” I said.

We lay quietly for a time. Only the ocean moved in the darkness outside our window. My gun was on the bedside table.

Susan looked at it.

“There it is,” she said.

“My gun?” I said.

“Our constant companion,” Susan said.

“Better to have it and not need it . . .” I said.

“I know,” Susan said. “I know all that.”

“Part of the business,” I said.

“I know that, too,” Susan said.

“You have a gun,” I said.

“Yes,” Susan said.

“You’d use it if you had to,” I said.

“I would.”

We lay quietly, listening to the ocean.

After a while, I said, “I believe the cocktail hour is upon us.”

“In a minute,” Susan said.

She rolled over against me and put her arms around me and pressed her face against my chest. We stayed that way for a time. Then Susan let go and rolled over and bounced out of bed.

“I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” she said.

“You will not,” I said.

“Will too,” she said.

It actually took her forty-eight minutes. But it was well worth the wait.

“‘Roll on,’” I said, “‘thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sail over thee in vain.’”

“Is that Byron?” Susan said.

“Maybe,” I said.

Outside our picture window, the seabirds were very busy at the edge of the waves, scooting back and forth as the waves came in and broke and spread out on the beach. I assumed they were looking for things edible that the waves had roiled up. But I never did know for sure, and when I brought the question up to Susan, she trivialized it. I got up and added wood to the fire and came back and re-propped my pillow and lay on the bed beside her.

“Are we just going to lie on the bed all afternoon and look at the ocean?” Susan said.

“We can look at the fire, too,” I said.

“That’s it?”

“Except for occasional outbursts of scandalous sexuality,” I said.

“Oh,” Susan said.

She stood up and took off her tank top, and unsnapped her bra and let it slide down her arms.

“Do you feel such an outburst approaching?” I said.

“I fear that I’m in its grasp,” Susan said.

She unzipped her skirt and dropped it to the floor and stepped out of it, and wiggled out of her fairly exotic underpants.

“Would you experience it as depravity,” I said, “if I suggested that you leave the high heels on?”

“I would,” she said.

“But?” I said.

“I admire depravity,” she said.

“Does this mean I should disrobe?” I said.

“Yes,” Susan said.

So I did. And when I was done, Susan smiled, gave me a thumbs-up, and jumped on me. Then, for a while, the rest was silence . . . of a sort.

By the time we were finished it had gotten dark, and the ocean was visible mostly as the white foam of the beached waves showed in the moonlight. As soon as we were through making love, Susan squirmed under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.

“Um,” she said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” I said.

“We left the shades open,” Susan said.

“So we did,” I said.

“What if someone had passed by?”

“Might have been instructive for them,” I said.

We lay quietly for a time. Only the ocean moved in the darkness outside our window. My gun was on the bedside table.

Susan looked at it.

“There it is,” she said.

“My gun?” I said.

“Our constant companion,” Susan said.

“Better to have it and not need it . . .” I said.

“I know,” Susan said. “I know all that.”

“Part of the business,” I said.

“I know that, too,” Susan said.

“You have a gun,” I said.

“Yes,” Susan said.

“You’d use it if you had to,” I said.

“I would.”

We lay quietly, listening to the ocean.

After a while, I said, “I believe the cocktail hour is upon us.”

“In a minute,” Susan said.

She rolled over against me and put her arms around me and pressed her face against my chest. We stayed that way for a time. Then Susan let go and rolled over and bounced out of bed.

“I’ll be ready in ten minutes,” she said.

“You will not,” I said.

“Will too,” she said.

It actually took her forty-eight minutes. But it was well worth the wait.