"Carrie Richerson - Artistic License" - читать интересную книгу автора (Richardson Carrie)

probably wasn't even aware she was leaking, but I couldn't afford the
distraction. I had hoped she would lose interest after a day or so, but it was
clear now that I would have to have a talk with her, whoever she was.

I stabilized the cliff and shut down. I needed a break anyway. My back and knees
ached and my sweat-soaked clothing was plastered to me and itched in all the
most inconvenient places. Georgia in July was not as hot as my home in the west
Texas desert, but the humidity was like a huge, wet, panting dog sitting on my
shoulders and slobbering down the back of my neck. I'd been working on this
project for three months now, I'd fallen into hyacinth bogs, been slapped in the
face by rhododendron branches, stumbled through briars and poison ivy, been
bitten by leeches, ticks, and coral snakes -- and it was still the humidity that
I hated the worst. I was starting to mildew in the thick terpene haze that
smothered the forested hills every day.

One of the estate's small army of gardeners was watering a coleus bed under a
nearby oak, so I stepped into the shade to see if he would let me drink from the
hose.

"Yes, ma'am," he said politely, handing it over. I've been called many things in
my life -- bitch, monster, whoreticulturalist (that last was quite inventive, I
thought) -- but "ma'am" was a new one for me. While I rehydrated he mopped his
streaming face with a bandana and tried not to let me catch him staring. Pity
and curiosity warred in his face, and curiosity won. I was glad it wasn't pity.
I hate pity.

To distract him from his inventory of my physical defects, I jerked a thumb in
the direction of my observer, not caring if she saw. "Who's the old lady?"

He looked pained at my failure to show a hireling's proper measure of respect.
"That's Mr. Forrestal's great-aunt, ma'am. She visits him every summer, says
it's cooler here than in New York." New York must be Hell, I thought. He
continued, "Miz Holzman -- Beatrice Holzman. Perhaps you've heard of her, ma'am
?" The mild sarcasm might have been his revenge for having to consort with a
mutant, but he was richly compensated by the stunned look on my face. He took
the hose back from me, chuckling, and moved off to water another bed, leaving me
to contemplate my doom.

The Beatrice Holzman? No wonder Forrestal had money to burn. And the woman who
had replaced Croesus as the standard by which the culturally illiterate measured
wealth, had taken an interest in me. Oh my. It is complications like this that
keep soaking the rich from being the painlessly profitable profession it should
be.

My mood grew fouler as I stumped up the terraces to confront her. Steps are not
easy on my twisted, four-and-a-half-foot frame. Holzman watched my approach with
an effortless stillness. It was obvious she was used to waiting for people to
come to her. It must have been only a question of how long it would be before I
took the bait.