The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,51
leukemia.”
They nodded, their eyes sad and pained. We hated this, all of us.
Animal Control loaded cats into carriers and humane traps and carted them away, a process that was still going on as we left and that would fill five county and two private animal shelters.
Dubey was leaving his house with Booker as we got in the truck. “You ladies need anything? More coffee? More towels?”
“You’re very kind,” I said, “but I think we need to burn our clothes.”
He grimaced. “That bad?”
I nodded. I looked down at Booker. “I hope you get to keep him.”
Helen leaned across me to hand him my clinic card. “If you do, Cami’s the best vet in town.”
He smiled and put the card in his shirt pocket. “Well, then, I want the best for Booker.”
By the time we made it out of Dubey’s neighborhood, the sun was shining, the fallen rain shimmering on the spring grass. A rainbow even flirted in the sky. “It is us,” I said. “The two of us on a rescue wreaks havoc with the weather.”
Helen didn’t answer, so I glanced at her. She grinned. As I wound my way back to the highway, she said, “He was sweet on you. And I’d venture to say you’re a little sweet on him. Here”—she handed me the note with his original message on it—“keep his number.”
My stomach tossed. I couldn’t call him. I didn’t know the rules anymore. It’d been too long. I’d make an ass of myself.
Helen put a hand on my upper arm. “You know what? You will never be a crazy cat lady, Cami. Bobby’s the one as sad and crazy as Ms. Beaumont-Clay, if you ask me.”
Did sad and crazy equal wrecked? I was not wrecked. I’d save Gabby from her marriage ban.
Chapter Fifteen
OVER THE NEXT WEEKS I MOVED IN A FRENZY THAT KEPT me from feeling much of anything except heartbreak for Gabriella. How did I offer her hope when I felt none myself? “Why marry?” she asked. “Why risk it?” Because, I wanted to tell her, when you got it right, it was the most liberating, inspiring state of being on the planet—a true partner in your corner, a mate who witnessed every aspect of your life. But the flip side was so stabbingly evident: when you got it wrong, it was at best anesthetizing, at worst a splintering kick to the teeth.
Vijay e-mailed. He was back in the States but unable to come to Dayton. He was working on a three-part pandemic flu story for his TV show. “Haraka haraka haina baraka,” Vijay wrote at the end of one of his e-mails. He didn’t translate it, which was unlike him. I didn’t ask. I assumed it was in his parents’ native language.
I dismantled my shed to free my tractor. I had three potential adopters out to meet Zeppelin the pony. I did the Humane Society paperwork on the removed horses and cats, logging long hours into the night, downloading photos, preparing evidence. Aurora marveled at the casework, “You did all this yesterday? Are you sleeping ever? Are you taking cocaine?”
Olive came over often. Her expansive nature and dramatic stories fed us. I liked letting her feed us literally as well, cooking us spaghetti and meatballs and leaving Bobby’s kitchen a train wreck. Her spaghetti was not nearly as good as Mimi’s or Bobby’s, but it passed for “real food” in Gabby’s eyes, letting me off the hook for just a bit longer.
When Gabby went down to the barn one day, I found out Zayna hadn’t been at the party, but my relief was short-lived when Olive said, “But Nick and I had dinner with them last night.”
“Them?”
“Bobby and Zayna.”
Olive made a face, but the words clawed open my chest. I knew Bobby was her brother. I knew Olive loved me, but it ripped my heart out to picture them all being nice to one another.
If someone had hurt Olive the way Bobby had hurt us, that someone would be dead to me.
And Nick! Sweet Nick—how hard would it have been for him to tell Olive, “I’m not okay with this. I don’t really want to pretend to like Bobby right now.”
Was I being a baby? Was there no loyalty? Did it not matter to them what Bobby had done?
Olive might call Bobby a bastard and Zayna a slut, but the bottom line was she’d sit and laugh with them in a restaurant. I wanted to choke on the spaghetti I’d pushed around my plate.