The Men of Thorne Island

by Cynthia Thomason

  Ben sat back in his chair, the hot fudge sundae forgotten for the moment. “You do? You know about the trouble, too?”

  “What trouble?”

  “From the development company. Millie came up here to see me because this slick guy from some developer…”

  “The Golden Isles Development Corporation?” Sara offered.

  Ben snapped his fingers. “Right. That’s what it was called. How’d you know?”

  Sara waved away his question, anxious to hear more. “Go on, Dad. I don’t know the whole story.”

  “Okay. This guy talked Millie into selling the island to his company, saying that Lake Erie was so badly polluted it was in her best interest to sell out while she could still get a few bucks for the property. He showed her geological surveys, marine samples, other stuff that proved the lake was dead as a doornail. The reports were all phony, by the way. Then he told her he was only interested in the material things he could get off the island—some wine-making equipment, antiques, that sort of thing.”

  Sara nodded. “In other words, he was priming her to take a low offer.”

  “Exactly right. He was a con man, Sara, no doubt about it. Even years ago when this happened, Lake Erie was already on the mend. But Millie didn’t know that. She sold out. Then she was contacted by some folks who’d had land on some of the other small islands in the Great Lakes. Seems they’d been swindled by this same guy. His stories varied a little from property to property, but basically he got folks to sell for very little money.”

  “What did he plan to do with the properties, Dad? Do you know?”

  “Divide them up into resort lots and make a bundle selling them off. But Millie and these other folks banded together and started a class-action suit against the company.”

  “Good for them,” Sara said. “So why did Millie come to you?”

  “She said her group needed more ammunition against this corporation, that the lawsuit was flagging and their chances in court didn’t look too good. She said she remembered me as being a kind of savvy guy, and she thought I could suggest a way to bring the company down.”

  “And did you?”

  He grinned. “Matter of fact, I did. I suggested she call an investigative reporter from the Cleveland Plain Dealer and tell him what was going on. Those fellows can dig up dirt from a cement parking lot. And that’s exactly what she did. The paper sent a guy down here, and he was sharp. If he asked one question that day, he asked a hundred.”

  “So your plan worked?”

  “I guess so. The reporter was definitely interested. He left here cackling over what a story this was going to be. He told Millie not to worry her little head over it. He’d expose this corporation and get her money back.”

  “And did he?” Sara remembered the attorney, Mr. Adams, telling her that her aunt had won a lawsuit, so she already suspected what her father’s answer would be.

  “That and a lot more. She called to tell me the good news some months later. Thanked me and offered me a big pile of her settlement, which I turned down of course. Doesn’t that beat all, Sarabelle? Millicent Thorne who never paid me any mind at all, trying to get me to take her money?”

  It certainly seemed as if Aunt Millie repaid debts of kindness. She must have been a fair-minded woman. “If she tried to give you money, I wonder what she did for that reporter?” Sara asked.

  Ben laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave him the whole damn island in her will, the way she was crowing over the outcome.”

  “You’d be wrong, Dad. She left the island to me.”

  Ben’s eyes widened in shock. “You? Why’d she leave it to you?”

  “I don’t know. The attorney said it was because she remembered me as a levelheaded girl. But now I think it was her way of paying you back. Thanking you through me.”

  He nodded slowly. The idea obviously made sense to him. “So that’s why you’re here. To check the place out.”

  “I already have,” she said. “And it’s wonderful. A little seedy here and there, but lots of possibilities.”

  “And that’s why you need a vacuum cleaner.”

  Sara laughed. “That’s just the beginning. I’m going back to the island tomorrow, Dad. I’m hoping to stay another couple of weeks. There’s so much I want to do.”

  Ben’s brows came together in a worried knot. “I don’t know if I like you being there all by yourself, Sara.”

  “I’m not alone, Dad. There are four people on the island.”

  His face eased into a sort of smile. “Oh, that’s okay, then. A family?”

  This could be a problem. “Not exactly.”

  “Two couples?”

  This could definitely be a problem. “Four singles, actually.”

  “There are four women living on Millie’s island?”

  “No.”

  He pointed his finger at her and shook it at her nose. So that was where she got that awful habit. “Now look here, Sara, my daughter’s not staying on an island with four men.”

  It was definitely time for her to stand up for herself. “Yes, Dad, she is,” she said. “But you don’t have to worry. The men are harmless. They really are. They’re quite wonderful, in fact. Sweet and helpful…” Was God going to make her choke on these lies?

  At least the finger lowered. “They don’t go for girls, then?”

  “Dad! I don’t know about that.” More lies. Nick Bass definitely went for girls. One particular girl pushed her pink-striped image into Sara’s mind and cracked her gum in Sara’s ear. “All I know is they’ve been very nice and polite to me. I’m perfectly safe there.”

  Physically safe, that was true. The only danger Sara had experienced on the island was almost falling down the press-house stairs, and that was a result of her own stupidity. But she wouldn’t have bet a quarter on the stability of her mental state at this moment.

  Her father looked only half-convinced. “Are you telling me the truth, Sara Crawford?”

  She reached under her chair and crossed her fingers, a practice from her childhood, and said, “Of course, Dad. The absolute truth.”

  “I’d feel a whole lot better if I could go back with you, but the garage is too busy what with folks late getting snow tires off and needing coolant, things like that. But if there’s anything else I can do to help…”

  “There is,” she said, thinking of her canary-yellow 1979 Volkswagen beetle that no doubt still occupied a special place in the family garage. “How’s the bee?”

  “Tip-top shape as always,” he said with pride. “I even repainted the little black stripes along the sides this winter.”

  “Great. Dad, if one of the guys from the garage can follow me up to the airport tomorrow, I want to drop off my rental car and drive the bee back to Sandusky. I think they’ll let me take her on the ferry, and I’ll figure some way to get her to the island. I could really use her there.”

  “Consider it done, Sarabelle—on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “As long as you’re getting that cell phone…”

  She reached across the table to cover his hand. “I’ll call you often, Dad. I promise.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NICK PICKED dark hairs off his hands and tried not to squirm. Gina had been fluffing and snipping and drying for what seemed like hours, though his watch indicated it had only been thirty minutes. “Aren’t you done yet, G?” he asked.

  She aimed the blow-dryer at his face, and he jerked away from the hot air. “What’s your hurry, sweetie?” she said. “It’s not like you got someplace to go.” She forced the wiry curls at his temple into submission with a blast of heat. “Okay, I guess I’m done. I gotta tell you, Nickie, I’ve cut the hair of five-year-olds who were better behaved than you were today.” She rested her chin on the top of his head and looked at their images in the bathroom mirror. “Didn’t your mama teach you any manners?”

  “Not a one,” he teased. “She knew it was pointless.”

  Gin
a reached around him for the hand mirror she’d set on the vanity. Her pink neck scarf shifted, giving him a tantalizing view of her most inviting body parts. Nick caught a whiff of her musky fragrance and anticipated his customary reaction.

  Nothing.

  She held the mirror at the back of his head. “There. What do you think?”

  “It’s great. Thanks.”

  She cracked her gum and plopped a fist on the perky jut of her hip. “I’d appreciate the compliment a whole lot more if you’d actually looked in the mirror.”

  He appeased her with one quick glance. “It looks good, G. Really.”

  She cocked her head to the side, reminding Nick of an attentive poodle with a hot-pink collar. “What’s with you today, Nickie? You got problems? Are you leaving the island, is that it? You act scared outta your wits.”

  Nick Romano had only been truly scared once in his life, so he knew fear and how his body reacted to it. This was different. Not fear exactly, but not far off, either. “Come on, Gina, don’t try to second-guess my moods.”

  “Are you runnin’ out of money?” she asked. “You told me when you first got here—when was it? six years ago?—that you’d stay on Thorne Island till you ran out of money or died.” She ran a slim, pink-tipped hand down his arm and gave him one of her sexy grins. “Since it’s obvious you’re still alive, then it must be money.”

  “It’s not money. Nothing’s wrong. Really.”

  “Honestly?” She drew out the word, letting her fingers walk back up his arm.

  He turned in his chair, reached for the tight, round bottom covered in black stretch material and gave it a squeeze. “Does this feel like something’s wrong, G?”

  She slithered away from him to deposit her gum in the garbage pail. When she came back, she dropped into his lap and kicked her feet as if she was dipping them into a cold stream. Her pink sandals hit the floor. “This feels like something’s right, Nickie.” She pulled his head down for a long, wet kiss.

  His radar was definitely working. “Woman on board” was blinking inside his head in bright green digital letters. His mind was sending signals to all parts of his body. So why was there no response? His messages hit dead air where nerves and muscles should have picked up the command and run with it.

  Gina drew away from him and stood up. “Come on, Nickie,” she said. “We’re peasanos.”

  “Sure, G.”

  “Italians are supposed to speak the hot-blooded language of lovers, right?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s what they say.”

  “But right now when I look at you, I’m not seein’ anything but some boring subtitles.”

  “Look, Gina—”

  “If you’re gonna apologize, forget it,” she said. “I think I know what’s wrong. I have a hunch the girl you really want in your lap went the other direction on Winkie’s boat this morning.”

  Deny it, Romano. Tell Gina she’s wrong. Tell her nothing could be farther from the truth. Nick opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was an idiot. That was the only explanation. Here was Gina Sacco, willing, luscious as a piece of ripe fruit, and Italian. What did he want, for Pete’s sake?

  Never in his wildest dreams could he have pictured himself turning down a sure thing like Gina to moon over a woman like Sara Crawford. Pushy, domineering, milk-fed Sara Crawford. And yet just thinking about her had his heart beating double time.

  Gina planted a chaste kiss on his cheek before slipping her feet into her sandals. “I can see you’re off somewhere without me, Nickie,” she said. “I’ll just go on over to Dexter’s. I think the Indians have a game today.”

  Nick watched her go, knowing he could have stopped her with a word. But the only words that came from his mouth were the ones he uttered when she was down the stairs and out the front door. “You ought to have your head examined, Romano.”

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON Nick looked at his watch, stood up from his desk chair and went to the bedroom window that faced toward Put-in-Bay. Through the tree branches that thickened more each day with new growth, he saw a sliver of blue water. Where was she? It was nearly four o’clock. If Winkie didn’t have her back soon, it would be too dark to start out from Put-in-Bay. He thought back to yesterday morning when Sara had called down the hallway. “See you tomorrow, Bass.” Yes, that’s what she’d said. “See you tomorrow.”

  Thinking he heard the faint sound of a boat, Nick cupped his ear and leaned over the windowsill. It didn’t sound like Winkie’s old tub, but it was worth investigating. He left his room, went down the stairs and onto the front porch. Gina was there, sitting in one of the wicker chairs, an entertainment magazine open on her lap.

  She raised her head when he came out, but it seemed as if she were looking through him rather than at him. It was the first time he’d seen her since she’d left the inn the day before, though the other guys had kept him informed of her whereabouts. “I’m filling out a questionnaire,” she said. “Who do you think has the sexiest eyes? Kevin Costner, Mel Gibson or that X-Files guy?”

  “Look, Gina, I’m sorry…”

  She flashed him a warning glance. “‘I’m sorry’ isn’t one of the choices, Nickie.”

  “Okay, Costner, then.”

  She smiled at him as she made a check mark. He was forgiven.

  Nick picked up her gold vinyl satchel from the porch floor. “There’s a boat coming, G,” he said. “Maybe it’s Winkie.”

  She closed the magazine, tucked it under her arm and fell into step beside him as they approached the harbor.

  The noise Nick had heard was definitely a boat engine, but it wasn’t Winkleman’s. Nick shielded his eyes against sunlight reflected off the water and the blue-and-white paint of a pontoon boat still at least half a mile away.

  “Who’s that?” Gina asked.

  “One of those flat party boats tourists rent.” It moved like a clumsy cow, lumbering through the water at no more than six or seven miles an hour. “It won’t come here.”

  Gina frowned up at him. “Not if it’s a party boat it won’t.”

  Nick started to turn away when an unusual object caught his eye. He touched Gina’s shoulder and pointed to the pontoon boat. “Do you see that? There’s a big yellow something smack in the middle of the boat. What do you suppose it is?”

  Gina fished a glasses case out of her bag and settled a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles on her nose. After a close look she said, “I think it’s a barbecue grill.”

  He sputtered his disbelief in a burst of laughter. “A yellow grill?”

  “Sure, why not? Yellow’s a condiment color. I think it’s kinda cool.”

  He shrugged. “I’m going back. You coming?”

  “Nah. I’ll wait here. Winkie’ll be along soon.”

  Nick returned to the inn, took a beer from his refrigerator and went upstairs. Staring at the computer screen, he vowed that Sara Crawford’s comings and goings wouldn’t cause him one more moment’s concern. She’d either come back or she wouldn’t. Either way, life on Thorne Island would continue.

  He’d only managed to compose one decent sentence when Brody’s voice carried up the inn staircase as if he was speaking through a bullhorn. “Damn it! What the hell’s that woman doing now?”

  Figuring Gina must have jumped off the dock to swim back to Put-in-Bay, Nick slowly got up and ambled to the top of the stairs. “Whatever Gina’s done, you handle it, Brody,” he said.

  “I’m not talking about Gina,” Brody growled. “That other woman. Our friggin’ landlady. That’s who I’m talking about!”

  “Sara?” Nick’s body was suddenly charged with renewed energy. He bounded down the stairs as fast as his limp would allow. “Where is she?”

  Brody burst through the screen door. “Come see for yourself. I can’t even describe this one.”

  Despite Brody’s head start, Nick passed him on the path to the harbor. And what he saw when he got there made him gasp. The large boat passed the dock and slowly eased to the shorelin
e. Winkleman operated the controls, and Sara Crawford fluttered about the deck like an excited mother hen. Her “baby,” as yellow as a newborn chick, was a brightly painted Volkswagen beetle.

  Once he recovered from the shock of seeing an automobile float to Thorne Island, and after he’d convinced himself that Sara really had come back, Nick allowed pure masculine exhilaration to take over. If most men were truthful, the blood that flowed through their veins was fifty percent gasoline, and at this moment, Nick’s pumped like premium high test.

  “Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head in admiration. “I haven’t seen one of those old bugs in this good a shape in years.”

  Winkleman shut off the engine, tossed a rope to shore and called out, “Grab the line, will you, Nick?”

  He did, and pulled the boat as close as the water depth would allow. Winkie jumped off and waded to shore. Together they managed to pull the vessel another few feet closer.

  Winkie walked back and opened a wide gate in the railing that surrounded the boat deck. “Okay, Sara,” he said, “can you scoot the ramps over here?”

  She pushed first one, then another red metal ramp to the edge of the boat. Catching on to the procedure, Nick grabbed one and Winkie took the other. They set their ends in the sandy soil. Damn, if Sara Crawford wasn’t going to drive that VW off the boat and onto Thorne Island!

  An impatient shout came from behind him. “What is the matter with you two? Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said?”

  It was Brody, and no, Nick hadn’t heard a word. He’d picked up some incoherent ranting, but Nick’s senses were tuned into what was happening in front of him. Once the ramp was firmly imbedded on shore, Nick turned to his irate friend. “Relax, Brody,” he said. “It’s just a little VW.”

  “A little VW?” the older man echoed. “It’s an invasion of our peace and quiet. What the hell do we need that thing for? We’ve got the golf cart.”

  Sara answered his bluster from the railing of the pontoon boat. “I need this thing, Mr. Brody. Precisely for the reason you just mentioned—you have the golf cart.”

  Brody pinned Sara with his angriest glare. “What do you mean by that?”