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 insane?” 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?”