"Winter-MoonGarden" - читать интересную книгу автора (Winter Laurel)

She felt a little ridiculous, arguing about something she hadn't even really
looked at yet, but she wanted that book.

The woman slapped a red jack down on a black king. "Not for sale," she repeated.

It was all too much for Susan's PMS. She started sniffling, then sobbing, then
outright bawling in the woman's garage. A few minutes into the wailing, the
woman looked up again. "All right," she said. "You can have it. Five dollars."

Susan's pockets were empty. Her mind raced. Could she run home and get the
money? Hell, she didn't even know where she was. It could take her an hour to
get home, and by then the old woman would have reconsidered and locked herself
in the house with The Moon Garden Cookbook. "You can have this back," she said,
planting the flashlight in the middle of the solitaire game. She clasped the
book in both hands, half-expecting the woman to protest.

"Fine," the woman said. "Need this more now anyway." She aimed the weak light at
her cards with one hand and put a two of spades on a seven of diamonds.

Susan wandered off into the twilight, wiping the ravages of her weeping from her
face, and wondering how long it would take her to find her way home to face that
family and those dishes.

About two hours.

By the time she reached her block, the moon was a lopsided ball in the sky,
lighting her path well enough that she tripped on uneven sidewalk cracks only
occasionally. The pseudo-Victorian carriage lantern blazed beside the door to
their house.

Susan hid her purchase under her sauce-blotched shirt, took a deep breath, and
went in.

For once the TV wasn't on. The kids were sitting around the table, doing their
homework or coloring. They looked up warily when she came in, and gave her a
subdued chorus of, "Sorry, Mom." She nodded and went into the kitchen.

The place was their idea of spotless: all dishes done, but the drain rack
precariously overfilled, and counters given a lick and half a promise. They'd
even washed the monstrous Chicken Paprika pan. "Thanks, guys," she called, eyes
blurring again. "I think I'm going to bed now."

Sniffling, she headed for the stairway. Bob was reading the paper in the living
room. "Good night," he said as she went past, with an expression on his face and
in his voice that she couldn't read.

But she could finally read The Moon Garden Cookbook. She shed her clothes in a
pile near her dresser, ignoring the overburdened clothes tree only a few steps
away.