The Blessings of the Animals: A Novel - By Katrina Kittle Page 0,2

daughter was brilliant). I tried not to move or make noise, knowing that once I did, Max would bound onto the bed demanding his breakfast. Already, Gingersnap, our latest failure of a barn cat, had crawled between me and Bobby, kneading her paws on my rib cage.

It was Saturday. I had worked every Saturday for the last fifteen years of veterinary practice, until I bought my own animal hospital six months ago. With my associate vet, Aurora Morales, I had worked my ass off, renovating an old, rundown clinic. Aurora and I had painted and grouted, had interviewed and hired, trained and instructed our staff of nine, named our practice Animal Kind, and opened three weeks ago. Starting today, I would only work two Saturdays a month. And today, Bobby had a rare Saturday off for us to savor together. His restaurant, Tanti Baci, was closed until Tuesday while a new bar was being installed. Tanti Baci. Many kisses. My wish for today.

This rare time alone with Bobby was a gift. I tucked my knees behind his, pressed my naked body to his back, and wished with all my might he’d find his way out of his restless depression.

Thunder rumbled like a warning growl from deep in a dog’s throat.

Bobby had promised to make me breakfast this morning, something he hadn’t done for months, and I hoped for his famous fluffy gingerbread waffles. We’d even joked that we might prepare and eat breakfast naked. We’d been silly and giggly, like we’d been when I was in college and his sister (my roommate) was gone, leaving us the entire apartment to ourselves.

I breathed in the musk of Bobby’s neck. His happiness seemed so fragile these days that I put all my faith in that playful promise to eat naked. I felt this need to make the day monumental and sacred, as if one morning might save us.

For a moment, I even let myself fantasize about our fiftieth wedding anniversary, decades away. This was in my head because Davy—the former child bride, now happily out and with his partner, David (“the Davids,” as they were referred to by family and friends)—had called last night to remind me, “You know this fall is Mom and Dad’s fiftieth. We need to plan something. A party.”

I pictured my parents, still on the same horse farm half an hour away. I didn’t think my parents had a great marriage, but fifty years was impressive all the same. I created our own fiftieth in my head—I pictured us dancing somewhere in Italy, then calculated how much time that gave me to convince Bobby to learn to dance: thirty-two years.

In the meantime, I’d also use those years to convince him to sell the damn restaurant that visibly added burden to his shoulders, years to his face. I’d convince him he could find some other path.

So I lay there in that too-warm bed and felt flooded with the need to make this softly snoring man know how much I loved him and mourned for his unhappiness. How much I wanted him to emerge from his gloom.

The dog’s tags jingled in the hallway. I considered sneaking out of bed, letting Max out before he barked, brushing my teeth, and slipping back under the covers. But I knew Max would bark the minute my feet hit the floor. Screw the toothpaste. It wasn’t fair for one of us to have morning breath when the other didn’t. Experience had taught me that Bobby’s willingness never hinged on such minor details. Tanti baci. Tanti baci, baby.

I reached for Bobby under the covers, marveling at the heat he radiated. I slid my hands down his arm, over the gothic SPQR—Senatus Populusque Romanus, “the Senate and the People of Rome”—inked into his biceps, then let them wander to his hip and the small of his back. He stirred awake with an appreciative murmur and rolled toward me, pressing the length of his hot body against mine. “Hey,” I whispered.

“Hey.”

Chapter Two

I SHOULD’VE KNOWN THIS WOULD BE EXACTLY THE MOMENT my cell phone would ring. Gingersnap leaped off the bed and Max barked the way he would if someone pulled into the driveway.

Bobby rolled over. “Max,” he moaned, his voice more affectionate than irritated. “They can’t hear you. They’re on the phone.”

I laughed and leaned across him for my cell.

“Is it Gabby?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

My heart sank to recognize the number of Sheriff Stan Metz. No, no, no, not today! I volunteered as a court-appointed