And there, at his feet, looking none too pleased, sat Shanille!
“Shanille!” he cried. “What has gotten into you, all of a sudden!”
Of course Shanille couldn’t respond, since she was only an animal. All she did was stare at him with a sort of angry expression in her eyes, as if he’d personally insulted her, or had forgotten to feed her. On the floor, next to the feisty cat, lay his precious bottle, leaking wine onto the smoothly polished granite steps that led down from the altar. And when he picked it up, he was dismayed to find that the bottle was devoid of that precious nectar he was so much in need of right now.
“It’s a sign,” he whispered as he held up the empty bottle. “A sign from God!”
And as if she understood what he was saying, Shanille uttered a long lament!
“No more,” he said decidedly. “Vade retro satana!” And it was with a newfound resolve that he decided that perhaps a better way to deal with Marigold and Angel’s departure was not to drink away his sorrows, but to face them head on.
Shanille must have liked his resolution, for instead of uttering a series of blood-curdling yowls, she purred happily, and started rubbing against his leg.
“There, there,” he said kindly as he picked up the feline. “All is well now.”
[Êàðòèíêà: img_4]
In his office, seated behind his desk, Tex was feeling the strain. It had been a long day, filled with patients who had demanded a lot from this conscientious doctor. And now that his last patient had left, he felt the tension drain from his body, and thought the quickest road to true and meaningful relaxation lay in that small metal flask that he always kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. Too bad Vesta had confiscated it as a symbol of their dedication to go dry from now on.
Going dry was all fine and dandy, and he was all for it, but from time to time a little pick-me-up wouldn’t hurt, now would it? Just a sip. Or maybe even two. No one would know. And it wasn’t as if he was actually an alcoholic. He didn’t need alcohol. He was in complete control of his habit of imbibing the odd glass of wine, or even a nice brewski from time to time when he was shooting the breeze with his brother-in-law Alec and his son-in-law Chase. Especially when there was a game on. So was he going to have to give all of that up? Just because Marge had gotten it into her head that he was an alcoholic? It just seemed very silly.
Now Francis Reilly, there was a true drunk. But him? Not a chance.
And then he remembered that he still had half a bottle of ros? in the fridge, a gift from a patient he’d helped on the road to recovery from a bad fall last month.
A smile spread across his features as the taste of that nice ros? came back to him. Very crisp and sweet, but with such a delicate and fruity aftertaste. In fact, he decided as he quickly got up, it was exactly what the doctor ordered!
He hurried into the kitchen, his tastebuds doing a happy dance in his mouth in anticipation, and yanked open the fridge. And there it was: exactly where he had left it! It was hidden behind a big piece of watermelon Vesta had put there, which was probably why she hadn’t seen it on her mission to rid the place of alcohol.
So he grabbed the bottle, and decided to dispense with the formalities of using a glass. He was going to drink this baby straight from the bottle!
And he was just about to put the bottle to his lips when a scream rent the air. It seemed to come from somewhere nearby, and almost sounded like,“Tex, no!” He whirled around, fully expecting either his motherin-law, his wife or his daughter to be standing there. But he was still all alone in the kitchen, not a soul in sight. So he shrugged, figuring he was hearing things, and was lifting the bottle to his lips when it was unceremoniously slammed from his hands and landed in the sink, where it proceeded to leak its precious contents into the drain!
“Noooooo!” he cried, but too late. As he reached the sink, the last remnants of the delicious liquid were glug-glugging away and then were gone forevermore!
And it was then that he became aware of some kind of low growling sound, as if he was in the presence of a vicious predator. And that’s when he saw it: on top of the fridge, Brutus was sitting, baring two sharp rows of teeth, and growling away for all he was worth. Almost as if he’d turned into a puma overnight!
He gulped.“That’s a n-n-nice k-k-kitty,” he said, quickly taking a step back, even though he’d always heard that when a puma is about to attack, you shouldn’t move a muscle. “T-t-there’s a good boy.”
And somehow, as he stared into the big black cat’s eye, sweat beading on his brow, he saw a distinct hint of menace, but also a barely veiled threat: do that again, mister, and I’ll have your guts for garters!
CHAPTER 34
[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]