"M. Rickert - Cold Fires" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rickert Mary)

craned my neck at the distant looming steeple of a small chapel on the cliff above the roiling waters.

"It was clear the rain would continue its steady torrent, so I grabbed my duffel bag and slopped through
the puddles in a sort of half trot, and entered a pleasant foyer of classical music, overstuffed chairs, a
wide-eyed calico asleep in a basket on a table and a large painting of, you probably already guessed,
Emile Castor's gray-eyed beauty. Only in this rendition she really was. Beautiful. This artist had captured
what Emile had not. It wasn't just a portrait, a photograph with paint if you will, no, this painting went
beyond its subject's beauty into the realm of what is beautiful in art. I heard footsteps, deep breathing, a
cough. I turned with reluctance and beheld the oldest man I'd ever seen. He was a lace of wrinkles and
skin that sagged from his bones like an ill-fitting suit. He leaned on a walking stick and appraised me with
gray eyes almost lost in the fold of wrinkles.

"'A beautiful piece of work,├втВмтДв I said.

"He nodded.

"I introduced myself and after a few confused minutes discovered that I was neither in Sundale nor at the
Sunshine B&B. But I could not have been more pleased on any sunny day, in any location, than I was
there, especially when I found out I could stay the night. When I asked about the painting and its subject,
Ed, as he told me to call him, invited me to join him in the parlor for tea after I had ├втВм┼Уsettled in."

"My room was pleasant, cozy and clean without the creepy assortment of teddy bears too often
assembled in B&Bs. From the window I had a view of the roiling sea, gray waves, the mournful swoop
of seagulls and the cliff with the white chapel, its tall steeple tipped, not with a cross, but a ship, its great
sails unfurled.

"When I found him in the parlor, Ed had a tray of tea and cookies set out on a low table before the
fireplace which was nicely ablaze. The room was pleasant and inviting. The cold rain pounded the
windows but inside it was warm and dry, the faint scent of lavender in the air.

"'Come, come join us.├втВмтДв Ed waved his hand, as arthritic as any I've ever seen, gnarled to almost a
paw. I sat in the green wing chair across from him. An overstuffed rocking chair made a triangle of our
seating arrangement but it was empty; not even the cat sat there.

"'Theresa!├втВмтДв he shouted, and he shouted again in a loud voice that reminded me of the young Marlon
Brando calling for Stella.

"It occurred to me he might not be completely sane. But at the same moment I thought this I heard a
woman's voice and the sound of footsteps approaching from the other end of the house. I confess that for
a moment I entertained the notion that it would be the gray-eyed woman, as if I had fallen into a
Brigadoon of sorts, a magical place time could not reach, all time-ravaged evidence on Ed's face to the
contrary.

"Just then that old face temporarily lost its wrinkled look and took on a divine expression. I followed the
course of his gaze and saw the oldest woman in the world entering the room. I rose from my seat.

"'Theresa,├втВмтДв Ed said, ├втВм┼У'Mr. Delano of Castor.'

"I strode across the room and offered my hand. She slid into it a small soft glove of a hand and smiled at
me with green eyes. She walked smoothly and with grace but her steps were excruciatingly small and