"Brian Plante - The Astronaut" - читать интересную книгу автора (Plante Brian)

we’re neighbors and all. Is your mom at home?”
“No,” I said. “Both my parents are at work. I, um, take care of the house
during the daytime. Hey, would you like me to look at your mower? I’m pretty good
with my hands.”
“Could you? I mean, if it’s nothing too serious. My husband Richard bought
me this stupid thing so I can do the lawn myself, but I don’t know anything about
engines.”
Her husband. She was married. I looked at her left hand and there was the
ring. I was briefly disappointed—as if I’d really ever have had a chance with an older
woman like that! What a jerk I was.
“Let me see what I can do,” I said anyway.
I popped the hood and found the problem almost immediately. It was
something simple: a sparkplug wire had come loose and I snapped it back on the
plug.
“Try it now,” I said.
Mrs. Horton turned the key and the engine roared to life. She gave it some gas
and the mower jerked in reverse, back into the garage, before she slammed on the
brakes and stalled it.
“Shoot,” she said. “Say, Davy Carson, you wouldn’t like to make some
money mowing my lawn, would you?”
Well, there I was, this horny, pimply teenager with nothing but spare time on
my hands, and the gorgeous next-door neighbor was offering me money to work for
her. Was I gonna say no?
“I have to call my dad and ask if it’s all right to use our mower on someone
else’s yard. He’s a bit picky about his tools.”
“No, that’s okay,” she said. “I meant for you to use my mower. You can
drive one of these things, can’t you?”
 I hadn’t driven a riding mower before, but I wasn’t going to tell her that. I said
yes, and figured out how to run the thing real quick. I was always good with
machines, so it was pretty simple.
While I mowed her lawn, she went back into the house, and I couldn’t blame
her. It was hot enough just standing around watching, but Mrs. Horton’s lawn
wasn’t that large and the riding mower made quick work of it. I was putting the
mower back into her garage when she came out with a pitcher and a couple of tall
glasses.
“You look pretty sweaty,” she said. “Would you care for some iced tea?”
She looked so pretty. Was I gonna say no? We both had a glass, and drank it
there in the garage, using the hood of the mower as our table. It was probably the
best iced tea I ever had.
“So what do your folks do for a living?” she asked between sips.
“They both work for an electronics company in San Antonio,” I answered. I
almost asked her what she did for a living, but stopped myself. Women that beautiful
probably didn’t have to work for a living, and here she was, home in the middle of
the day. “What does your husband do?” I asked.
“He’s an engineer. He’s away on a long-term project right now, though.”
“Hey, my dad’s an electrical engineer,” I said. “What kind of project is your
husband working on?”
Mrs. Horton’s mouth opened to speak, but then she caught herself. After a
pause, she said, “I’d rather not say. It’s sort of a secret.”
I thought for a second about what kind of engineering projects were secret. It