Вино из одуванчиков

           WilliamForresterwalkedacrossthegardenoneearlyAugustafternoontofindHelenLoomiswritingwithgreatcareattheteatable.

           Sheputasideherpenandink.

           "I’vebeenwritingyoualetter,"shesaid.

           "Well,mybeingheresavesyouthetrouble."

           "No,thisisaspecialletter.Lookatit."Sheshowedhimtheblueenvelope,whichshenowsealedandpressedflat."Rememberhowitlooks.Whenyoureceivethisinthemail,you’llknowI’mdead."

           "That’snowaytotalk,isit?"

           "Sitdownandlistentome."

           Hesat.

           "MydearWilliam,"shesaid,undertheparasolshade."InafewdaysIwillbedead.No."Sheputupherhand."Idon’twantyoutosayathing.I’mnotafraid.WhenyouliveaslongasI’velivedyoulosethat,too.Ineverlikedlobsterinmylife,andmainlybecauseI’dnevertriedit.OnmyeightiethbirthdayItriedit.Ican’tsayI’mgreatlyexcitedoverlobsterstill,butIhavenodoubtastoitstastenow,andIdon’tfearit.Idaresaydeathwillbealobster,too,andIcancometotermswithit."Shemotionedwithherhands."Butenoughofthat.TheimportantthingisthatIshan’tbeseeingyouagain.Therewillbenoservices.Ibelievethatawomanwhohaspassedthroughthatparticulardoorhasasmuchrighttoprivacyasawomanwhohasretiredforthenight."

           "Youcan’tpredictdeath,"hesaidatlast.

           "ForfiftyyearsI’vewatchedthegrandfatherclockinthehall,William.AfteritiswoundIcanpredicttothehourwhenitwillstop.Oldpeoplearenodifferent.