Лори Касс - Lending А Paw

“Yes, yes, yes.” He shoved aside more air bag and opened the car door. “I’m fine.” He stood, swayed, put his hands out.

Sabrina was right there, supporting him, guiding him. “You get back down. You’ve had a nasty little scare and you need to sit.” She got him settled back into the driver’s seat, ignoring his bleats of disapproval. “You need to get your breath, hon. Just sit for a minute.” She looked around at all the people. “Anybody here a doctor?”

“Don’t need a doctor,” Bill said.

Sabrina gave him a considered look. “Oh, you don’t, do you?”

“Just came from one.”

“Oh, really?”

He should have recognized the tone in her voice. And if he’d taken one look at her just then, he would have seen more danger signs. Hands on her hips, eyes thinned, chin jutting forward. No good was in store for Mr. D’Arcy.

“And what, pray tell, did this doctor say?” Sabrina asked.

“None of your business,” he muttered, staring straight ahead.

“Really.” She folded her arms on her chest. “I’ve waited on you every day for weeks. I know how you like your coffee, I know how you like your hash browns. I know you don’t read the sports section, I know what stocks you watch. I know you’re less grumpy when the sun is shining and that you don’t like to go out in the rain. I know you have high blood pressure and are trying to do something about it. I know—”

“You don’t know anything!” he roared.

She bent down, pushing her face closer to his. “Because you don’t tell me anything! How can I know what you won’t tell?”

“I didn’t want to worry you!”

Over on the sidelines, I blinked. He didn’t want to make her worry ? What on earth . . . ?

“Do I look like someone who would worry?” Sabrina shot back. “How about you, sitting with that laptop, never looking up, never seeing what’s going on around you? You’re hiding from something, and that means you’re worried. Tell me what it is.” She poked him in the shoulder. “Tell me!”

He kept staring straight ahead, seeing nothing but car dashboard, windshield, and the brick wall he’d whacked. “I have a bad case of macular degeneration,” he said. “I do nothing but read because I won’t be able to for much longer. The doctors say my sight will be gone within two years. I’ve been seeing a specialist in Traverse City for treatments once a month, but that’s just slowing the inevitable.”

Sabrina stood up straight. Looked up at the bright blue sky. Swallowed. Then bent back down again. “You drove to see an eye specialist? Let me guess, you got those shots, and then you drove all the way back here.”

He nodded.

“Are you in sane ?” Sabrina yelled. “You must be certifiable. Too bad the hospital in Traverse isn’t a psychiatric hospital anymore—you could have checked yourself in for a nice long stay.”

“I thought—”

“That’s the trouble, you weren’t thinking! Driving after an eye treatment? And here I thought you were smart. Do you realize what could have happened?”

“I’m only fifty-two years old.” He pulled himself out of the car and faced her, eye to eye, glare to glare. “And I’m not blind yet.”

“You going to keep driving until you are? How many buildings do you have to run into?”

“This was the only one!” He waved his arms around. “It was an accident! Everyone has accidents.”

“Up here most people hit deer, not buildings that haven’t moved in a hundred years,” she said drily.

“Look, I’m sorry I hit your precious restaurant, but—”

“I don’t care about the stupid building.”

“You . . . don’t?”

“No, I care about you.”

“You . . . do?”

She crossed her arms. “Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help, okay? Of course I care about you. Why else would I be yelling at you like this in front of fifty strangers?”

Bill D’Arcy didn’t look at the fifty strangers. He didn’t look anywhere but at Sabrina. “You care about me?”

She heaved a huge sigh. “For now. Keep up the stupid questions and the stupid driving habits and I might change my mind.”

“Sabrina . . . my darling Sabrina . . .” He lifted a hand and held her face gently, caressing her cheek with his thumb. “I had no idea. I . . .” He leaned in for a kiss and I could almost see the fireworks going off.

The crowd clapped, whistled, and cheered. “You go, girl!” “Got a good one there, pal!”

Sabrina and Bill paid no attention. They wrapped their arms around each other and held on as if they’d never let go.

The fifty strangers dispersed, laughing and smiling. After I retrieved Holly’s cinnamon roll, I went along with them, unsure whether to cry for happiness or stomp my foot at human idiocy. Those two had come close to not connecting the dots. That it had taken what could have been a serious accident was silly in the extreme.

And due to the month-ago doctor’s visit, Bill D’Arcy wasn’t a suspect for Stan’s murder. One down and far too many to go.

I sighed and headed back to the library.

• • •

Via multiple text messages, Tucker and I decided on Short’s Brewing Company as the location for our second date.

“Not Chilson,” Tucker had typed.

“Not this county,” I’d returned.

Short’s fit both those requirements. A happy addition to the small town of Bellaire, which was about thirty miles south of Chilson, the brewpub was famous for its wide variety of beer selections. We arrived after the Friday night dinner rush and scored a small table as soon as we walked in the door.

Fifteen minutes later, we were eating thick sandwiches, drinking adult beverages, talking about nothing in particular, and enjoying ourselves immensely. Sooner or later we’d get around to discussing the potentially problematic issues that could doom a relationship, but right now it was time to have fun.

I looked around the room. “You know, I don’t see a single person that I know. How about you?”

Tucker scanned left and right. “Not even anyone I’ve seen in the ER. Which is good, because that can get awkward. Especially if he’s cooking your dinner.”

I frowned, then figured it out. “Oh, you mean Larry? You stitched him up after he sliced and diced himself?” I made vague sword-fighting motions. “If you did as tidy a job with him as you did with Rafe, I’m sure he’s healing fine and . . .” But Tucker was shaking his head. “What?” I asked.

“It was a broken hand, not a sewing job. He’d fractured his—” His words screeched to a halt. “What I just said. Can you forget it?”

I flicked a stray piece of lettuce off my finger and tried to figure out why he’d ask. “Larry told me he’d cut his hand. But . . . he broke it?”

Tucker looked at me over his sandwich. “I was way out of line to say anything. Please forget it.”

An odd itch climbed up the back of my neck, but I nodded because I now understood what he was talking about. “Librarians know all about respecting privacy laws.”

Tucker’s nicely broad shoulders lost a little bit of tension. “Thanks,” he said. “I’d give you a hug, but . . .” He held up his hands, still filled with gooey sandwich.

I smiled. “Can I ask a question, instead? How hard is it to break a bone in your hand?” I laid down my sandwich, made a fist with one hand, and pressed it into the opposite open palm, pushing hard. “And how long does it take to heal?”

If you were hitting something, say the back door of a farmhouse, how much force would it take to break your hand? How hard would you have to hit, how much damage would you inflict on yourself, how much would you inflict on what you were hitting?