"Roberts, Nora - Divine Evil(1)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

trembling hand, she fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp. When that wasnТt
enough, she rose to flip on others until the small room was flooded with light.
Her hands were still unsteady when she drew a cigarette from a pack and struck a
match.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she smoked in silence.
Why had the dream come back now?
Her therapist would say it was a knee-jerk reaction to her motherТs recent
marriageЧsubconsciously she felt her father had been betrayed.
That was bull.
Clare blew out a defiant stream of smoke. Her mother had been widowed for over
twelve years. Any sane, loving daughter would want her motherТs happiness. And
she was a loving daughter. She just wasnТt so sure about the sane part.
She remembered the first time sheТd had the dream.
SheТd been six and had wakened screaming in her bed. Just as she had tonight.
But then, her parents had rushed in to gather her up and soothe. Even her
brother, Blair, came in, wide-eyed and wailing. Her mother had carried him off
while her father stayed with her, crooning in his calm, quiet voice, promising
her over and over that it was only a dream, a bad dream that she would soon
forget.
And she had, for long stretches of time. Then it would creep up on her, a
grinning assassin, when she was tense or exhausted or vulnerable.
She stabbed out the cigarette and pressed her fingers to her eyes. Well, she was
tense now. Her one-woman show was less than a week away, and though she had
personally chosen each piece of sculpture that would be shown, she was plagued
with doubts.
Perhaps it was because the critics had been so enthusiastic two years before, at
her debut. Now that she was enjoying success, there was so much more to lose.
And she knew the work that would be shown was her best. If it was found to be
mediocre, then she, as an artist, was mediocreЕ
Was there any label more damning?
Because she felt better having something tangible to worry about, she rose and
opened the draperies. The sun was just coming up, giving the streets and
sidewalks of downtown Manhattan an almost rosy hue. Pushing open the window, she
shivered once in the chill of the spring morning.
It was almost quiet. From a few blocks up, she could hear the grind of a garbage
truck finishing its rounds. Near the corner of Canal and Greene, she saw a bag
lady, pulling the cart with all her worldly possessions. The wheels squeaked and
echoed hollowly.
There was a light in the bakery directly across and three stories down. Clare
caught the faint strains of Rigoletto and the good yeasty scent of baking bread.
A cab rumbled past, valves knocking. Then there was silence again. She might
have been alone in the city.
Was that what she wanted? she wondered. To be alone, to find some spot and dig
into solitude? There were times when she felt so terribly disconnected, yet
unable to make a place just for herself.
WasnТt that why her marriage had failed? She had loved Rob, but she had never
felt connected to him. When it was over, sheТd felt regret but not remorse.
Or perhaps Dr. Janowski was right, and she was burying her remorse, all of it,
every ounce of grief she had felt since her father died. Channeling it out
through her art.