The Men of Thorne Island (10 page)

“Fine,” she said. “You’ve made your point. I’ll keep my door closed when I’m on the phone from now on.”

He stepped aside and with a gallant sweep of his arm, invited her to enter the bathroom.

“Thank you,” she said, and walked past him.

Nick headed down the hall, but before Sara closed the bathroom door, he called back to her. “Tell Candy to lay off the pizza. And by the way, the night before last—I slept alone.”

R
YAN ENTERED
the front door of the commissary, wiped moist soil from his hands and took the beer Nick offered him. “What’s up?” he asked.

“We’re all here,” Brody said. “What’s the big emergency?”

Dexter took a long swallow of diet soda and leaned against the refrigerator. “Talk fast, okay? ESPN is running a special on the history of the Cy Young Award, and it starts in fifteen minutes.”

“And I’ve got work to do in the vineyard,” Ryan said. “This morning’s rain made the soil perfect for adding more fertilizer. The roots will soak it right in.”

Brody pointed his cell phone at each man. “And I’ve got to call in an order to Winkie or we’ll all starve to death.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Nick said impatiently. “You’re all
busy as little beavers, I can tell. But believe me, when you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand why you had to give up a few minutes of precious time to listen.”

Ryan chewed on his lower lip. “You’re beginning to worry me, Nick.”

“I know, and maybe you should be worried. Here’s the story. Our new landlady—”

Brody’s fist came down on his counter. “Damn it! I should have known that interfering female was behind this meeting!”

Nick cleared his throat and continued, “Our landlady is determined to fix up the Cozy Cove and all of Thorne Island.”

“What the hell for?” Brody demanded. “She’s not staying, is she?”

“She’s staying another week for sure. Maybe longer. She’s got it into her head that she can turn the island into some kind of summer resort.”

Brody moaned and put his head in his hands. “Damn!”

“You mean we’re going to have people swarming all over the place?” Dexter asked.

Ryan grimaced. “How many people? Can she do this?”

“Of course she can!” Brody thundered. “That woman’s got a mean streak in her.”

Nick put a hand up to silence Brody, as if anything could. “Yes, Ryan, she can do anything she wants. The island’s hers, every tree, bush and grape.”

“She’s out to ruin us,” Brody said, a note of bitter finality to his words.

“No, I don’t think she is,” Nick countered. “She’s made it clear that none of us has to leave. But there
may come a time when guests start arriving at the Cozy Cove.”

Hope flickered in Dexter’s dark eyes. “But it might not happen for a long time?”

“That remains to be seen. The immediate situation we have to face is that Sara has contracted people to come to the island and make repairs to the inn. They arrive tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” A chorus of shouts filled the little room.

“That’s right. Painters, carpenters, an electrician—along with supplies Sara ordered on the mainland.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Dexter said. “What if one of them recognizes me? What’ll I say?”

Nick walked over and patted him on the shoulder. “You’ll say, ‘Hi, how ya doing. The name’s Dexter Sweet.’ And you’ll be proud of it.”

Dexter shook his head as if he didn’t believe a word of it.

“I don’t want any people around here,” Ryan said. “I can trust you guys. And I’d just decided that maybe I could trust Sara. Now she brings a whole slew of strangers to the island.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, Ry,” Nick said. “Not everybody in the world is out to frame you.”

Brody pounded his fist on the countertop again. “Will you listen to yourself, Nick? You’re siding with this woman and her half-baked scheme to turn our island into a Club Med! I don’t blame these boys for getting upset. I’m mad as hell myself!”

“So what else is new? You’re always mad.” Nick walked to the door to get away from the grumbling so he could think. There had to be some way—apart from tarring and feathering their landlady—to deal
with the situation. The subtle beginnings of a solution came to him, and he concentrated on making the details take shape. Getting this bunch of men to go for it might be as hard as getting them to vote for the abolishment of fishing on Thorne Island, but it was the only way out he could think of. At least it would buy them some time.

He turned around and faced his friends. “I’ve got an idea,” he said.

“Well, spit it out,” Brody demanded.

“We could offer to do the work ourselves.”

Three incredulous stares met his declaration. And one dropped jaw—Brody’s.

“Now just think about it for a minute,” Nick urged calmly. “If we do the work, there won’t be any reason to bring outsiders to the island. Our generosity will take the wind right out of Sara’s sails, and might score some points in our favor.”

The first spark of encouragement came with a slight nodding of Ryan’s head. “Yeah, that’s true,” he said. “I could do a lot of the carpentry. I’ve had enough experience around stables repairing rotted and cribbed wood.”

“Sure you have,” Nick said. “Fixing up the porch and the eaves would be a snap for you.”

“Well, heck,” Dexter said, “anybody can paint. I’m sure I could do that.”

Brody grunted his disagreement. “That’s just great. I’ll have Winkie bring me a video camera so I can record your impersonations of Martha Stewart. It’ll make for a good laugh. What about the roof and electrical work? Which one of you do-gooders is qualified for that?”

Nick raised his hand. “Actually, Bro, I know a
little about this fixup stuff. My mother lived in an old mansion in Akron, remember? I was a kid with nothing to do but watch the repairmen and learn.” He let a sly grin curl half his mouth. “And as for the electrical work, that’s right up your alley, friend.”

Brody gaped in shock. “Me? What I know about wiring you could put in a thimble and still have room for a bath.”

Nick wagged a finger at him. “You forget, Brody, that I know what you did before you started making people smell good. If I looked through your desk drawer right now, I might still be able to find the paper that certifies you as an electrician.”

Ryan and Dex both hooted at the expression on Brody’s face.

“So, do we talk to Sara about the deal or not?” Nick asked.

“She’ll never go for it,” Brody said in a last-ditch attempt to sway the vote.

“She’s an accountant, Bro. She knows she’ll save a bundle if we do the work.”

Dexter strode to the middle of the room. “If it’ll keep intruders off the island for a little while, I say we do it.”

“Me, too,” Ryan seconded.

All three men stared at Brody. “Ah, the hell with all of you,” he grumbled. “I’m not about to stand alone. Count me in, but I don’t like it. And—” he glared at Nick “—I’m not talking to her.”

“Actually, Brody, I think that will work in our favor,” Nick said. “I’ll let her know right now.” Looking at Ryan, he asked, “Is she in the vineyard?”

“Was when I left.”

Nick started to leave, but stopped at the door.
“You know, this might not be so bad. When you think about it, we are in kind of a rut around here. At least a little honest labor will be a change of pace.”

“Speak for yourself,” Brody shot back. “And before you run off, let’s get this grocery list done.” He pulled a sheet of paper from under the counter and began checking off items. “Frosted Flakes all right?” he asked.

Ryan and Dexter mumbled a weak agreement.

“No!” Nick said. “They’re not all right. That’s just what I mean about being in a rut. I want something different.” The other men again stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “What other cereals are there?” he asked.

Ryan cleared his throat. “I used to like Sugar Crisp.”

Nick snapped his fingers. “That’s it then. Sugar Crisp. Write that down, Brody. And while you’re at it, order some vegetables. I’m tired of beef and potatoes all the time.”

Brody’s shock was expressed in incomprehensible mumbles.

“Quit griping, Bro,” Nick said. “Ordering food’s the easy thing. I’ve got to find our landlady and convince her of our sincere desire to help. Now that’s a challenge!”

S
ARA REACHED
into the wheelbarrow, scooped out another handful of gravel and spread it around the base of the vine at her knees. Her morning’s work in the vineyard had convinced her of one thing. The tour guide on her Napa Valley trip who’d said breaking soil by hand was an easy job had obviously never done it. Sara’s back ached from kneeling on the sloping hillside. Her wrist hurt from turning and twisting the trowel in the dirt, and her gloves were so caked with clay she doubted she’d ever get them clean. Yet all she needed to do was reach up and gently nestle a light-green cluster of baby grapes in her palm and all her efforts were worth it. Soon her vines would be thriving.

“Most people try to get rocks out of the soil, Crawford. Here you are putting them in.”

At the sound of Nick’s voice, Sara sat up with a start and stared into teasing gray eyes. “Shows what you know, Bass. The stones are for drainage. If vine roots get too much water, they rot.” Responding to his less than enthusiastic shrug, she returned to her work and asked, “Where’s Ryan? What have you done with him?”

“I don’t think I like that accusatory tone,” he answered, and took a step closer to her.

Sara slapped at his shin with the trowel.

Nick hopped back and rubbed his leg. “Ouch! What did you do that for?”

“You were about to step on my mixture. Shoes are very bad for the soil, bad for the grapes.” She glanced accusingly at his feet. “Especially shoes the size of yours.”

“Well, pardon me,” he said as he stared at Sara’s grubby bare feet. “I didn’t know you were a horticultural authority.”

“Well, I am. So are you going to answer my question?”

“I’m in so much pain, I forgot you asked one.”

She speared the trowel into the dirt and stared up at him. “What have you done with Ryan? He’s got the pruning shears and I need them.”

“Oh, him. I locked him in the press house. I did it for you. I didn’t like the tread on his sneakers.”

“Very funny.”

Nick reached into his back pocket and pulled out a pair of pruning shears. “Are these the ones you’re looking for?”

“That’s them.” Sara took the shears and snipped several leggy canes near the base of the vine. “Has Ryan quit for the day?”

“No, he’ll be back. We both agreed it would be better for his emotional well-being if he stayed away while I came to talk to you. If there’s anything he hates more than strangers, it’s confrontation.”

Sara stood up and faced him. She knew exactly what he was referring to. “Nick, I told you, I’m going through with these improvements to the inn.”

“I know. You made that clear.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to an old bench at the base of the slope. “Can we sit there?”

“I suppose.” She removed her gloves, set them in the wheelbarrow and wiped her hands on her cutoffs. Then she walked ahead of him to the bench and sat, angling her body so she could see his face clearly. “Okay, I’m sitting.”

He settled beside her and released a long breath. “I told the guys about your plans today.”

“And?”

“And they didn’t take it well. Look, Sara, I’m willing to meet you halfway on one point. What you said the other night about us living here because we’re afraid of something, afraid to go back to the mainstream…that might be true for the other guys, and you’re setting off alarm bells in their heads.”

“But no alarm bells in yours?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m not afraid. I told you that. But Ryan and Dex. Even Brody. They’ve got issues.”

“No kidding.” She hooked her elbow on the back of the bench. “I’m sorry about that, Nick. But I don’t see how hiding out here forever will help them deal with their problems. And I don’t see how my plans will disrupt their lives. I’m not suggesting that any of you leave. The changes I’m making won’t affect the cottages where your buddies live.

“I’m not a tyrant, Nick,” she added. “I’ve inherited this piece of property and I want to fix it up.”

He rested his arm near hers on the back of the bench. “It’s not that you’re a tyrant, Sara. But those contractors coming tomorrow are strangers the guys aren’t ready to deal with. Not yet.”

“Not after six years?”

He shook his head.

“Well, Nick, the contractors have got to come. I
can hardly repair a roof myself or update the electrical system. And the painting and wallpapering alone—”

He laid his hand on her arm. “I know. And I’ve come up with a plan.”

“A Nick Bass plan,” she said skeptically. “Why am I worried?”

“It’s the perfect solution, Sara.” His wide grin suggested that what he was about to say would change the face of the universe, not just the fixtures of Thorne Island. “Let us do the work.”

A sputter of disbelief burst from Sara’s lips. Was Nick really suggesting that the same men who celebrate the nonsensical ritual of Digging Day do the work of licensed contractors? A bubbling laughter started deep in her chest and worked its way up her throat. “Nick, just exactly who do you mean by ‘us’?”

His grin faltered a bit. “You know who I mean. Me, Brody, Dex and Ryan. We can do all those little jobs you want done.”

“You mean to tell me that a slovenly millionaire, an ex-football player, a guy who plants flowers and you, who from all appearances has no talent at all—”

“Hey, that’s not fair.”

“Sorry. Who appears to do absolutely nothing. You four can fix up the Cozy Cove and the dock?”

“Yep. That’s what I’m telling you. We talked it over, took stock of our talents, which, despite your opinion, are many, and we’re offering our services.”

He waited expectantly, reminding Sara of a little boy who’s been told to stay in his bedroom on Christmas morning until Mommy gets the camera. Sara had to tell herself he was a grown man and should be able
to handle a little disappointment. “Sorry, Bass, I don’t think so,” she said.

He jerked away from her, almost tumbling off the end of the bench. “What? Why not?”

“Well, for starters, how do I know you can do the work?”

“Don’t worry about that. We can do it,” he said with almost enough assurance to sway her. Almost. “Besides, if the code inspectors don’t pass our work, then you can hire the big guns.”

“Frankly, Bass, I don’t see any reason I should take the chance. The licensed contractors are a sure thing. They have experience, references…”

“…kids to feed, bills to pay,” he added with a self-satisfied smirk. “Look at it this way, Madam Accountant. We’re not going to charge you for our services. You furnish the supplies, and bingo, the Cozy Cove ends up as inviting as a New England country inn.”

Bingo? He thinks this is as easy as saying bingo?

“Count
those
beans and see what you come up with, lady,” he said.

Sara lifted the hair from her neck and let the breeze cool her skin and divert her attention from the unexpected but suddenly shattering appeal of Nick’s confidence. He needed a dose of reality now. Despite what she believed—that the men of Thorne Island would be lucky to pound a nail into a two-by-four without damaging their thumbs—she knew that Nick thought they could.

“I know this offer is just a delaying tactic, Nick,” she said. “But your pals have to realize that their isolation can’t last forever. Even if I agree to this, someday—”

He cupped a finger under her chin and lifted her face. “But not tomorrow, Sara,” he said solemnly. “Not tomorrow. Let us do this. We’ll do a good job. And you’re asking too much if you think these guys can adjust to a crowd coming to Thorne Island so soon after they’ve had to deal with your arrival.”

Every logical fiber of Sara’s being was shouting at her to say no. A few contractors hardly constituted a crowd! But this sincerity coming from Nick was impossible to ignore. All at once he seemed vulnerable. His finger was still under her chin, but it felt as if he’d wrapped it around her heart. She released a long sigh, which ended in the surprising words, “All right. We’ll give it a try.”

His grin returned. “Atta girl, Sara,” he said. “You’re my kind of woman.”

She shook her head. “Please, Bass, don’t say that. You’ll have me trying to drive the beetle off the edge of the dock to get away from here.”

“It’s that scary a thought?”

“Being your kind of woman? Yes. And we both know nothing could be further from the truth.”

He inched a little closer to her and settled his fingertips on her shoulder. “That’s for sure. You’re not my type at all.”

“Thank God,” she snapped back, fighting a sudden twinge of disappointment.

His hand moved to the sensitive skin at her nape. His fingers trailed through her hair. And her toes curled involuntarily into the loose soil at her feet.

“I like redheads,” he said. His other hand cupped the side of her face, and he lightly caressed her temple with his thumb. “And there’s definitely too much up here,” he said, stopping to tap her cranium. “I like a
woman with a lot of extra room in her brain that she’s not all that anxious to fill up with thoughts and ideas.”

His hand crept slowly, sensually, down her arm while her heart skittered to an offbeat tempo. He flattened his palm just under her rib cage. “And this well-toned body of yours, while nice, isn’t my thing. I like a woman who appreciates good Italian cooking and doesn’t count calories.”

His thumb rode up to caress the side of her breast. As he neared the nipple, a coil of warmth started in her abdomen and flowed through her bloodstream to meet his touch. Her mind demanded that she stop him, but her body had ideas of its own.

He pulled her closer still, until his mouth hovered over hers. His hand boldly covered her breast over the cotton fabric of her blouse. He kissed her cheeks lightly, the sensation like new spring grass on tingling skin. “No, Sara Crawford, you’re not my type at all,” he whispered into her ear. “But damn, sweetheart, you’ll do.”

“Nick…” Her feeble words of protest died against the lips that covered hers and were apparently determined to stop the formation of rational thought. A cloud covered the sun, cloaking the sky until they were bathed in a cool, gray ripple of earth-scented air. A breeze blew down from the hillside and slid like silk around Sara’s limbs.

Nick’s tongue probed at her mouth, and she opened it to let him in. She closed her eyes and relished the darkness that let her experience the wonder of his explorations. The top button of her blouse slid free, and his hand was inside, seeking. His voice floated
above her from what seemed an ethereal place. “Oh, yes, Sara, you’ll do just fine.”

And then another sound—harsh, grating—split the damp, misty air. It came from a distant point and grew closer, louder. Nick pulled away, but kept one arm around her. “What the…?”

Sara blinked her eyes open. She patted her body, searching. “It’s my phone.”

He expelled a breath. “Jeez, Sara, let it ring. We’re in the middle of a vineyard. What normal person would even get a call out here?”

She pulled the phone from her back pocket. “I can’t just let it ring. It might be Candy.” It took a moment to identify the voice. “D-Donald?”

Nick stood up from the bench and walked a few paces away. She tried giving him one of those can-you-believe-this looks that women sometimes use to get out of embarrassing situations. Although why she should be embarrassed she couldn’t say. She and Donald were hardly more than friends, and besides, he was supposed to be in Aruba.

“Hold on a moment please, Donald,” she said, and covering the receiver, looked at Nick. “It’s this guy I’m kind of seeing,” she whispered, realizing in the next instant how ridiculous that must sound to the person who’d been firing her senses with his mouth and hands a moment before.

Nick nodded sagely. “Then I guess I should leave you two alone.”

“Well, yes. I think under the circumstances…”

“Right.” Nick started up the path to the inn. “Nice talking with you.”

Sara took a deep breath while she buttoned her
blouse. Then she said into the phone, “Donald, how are you?”

“Missing you,” he said. “And I’ve decided to forgive you for backing out of the trip. By the way, Aruba’s great. Clear blue water. White sandy beaches. Tanned natives.” He snickered. “That reminds me. How’s everything in that Lake Erie paradise of yours?”

Sara tried to hide her resentment of his sarcasm behind a lengthy explanation she knew would bore him to death. “Oh, fine. It’s work, work, work, you know. A million things to do.” As she filled him in on her activities, her gaze connected guiltily with Nick’s when he shot her a glance over his shoulder. Then with a sigh of relief, she watched him turn away and cut through the hedges to the inn.

A
SUDDEN SEVERE RAINSTORM
sent Sara into the inn shortly after she disconnected with Donald. She still didn’t understand why he’d called. Possibly to make her feel guilty or perhaps even jealous. He hadn’t accomplished either. She patted her hair and skin dry with a towel and made herself a cup of tea. Enjoying the coziness of her warm, dry kitchen, she sat at the table and thought about the timing of Donald’s call.

She ought to be grateful he’d gotten her number from Candy and phoned when he had. Who knew where the incident on the vineyard bench would have ended up? Nick Bass was definitely affecting her, and Sara couldn’t come up with an antidote. She couldn’t even explain what she and Nick had been doing just moments before, but she had to admit that she’d both feared and wanted more.

Sara shook her head. She had to finish the repairs
on the island as quickly as possibly and get Nick Bass out of her thoughts. It was true that Thorne Island was a challenge that excited her, but her
real
life was still in Florida, not here where no one liked or even wanted her. Her livelihood depended on the accounting firm of Bosch and Lindstrom, and only a fool would contemplate giving up a lucrative practice to try to make a go of a run-down inn and a struggling vineyard in the middle of nowhere. And Sara was no fool.

The rain had stopped and she walked out the back door and sat on the top porch step. Water seeped through her cutoffs, but she didn’t care. It was hard to remember her Florida reality in the rain-washed air of Thorne Island. It was as if the rain had cleansed away thoughts of grumpy old men and obligations a thousand miles away. Even the dandelions—stubborn weeds and the curse of every gardener—shone with a brilliance that matched the sun.