"Robert F. Young - One Love Have I" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

The house was silent. "Miranda!" he called. "Miranda!"
There was no answer. He went from the living room to the bedroom. The bedroom was the way it
had been a hundred years ago except that it was empty now. Empty of Miranda.
He returned to the living room and went into the kitchen. The kitchen was the same too, but there
was no Miranda in it. He switched on the light and stared at the porcelain sink, the chrome stove, the
white cupboards, the gleaming utility table ...
There was a hand mirror lying on the table, and beside it was a crumpled gardenia. He picked up the
gardenia and it was cool and soft in his hand. He held it to his nostrils and breathed its fresh scent. There
was another scent mingled with it, a delicate fragrant scent. He recognized it immediately as Miranda's
perfume.
Suddenly he could not breathe, and he ran out of the house and into the darkness. He saw the light
flickering at the end of the street then, and he walked toward it with unbelieving steps. The community
hall grew slowly out of the darkness and the light became many lights, became bright windows. From
somewhere in the surrounding shadows he heard the humming of a portable generator.
When he climbed the steps a hundred years flew away. There was no 77c supper of course, and the
hall showed unmistakable signs of age, despite the fact that it had been recently remodeled. But there
was Miranda. Miranda standing by a lonely table. Miranda crying. A more mature Miranda, with lines
showing on her face where no lines had showed before, but light lines, adorable lines ...
He realized why she had not met him at the Deep Freeze. She had been afraid, afraid that the moving
clocks had not moved slowly enough after all; and she must have decided to meet him at the house
instead, for she knew he would come home. She must have heard the monorail car pull in, must have
known he was on his way ...
Suddenly he remembered the mirror and the crumpled gardenia.
Silly girl, lovely girl ... His eyes misted and he felt the tears run down his cheeks. He stumbled into the
room, and she came hesitantly forward to meet him, her face beautiful with the new years. A goddess in
the room, a mature goddess, the awkwardness gone forever, the schoolgirlish charm left somewhere in
the abysses between the stars; his goddess —and then a goddess in his arms, warm and suddenly
tight-pressed against him, her dark hair soft against his face, her voice whispering in his ear, across the
years, across the timeless infinities, "Welcome home, darling. Welcome home."