The Men of Thorne Island (6 page)

“Well—”

“Sara, at the risk of having Brody flail me with his hat full of tetanus-infected lures, I’ll tell you what we were doing. We were digging for hidden treasure, like we’ve done every Monday morning when the ground isn’t frozen for the last six years.”

Her jaw dropped, and she stared up at him. There was no mistaking the sudden interest in her eyes. “There’s hidden treasure on this island?”

“Frankly I don’t think there’s so much as a single
sou,
but Brody does, so we look.”

“Why does he think there’s treasure buried here?”

“It’s some loony bit of folklore about the first French fur trappers who came to the island. They were with this missionary named Father Bertrand. He had a small fortune in coins and jewels entrusted to him by the French monarch, and he was supposed to barter with the Indians for land that might be valuable to the French crown. According to Brody, who studies things like this, the fortune was never spent, but left here on the island. The story has passed down through generations since the eighteenth century. But like I said, I don’t believe—”

“Wow.” A veiled wonder had suddenly appeared over the bright blue of Sara’s eyes. “You must believe it, Bass. Otherwise why would you help Brody find it?”

Don’t women get anything?
“Because he wants me to,” Nick said simply. “It’s what he does.”

Sara’s perplexed look told him she still didn’t get it. “But do you keep records? Maps? Logs of your diggings?”

Just like an accountant!
“No.”

“How do you know you’re not digging in a place you’ve dug before?”

“I suppose we could be. Who knows? We always fill the holes before we leave.”

She sank onto the sofa and placed her sooty cheeks in her palms. “This is incredible, Bass. I don’t understand you men at all.”

That was the first thing she’d said that he could agree with.

“You spend your time on what you believe is a totally fruitless endeavor,” she went on, “and you don’t even do it with a modicum of precision or planning.” She gave him a look that was part bewilderment and part sympathy. “You’re all spinning your wheels, Bass. You’re not getting anywhere.”

He shrugged. “That’s about the size of it. But, hey, it’s Brody’s thing. I just go along for the ride. But don’t you get my point?”

She gave a rather unfeminine belly laugh. “You mean to tell me there’s a point to this?”

“Of course. I told you about the treasure to illustrate a very important one.” He thumped his chest with two fingers. “This is what we’re all about. We’re men doing our own thing on Thorne Island. You can’t come a-callin’ for a few days and change things all around. You may be a great kisser, Sara Crawford, but—”

Blue fire danced in her eyes. “Don’t you dare bring that up. You had no right to kiss me last night.”

“Really? I’m sorry you feel that way because I was thinking about doing it again.”

She thrust out her hands, palms up as if to fend off an attack. “Don’t even think about it, Bass.”

“Why? Because you’re not thinking about it, Sara?”

“Of course I’m not thinking about it.”

He gave her a skeptical look so she’d know he didn’t believe her.

“Stop looking at me like that!”

Nick just smiled as he grabbed her hand and tugged her off the sofa. “Come on up to my room.”

“I will not! I just told you—”

“Don’t get your hackles up, accountant. I don’t want to take a lap around the track with any lady who’s been cozying up to a fire grate.” God, he was a liar!

“Then why are we going to your room?”

Was it his imagination, or did she almost sound disappointed?

“Because I’ve got a bottle of calamine lotion in my closet. I’m going to paint your arms with pink polka dots.”

A
ROUND NOON
Sara pulled on a Sloppy Joe’s T-shirt with Ernest Hemingway’s picture on front and hurried downstairs. She’d grab a quick lunch and be ready for Captain Winkleman when he arrived early that afternoon. She couldn’t resist looking in the parlor and admiring the furnishings she’d polished and dusted. Even the rugs looked fresher, though all she’d found to use on them was an old Bissell sweeper.

It was a pleasure to go into the kitchen, as well. When Winkleman brought the food she’d ordered, she would put it into the main refrigerator, now shiny and smelling of lemon. Meanwhile she was still using Nick’s. She opened the door, reached in for the salami and noticed the fading pink dots on her arms.

At first she’d resisted Nick’s attempts to relieve her itching, but he’d insisted. He’d made her sit on his bed while he found the bottle of calamine lotion and cotton balls. Then he’d deliberately, and with unsettling care, dabbed the thick lotion on each of her bites.

Thinking about it now, Sara smiled and rubbed the pad of her index finger over the crusty circles of calamine. Then she washed her hands and did something she probably wouldn’t have done if Nick hadn’t let her glimpse his gentle side. She made two sandwiches, one for herself and one for him. She secured his in plastic wrap and put it into his refrigerator.
He’d already gone back to his computer and might not think of food for a while.

She’d just tossed the crumbs of her own sandwich into the backyard for the robins when she heard the unmistakable roar of Winkleman’s boat. She left the inn and headed for the harbor to retrieve her food and the fertilizer she’d ordered, and also to arrange for the captain to take her to Put-in-Bay. If she was going to stay on Thorne Island an extra week—as she’d decided that morning—she needed to purchase a cell phone so she could keep in touch with Candy and the office. Plus, she wanted to see her father and buy supplies to make her stay more comfortable. And she had to do something about the rental car parked in the lot in Sandusky.

Sara’s decision to extend her stay had been a logical one, especially after she’d come to the rather astounding realization that she was enjoying herself. And this, despite the attitudes of her island neighbors. The feeling had come from deep inside as if it had been buried under layers of all the things that had defined her life the past few years—calculators, appointments and spreadsheets.

But a new Sara Crawford was emerging. One who looked forward to the challenge of fixing up the inn. Improving the conditions on Thorne Island wasn’t just a wise financial decision. It actually fulfilled a need in her she probably never would have known about if she hadn’t come to the island.

She loved how—through her efforts alone—shine had replaced grime in the kitchen. She’d returned the pitted and tarnished fixtures on the bathroom sink to their original sparkle. And she’d changed the cold,
spectral parlor into a retreat of comfort and understated beauty.

She considered asking Winkleman to take her back with him today, but there were considerations on the island more pressing than her chores on the mainland. If Winkie had brought the fertilizer she ordered, she needed to identify the most promising vines behind the inn, remove the weeds from around the bases of the trunks and spread a mixture of fertilizer and compost into the soil. April was a crucial month in wine production, and if well fed and tended, the vines could produce ripe grapes as early as the end of August.

There was so much to do! As she approached the harbor, Sara thought about all the improvements she wanted to make. She couldn’t wait to spruce up the inn with fresh paint and wallpaper and fertilize the neglected gardens. Absorbed in picturing the results of her labors, she came upon the clearing at the dock and her enthusiasm plunged like a January thermometer. Had she really ordered all that fertilizer?

Dexter, Brody and Nick were already there, looking down at six thirty-pound bags of Sow and Grow, a fertilizer made of organic materials and old-fashioned manure. Sara wrinkled her nose when she caught a whiff of the sacks.

Nick grinned at her and tipped a box of groceries he’d just unloaded from the boat so she could see the contents. “Look what I got from Captain Winkie, Sara,” he said with a teasing smugness. “I know it’s only frozen dinners, bologna and beer—” he nodded toward the manure “—but it looks pretty good next to what you got.”

“Very funny, Bass. Actually, our orders are quite
similar when you consider what they’re made of.” She stopped a few feet from the fertilizer and frowned. How was she going to cart these bags back to the vineyard?

Captain Winkleman held up a sack of groceries. “I didn’t forget you, Sara. I’ve got the things you wanted.”

She reached for the sack while Winkie enumerated the contents.

“I brought your yogurt and whole-wheat bread and thin sliced turkey just like you asked. Had some trouble with no-fat mayo. Hope what I got is okay.”

Ignoring the sour expressions on the men’s faces, Sara cradled her food protectively. “I’m sure everything’s fine,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

Brody started back to the pathway with Dexter on his heels. “Come on, boys. Let’s get this stuff to the commissary.” He leveled a smirk at Sara over his shoulder. “Miss Crawford, I expect you’ll want to keep your grub with you so it won’t be contaminated by real food.”

“That’s fine with me. Besides I wouldn’t want my yogurt to tempt you in the middle of the night.” A solution to her transportation problem suddenly came to mind and she interrupted Brody’s retort mid mumble. “Oh, Mr. Brody, before you go, could I borrow your golf cart for a few minutes? I need to move these bags of fertilizer to the vineyard.”

Without pausing, he tossed a succinct answer back to her. “Battery’s dead. Won’t be charged until morning.”

Sara’s temper simmered on the verge of boiling. She’d always been able to tell when someone was
lying. Brody and Dexter disappeared into the trees, but Nick stayed behind, his arms laden with groceries.

“Look, Sara, if you can wait till I take these things to Brody’s…”

Wonder of wonders, Nick Bass was actually going to offer to help. She was about to express her appreciation when a cry from the pathway diverted her attention.

“Where in hell are you going with that thing?” Brody hollered.

“I’m helping Sara,” Ryan replied. The defiant words were immediately followed by the appearance of a dilapidated but functional wheelbarrow with Ryan gripping the wooden handles. He crisscrossed the dock with awkward determination and set the wobbly cart next to the bags. “I figured you could use this,” he said proudly.

Sara could have kissed him. Instead, she beamed at him and said, “How nice of you.”

Nick released a cynical grumble. “There you see, Sara, chivalry is not dead on Thorne Island.”

“You’re right. It isn’t. I just figured you boys must have buried it so deep in one of your holes, you’d never find it.”

Nick shook his head and started after his companions. “Don’t worry, Ryan,” he said with obvious sarcasm. “We’ll carry your supplies to Brody’s.”

“Thanks, Nick,” Ryan answered with innocent appreciation.

Captain Winkleman slapped the edge of the dock. “Well, now that everything’s settled, I’ll be on my way.”

Sara put up her hand to stop him from revving his noisy engine to life. “Wait, Captain. I need to ask
you a favor. Could you come back tomorrow morning? I’ve decided to go to the mainland.”

He touched the brim of his soiled nautical cap. “No problem. I have to come back to bring something for Nick. It’ll still cost you a twenty spot, though. Can’t run this baby on goodwill.”

Sara almost reminded him that he’d just admitted he was coming anyway but thought better of it. “Fine,” she said.

N
ICK STOPPED
in the pathway and strained to hear the conversation at the harbor. Did Sara just say she was going to the mainland?

What the hell did she mean? That she was going for good? Surely not. She’d just ordered all that fertilizer. But if she was, Brody was to blame. The grouchy old fool’s refusal to let Sara borrow the cart must have been the last straw. You’d think that rusted old contraption was a vintage Rolls-Royce the way Brody was acting.
Dead battery my ass!
Nick thought. He’d seen Brody run that cart all over the island for hours and still brag that it could go another round.

Nick couldn’t blame Sara if she did up and leave. Some men were downright pigheaded when it came to women. Nick sure hoped he didn’t turn out like Brody, bitter and cold.

He paused before going up the short set of stairs into Brody’s cottage. What was he thinking? Of course Sara had to go. He’d known that from the start. In fact, he’d politely pointed out her interference a time or two himself. She had a life in Florida, and he had a life on Thorne Island—a calm, regimented life where he could set his own hours, seek his own com
panionship and pursue his writing without anyone telling him what to do.

So why was he feeling anything but calm at this moment? Why was he stewing about Sara Crawford’s going back to Fort Lauderdale where she belonged? He ought to go into Brody’s place, slap the old guy on the back and thank him for sending her away. But he didn’t feel a bit like doing that. In fact, he could picture his hands around Brody’s throat a lot more easily than he could see himself slapping his back.

Nick shook his head and climbed the steps. “Get a hold of yourself, Romano,” he grumbled. “You’re letting a cute butt and a pair of blue eyes get to you.” He paused before opening the door.
And a damn fine figure, too.
Nick recalled the black-and-white image of Ernest Hemingway clinging to Sara’s breasts. Damn! Now he was actually jealous of a guy’s face on a T-shirt, and a dead guy at that!

The image exploded from Nick’s mind like it’d been blasted with a stick of dynamite—Brody’s voice had that effect. “Come on, Nick, bring that stuff over here to the fridge before it’s not fit to eat!”

N
ICK TRIED TO WRITE
. For three hours he tried to become Ivan Banning and follow clues to the drug pushers. He’d known it would be a difficult task after he’d found the sandwich wrapped in plastic in the refrigerator. It even had his name taped to the top.

The last time anyone made a sandwich for him he was still in middle school, and the burden had been placed on Paloma, his mother’s Peruvian housekeeper. Paloma was nice enough, but she’d always ruined his lunch by sticking carrots or celery into the bag. Sara had left a chocolate bar. Granted, it was
low-fat and tasted like cardboard, but it was still a heck of a lot better than carrots.

After three hours of typing a sentence or two every fifteen minutes, Nick gave in to his curiosity about what was happening in the vineyard. He went to a bedroom with a window facing north, where he could see Sara and Ryan working like little grape elves a hundred yards away. Then he went back to his monitor, deleted everything he’d written so far and shut down the computer. It was no use trying to write. He went to the kitchen, out the back door and headed for the vineyard.

Ryan was gone, but Sara was still there. She’d made the rusted spigot on the side of the old press house work, and she was bent over splashing water on her arms. Nick watched her, thinking that this simple act of a woman cleaning her arms might very well be the most sensual, intimate thing he’d ever seen. His insides coiled like a spring.

She stood, balancing herself with one hand on the rough stone exterior of the press house, and rotated a bare foot under the running water. That was when she saw him. And Nick Bass, alias Nicolas Romano, who never thought for a moment that she would be glad to see him, felt her welcoming gaze pour through him like warm honey.

She waved him over. “Nick, come here. You have to see.”

He joined her as she turned off the water and playfully flicked a couple of drops into his face. “Promise me you won’t be cynical.”

He pretended to be insulted—in fact, he was a little. “Who, me? cynical? Can’t remember when I ever was.”

She snickered while sliding her feet into plastic sandals. Then she walked down a row of vines until she came to the one she wanted to show him. Reaching through the new growth of wide green leaves, she brought out a mysterious cluster of tiny objects that she cradled in her palm. “They’re alive, Nick,” she whispered reverently. “See for yourself.”

Nick stared down at minuscule green pellets clinging to a thin thread and determined that they were indeed grapes and showed a lot more promise than that shriveled-up piece of refuse Sara had shown him yesterday. And one day, with a little luck and a dash of Sara’s determination, they might just defy the odds and end up pleasing somebody’s palate.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Nobody’s paid any attention to these plants for years that I know of. Even Ryan only clipped away randomly.”

She gently returned the tender cluster to its nest of leaves. “There aren’t many healthy vines,” she admitted. “But there might be enough to have some kind of harvest, maybe by late summer.” She pointed down the row to patches of dark, moist earth. “Ryan and I turned the dirt and fertilized around the bases of the most promising ones.”

Late summer. She’s talking about harvesting grapes in late summer.

“Of course Ryan will have to take care of the vines. I won’t be here, but it will be enough to know that we succeeded.”

So she was leaving, after all. The practical side of Nick experienced a flood of relief. This was best for the men of Thorne Island, wasn’t it? But the emotional side, the one he’d never been well acquainted
with, gripped like a vise around his heart and made his next breath hitch in his throat.

“He may not want to do the work when I’m gone,” she said, turning away from Nick and facing the rows of vines.

“Who, Ryan?”

She nodded. “It’s hard when you don’t have a partner to share the responsibility. And of course it will be especially difficult if the rest of you make fun of him.”

“We wouldn’t do that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, at least try not to. Ryan is a sensitive guy, you know.”