"TXT - Nora Roberts - Dream 02 - Holding The Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

The Templetons, she thought, who had been drawn into the ugliness, had
quietly taken the responsibility, and the child. And, always, had
protected the child.

There in her quiet office, alone, she laid her head on the desk and
wept. And wept. And when the weeping was done, she shook out pills for
the headache, more for the burning in her stomach. When she gathered her
briefcase to leave, she told herself she would bury it. Just bury it. As
she had buried her parents.

It could not be changed, could not be fixed. She was the same, she
assured herself, the same woman she had been that morning. Yet she found
she couldn't open her office door and face the possibility of running
into a colleague in the corridor. Instead, she sat again, closed her
eyes, sought comfort in old memories. A picture, she thought, of family
and tradition. Of who she was, what she had been given, and what she had
been raised to be.

At sixteen, she was taking an extra load of courses that would allow her
to graduate a full year ahead of her class. Since that wasn't quite
enough of a challenge, she was determined to graduate with honors as
well. She had already mentally outlined her valedictorian speech.

Her extracurricular activities included another term as class treasurer,
a stint as president of the math club, and a place in the starting
lineup of the baseball team. She had hopes of being named MVP again next
season, but for now her attention was focused on calculus.

Numbers were her strong point. Sticking with logic, Kate had already
decided to use her strengths in her career. Once she had her MBA--more
than likely she would follow Josh to Harvard for that--she would pursue
a career in accounting.

It didn't matter that Margo said her aspirations were boring. To Kate
they were realistic. She was going to prove to herself, and to everyone
who mattered to her, that what she had been given, all she had been
offered, had been put to the best possible use.

Because her eyes were burning, she slipped off her glasses and leaned
back in her desk chair. It was important, she knew, to rest the brain
periodically in order to keep it at its keenest. She did so now, letting
her gaze skim around the room.

The new touches the Templetons had insisted she choose for her sixteenth
birthday suited her. The simple pine shelves above her desk held her
books and study materials. The desk itself was a honey, a Chippendale
kneehole with deep drawers and fanciful shell carving. It made her feel
successful just to work at it.

She hadn't wanted fussy wallpaper or fancy curtains. The muted stripes