"Robert F. Young - The Dandelion Girl" - читать интересную книгу автора (Young Robert F)

Next afternoon when he climbed the hill it was empty. At first his disappointment numbed him, and then
he thought, She's late, that's all. She'll probably show up any minute. And he sat down on the granite
bench to wait. But she did not come. The minutes passed—the hours. Shadows crept out of the woods
and climbed partway up the hill. The air grew colder. He gave up, finally, and headed miserably back
toward the cabin.

The next afternoon she did not show up either. Nor the next. He could neither eat nor sleep. Fishing
palled on him. He could no longer read. And all the while, he hated himself—hated himself for behaving
like a lovesick schoolboy, for reacting just like any other fool in his forties to a pretty face and a pair of
pretty legs. Up until a few days ago he had never even so much as looked at another woman, and here in
the space of less than a week he had not only looked at one but had fallen in love with her.

Hope was dead in him when he climbed the hill on the fourth day—and then suddenly alive again when
he saw her standing in the sun. She was wearing a black dress this time, and he should have guessed the
reason for her absence; but he didn't—not till he came up to her and saw the tears start from her eyes
and the telltale trembling of her lip. "Julie, what's the matter?"

She clung to him, her shoulders shaking, and pressed her face against his coat. "My father died," she said,
and somehow he knew that these were her first tears, that she had sat tearless through the wake and
funeral and had not broken down till now.

He put his arms around her gently. He had never kissed her, and he did not kiss her now, not really. His
lips brushed her forehead and briefly touched her hair—that was all. "I'm sorry, Julie," he said. "I know
how much he meant to you."

"He knew he was dying all along," she said. "He must have known it ever since the strontium 90
experiment he conducted at the laboratory. But he never told anyone—he never even told me … I don't
want to live. Without him there's nothing left to live for—nothing, nothing, nothing!"

He held her tightly. "You'll find something, Julie. Someone. You're young yet. You're still a child, really."

Her head jerked back, and she raised suddenly tearless eyes to his. "I'm not a child! Don't you dare call
me a child!"

Startled, he released her and stepped back. He had never seen her angry before. "I didn't mean—" he
began.

Her anger was as evanescent as it had been abrupt. "I know you didn't mean to hurt my feelings, Mr.
Randolph. But I'm not a child, honest I'm not. Promise me you'll never call me one again."

"All right," he said. "I promise."

"And now I must go," she said. "I have a thousand things to do."

"Will—will you be here tomorrow?"

She looked at him for a long time. A mist, like the aftermath of a summer shower, made her blue eyes
glisten. "Time machines run down," she said. "They have parts that need to be replaced—and I don't
know how to replace them. Ours—mine may be good for one more trip, but I'm not sure."