The Men of Thorne Island (7 page)

He nodded slowly, trying not to smile. “Oh, I know. We’re all careful not to bruise the little guy’s feelings.”

She pivoted and narrowed her eyes at him. “Funny. Now, would you do me a favor while we still have a little daylight?”

“What’s that?”

“Get me the key to the press house. I’m dying to see inside. Since you’re the village banker, I figure you’ve got the keys to the kingdom, as well.”

“I’m your man.” He walked back to the house for the keys, telling himself he had his emotions in check. Sara was going away. Everything would be back to normal in a couple of days. In fact, maybe she’d decided not to turn Thorne Island into a summer playground. Maybe the grapes had satisfied her homemaker’s need to repair and improve.

Okay. Ryan could piddle around in the dirt a little and trim a few vines. And the rest of them could go on with their lives just as they had before Sara Crawford showed up. And that was what he wanted, right?

“Damn straight,” he said to himself. “Just me and the guys like it’s been for six years. Pure, unspoiled contentment.” So why did he feel so discontented?

S
ARA LEANED
against the exterior wall of the press house and watched Nick stride through the brush toward her. His limp was barely noticeable today. A large, round key ring swung from his hand and jingled almost ominously in the cool air. Waning sunlight cast his body in shadows. He might have been a medieval jailer traipsing through the bailey on his way to the castle tower—except for his navy-blue cargo shorts and the gray golf shirt with faded splashes of magnolias surrounding the words “Augusta, Georgia.” That attire was strictly Nick’s.

A scowl settled on Sara’s face. Confidence and strength seemed to ooze from every pore of this man. Too bad he’d gone out of his way to be critical and uncooperative. In fact, the pale pink splotches of calamine lotion on her arms were all that hinted of a gentler side to Nick Bass.

“We’d better hurry,” he said, coming up to her. “It’ll be dark soon, and I’m not sure you’ll like this place then.” He wiggled his fingers in a spiderlike motion.

Ignoring his attempt to frighten her, she led the way to the heavy oak door at the front of the building. “When’s the last time you were in here?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Three years ago, maybe. I was looking for some electrical tape and a pair of wire cutters.”

“Making a bomb, were you?”

He frowned at her while inserting a key into the rusty lock. “No. Sorry to disappoint you. I was re
pairing the cord to my computer. You probably expected something more sinister, more ghoulish from me.”

Nick had to press against the door with his shoulder to make the swollen wood cooperate. Finally the huge iron hinges squeaked in defeat and the door swung inward wide enough to allow Sara and Nick entrance.

Sara went first, and felt immediately thrust back to another century. She paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the near-darkness. The last rays of sunlight filtered through narrow, grimy windows along the ceiling and revealed the stark, stone walls. She took a few tentative steps.

The room smelled of the hundred years of patience and craftsmanship that had come before her—a sweet, fruity aroma mingled with the scent of old wood and the dank, musty smell of neglect. A three-foot-high circular vat, held together with pitted metal bands, occupied the center of the room. It recalled the days when grapes were crushed with hands and feet. Sara had never seen an authentic crushing vat before. Smaller tubs surrounded it, providing a place for the crushers to wash their feet before entering the vat.

The rest of the room was testimony to the wine-making process. Vitreous crocks stood on one side, while basket presses occupied the other. Thick pads of gauze were stacked on high shelves next to bottles with faded labels identifying yeast, sulfite solution, sucrose and various chemicals designed to alter the acidity of the wine.

Sara circled the room, running her fingers over the various textures of the alien but enticing environment—the smooth, porous surface of the crocks, the
brittle, sharp planks of the press baskets, the cool iron of their handles.

“It’s all so wonderful, isn’t it?” she said, not expecting Nick to appreciate the significance of the moment.

He didn’t disappoint her. “If you like the smell of mold and mildew and looking at a lot of old stuff, it is.”

She turned toward him, surprised to find him so close behind her. Their footsteps had been silent on the old wood floor. “Tell me about the wine makers,” she said.

He shrugged. “Not much to tell. All I know I learned from Millie. She bought the island sometime in the eighties from the Krauses, who originally came from Germany in the 1800s, settled here and made wine for few generations like a lot of people did on these islands.”

“When did they stop?”

“Years ago. I think it was the fourth generation of Krauses in America who gave it up. Millie hired people to run the vineyard until the early nineties, but I guess it was too expensive to continue.”

“What became of the Krauses?”

“I heard they moved to Detroit.”

“I think it would be hard to leave all this.” Sara looked away and saw for the first time narrow stairs descending to a lower level. “What’s in the basement?” she asked, going closer.

“That’s the fermenting room,” Nick said, staying close to her. “It has low ceilings, and from what I remember, is darned cold. There’s just a lot of old bottles and barrels down there.”

“I want to see.”

He reached out for her when her foot found the first step. “No, Sara, don’t. It’s too dark. You won’t be able to see anything. You might hurt yourself.”

Curiosity and stubbornness pushed all logic from her mind. Sara groped her way along a limestone wall while her feet navigated the next dark stair.

The third step was broken.

Sara’s hand slipped from the moist stone she’d been holding and she lost her footing. She likely would have tumbled the whole way down if Nick hadn’t suddenly wrapped a powerful arm around her waist and hauled her back up against his chest. She closed her eyes and clung tightly to his arm.

The full realization of what almost happened left her dizzy and trembling with fear and mortification. “Oh, God, I’m sorry Nick,” she said when her breathing returned to normal.

He slowly backed them away from the steps. “Don’t you ever take advice, Sara?” he asked not unkindly.

She turned to look at him. He didn’t slacken his hold, and she was grateful. She was still shaky, but a sense of security was seeping into her, and she didn’t want him to let go. His gaze met hers, and her heart responded with a quick, heightened rhythm. She was no longer frightened of falling, so there had to be another reason for this reaction.

His gaze, as ashen as the scented shadows surrounding them, settled on her lips. She lay her palm on his chest, covering one of the magnolias. Her fingertips grazed the opening of the shirt, sliding in to settle on a mat of coarse hair. “I do take advice…sometimes,” she said.

His fingers curled under her chin. He lifted her
face, drawing her mouth closer to his. “You should take it more often, Sara.”

“Why do you care, Nick? You don’t seem to care much about anything.”

“And you care too much.”

He shook his head. The movement was almost imperceptible. “It’s taken me years to get this way, sweetheart, and I don’t like the idea of someone who doesn’t even know me trying to change the way I am and the way I live.”

She jerked her face away, but he cupped the back of her head, keeping her close. “I’m not trying to change anything,” she said.

“You’re trying to change everything, and you know it. Now here’s another piece of advice. Stop talking.”

His mouth covered hers and he pulled her close. Darkness enveloped them. Old things creaked around them. Live things skittered along the walls. The sweetness in the air made Sara dizzy. The lingering kiss made it all go away. The world was connected at one place, one glorious center where their lips met and held.

When he pulled away, Sara could still feel the pressure of his mouth. She still felt the moisture from his lips. “Nick—”

He held up one finger. “Don’t say anything, Sara. Don’t try to make me talk about this. It was a kiss, that’s all. A going-away kiss, at that. Take it as your goodbye from Nick Bass.”

Quite unexpectedly she wanted to laugh. He looked so serious. “But I’m not going away,” she said.

“What? I heard you tell Winkie—”

“—to pick me up and take me to Put-in-Bay for
the ferry. I’ve got some errands to run on the mainland, and I’m going to Brewster Falls to see my dad. But I’ll be back the next day.”

He dropped his hands and backed away as if her head had sprouted snakes. “Hell, Sara, you’re making me crazy!”

He pivoted away from her with almost military precision and strode to the door without looking back.

She called after him, “Thanks for giving me all the credit, Nick. But I think you were crazy long before I got here.”

I
T WAS BARELY
eight-thirty when Sara heard Winkleman’s boat and once again noted that rising with the sun seemed to be a mark of manhood for the men of Thorne Island. She’d observed Nick’s desk light glowing from his room for more than an hour already and suspected he was working on his computer at whatever mysterious task occupied his daylight hours.

Sara tucked her extensive shopping list into the side pouch of her overnight bag. If Winkleman was ready to leave right away, she’d easily catch the ten-o’clock ferry from Put-in-Bay to Sandusky. The boat’s engine was silent when Sara zipped her bag closed, indicating Winkie was at the dock. She pulled on a white zip sweatshirt and sneakers and gathered her hair into a ponytail. Her last trip with the captain taught her that it was a waste of time to worry about appearance for the ride across the lake.

Hoisting the bag off her bed, Sara left her room, closed the door behind her and headed for the stairs. “See you tomorrow, Bass,” she called to the partially open door at the opposite end of the hall.

“If I don’t decide to take a hike,” he hollered back.

“Hah! As if you would actually leave.”

She was still smiling when she reached the lobby and headed for the exit.

The screen door swung open before she reached it.
Sara’s expression changed to astonishment as a dark-haired, olive-skinned woman with a shiny gold satchel slung over her shoulder sauntered in with a casual “Hi” and a demeanor that indicated she was not at all surprised to see Sara.

It wasn’t polite to stare, but Sara couldn’t help herself. The woman seemed to fill the lobby with color and energy. She wore tight-fitting black leggings and a sleeveless tunic top that covered her torso in alternating pink, teal and black stripes. Short, dark curls escaped from the hot-pink scarf wound round her head. The scarf matched her lip color perfectly. Artfully applied makeup made it impossible to determine her age.

The mystery woman must have come in Winkleman’s boat. Forcing herself to remember her manners and the fact that she was now mistress of the Cozy Cove Inn, Sara found her voice. “Welcome to the Cozy Cove,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“Nope. Thanks, anyway.” The woman cracked a piece of chewing gum with a skill Sara had tried to master in middle school. “I know where I’m goin’.” She pushed her glittering vinyl satchel to her back for better balance and headed for the stairs.

“Are you staying the night?” Sara asked.

The woman stopped with one foot on the first step and turned around. “Sure. I always do.” Then she pointed a sculpted pink-and-silver nail at Sara. “You must be wonderin’ who I am, right?”

That was an understatement. The woman’s declaration that she was staying overnight, her beeline for the stairs and the overstuffed satchel had led Sara to a rather unsettling conclusion that involved Nick Bass. “Well, I don’t mean to pry…”

The woman returned to Sara with her hand outstretched. “I’m Gina. Gina Sacco. I’ve been givin’ the boys haircuts for years. That’s what I do. I’m a hairdresser.”

Sara pumped the offered hand as relief engulfed her. “I’m Sara Crawford. I’ve only been here a few days and I’m just learning what goes on. So you’re a hairdresser. Of course that explains…your visit.”

She drew a deep breath and assumed her role of innkeeper. “Do you have a regular room? I don’t recall that we have one made up right now. Just mine at the end of the hall.” She pointed in the direction of her closed door. “You’re welcome to stay there tonight. I’m going back to Put-in-Bay with Captain Winkleman.”

“I know. Winkie told me about you. Thanks for the offer of the room, but I won’t be needin’ it.” Gina’s gaze darted upstairs to the opposite end of the hallway where the artificial light from a computer spilled out the door. “I’ll just stay where I usually do.” She gave Sara a knowing grin, accompanied by another crack of gum.

“Oh, well. I see…” Sara grasped the handle of her overnight bag so tightly her fingernails dug painfully into her palm. Her cheeks flushing, she backed out of the inn. Gina stayed in Nick’s room! Sara’s heart pounded in her chest and echoed in her ears. She barely heard Gina’s cheerful call. “Have a good time in town. Nice meetin’ ya.”

As Sara hurried down the path to the harbor, she tried unsuccessfully to erase persistent images of what tonight would bring to Thorne Island.

S
ARA WISHED
more than ever that the noisy engine on Winkleman’s boat would drop a few decibels. At
least then she could attempt a conversation with the captain and could avoid the scene at the inn replaying over and over in her mind. When they reached Put-in-Bay and Winkleman headed for the Happy Angler, Sara still wasn’t able to dismiss thoughts of Gina and Nick. Ten minutes later she was one of only five passengers on the ferry to Sandusky, and the other four seemed content to keep to themselves.

With the entire world apparently intent on silent withdrawal, Sara had only one person to whom she could talk about her emotional turmoil—herself.
Well, what did you expect, Sara Crawford?
she demanded to know.
Did you think Nick Bass was a monk?

She already knew that wasn’t so. A man who kissed the way he did—so impulsively and thoroughly—celibate for the past six years? Not likely. Not a man like Bass.

A man like Bass.
The phrase rolled over in her mind like the chorus of a familiar song. Just what kind of man was he? What motivated Nick Bass, who sat for hours at his computer? And what was the story behind the gunshot wound to his spine? Was honor involved? Or deceit? Loyalty or treachery? Love or hate?

Sara picked up her bag and stepped onto the dock. The only significant question was why it was so important for her to know what kind of man Nick was. Why was she searching for answers about such a complicated, difficult individual? She had an entire island to think about. “Forget about Nick Bass,” she said aloud, giving herself a mental shake.

She walked past the ferry ticket office toward the parking lot where she’d left her rental car. When she
spied the blue Chevy Cavalier with its Alamo sticker, she fished for the keys in her jeans pocket. Maybe it was a good thing she had this time away from the island. She needed to get her priorities in order. She planned to turn Thorne Island into a profitable venture that she could manage from her condo in Fort Lauderdale. Nick Bass could stay or go. It shouldn’t matter to her what he did—or who he slept with. She would proceed with her renovations despite him and his band of lost boys.

Feeling proud of her resolve, Sara suddenly stopped walking and let out an exasperated breath. She’d walked right past the blue Cavalier and out of the parking lot. So much for her pep talk. If she wasn’t careful, thoughts of Nick would have her walking in a daze all the way to Brewster Falls.

“Nick Bass,” she grumbled, retracing her steps. “Now who’s driving who crazy?”

Moments later Sara tossed her bag into the back seat of the Chevy, started the engine and headed toward Brewster Falls, an hour’s drive from Sandusky. She very much needed to see her father, to experience his cool, logical approach to everything and his tender protective concern. All the errands she needed to run could be accomplished in her hometown.

An hour later she pulled off the freeway and onto a two-lane county road that led to Brewster Falls. At the base of Dewer’s Hill, Sara saw the large wooden sign that had welcomed people to the town for as long as she could remember. The insignias of the Lions and Rotary clubs were still proudly displayed on the sign, along with a broad selection of places of worship. Even the numbers on the removable placard
showing the town’s population had varied by only a couple of dozen over the years.

Sara yielded to oncoming cars before entering the light flow of traffic on the road that surrounded the center of town. In the middle of the shaded, grassy area interspersed with brick walkways was the band shell where local musicians showed off their talent on warm summer evenings. Brewster Falls—a band-shell kind of town. That was what Nick had called it. And it was also the town that had nurtured her through her childhood years and still called her back from a steel-and-glass Fort Lauderdale high-rise.

Sara pulled into the lot of Ben Crawford’s Texaco, one of the few full-service gas stations still around. Earl Pasco, who’d worked at the station since it opened, dropped the hood of a customer’s car, shielded his eyes and stared at the blue Cavalier. When recognition dawned, a wide grin split his leathered face. “Well I’ll be. Howdy, Sara!”

“Hi, Earl.”

“Your daddy know you’re here?”

“Not yet. But he knows I’m coming.” Sara nodded toward the service bays. “Is he inside?”

At that moment Ben Crawford, tall, robust and solid as the rocks along the Brewster River banks, came out of the middle bay and wiped his hands on an old rag. “Whoa, will you look who’s here!” He didn’t wait for Sara to get out of the car on her own. He opened the door and practically hauled her out and into a hug that had always been strong enough to squeeze the problems out of Sara’s life.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Sarabelle,” he said, stepping back and giving her a thorough appraisal.

“You, too, Dad.”

“Now tell me all about this business deal you’re into. I’ve been curious as can be since you called yesterday.”

“It’s a long story, Dad. But an interesting one.”

“Then I guess you’d better tell it over a couple of tall, cool ones.”

Sara grinned. That was what her father always called the vanilla colas at the drugstore soda fountain. He called over his shoulder to his mechanic, “Earl, you replace the distributor on Lou’s pick up. I’m going down to Percy’s Drugs with Sara.”

N
EVER ONE TO SETTLE
for just a vanilla cola, Ben lifted a hefty spoonful of his hot fudge sundae to his mouth and grinned like a kid who’d just hit a grand slam. “Oh, that’s good,” he said, licking the spoon.

Ben studied Sara for a moment, then said, “Now, let’s get to the heart of the matter, Sarabelle. What’s going on? Why do you need all these things on your shopping list?”

She’d been bursting to tell him the news, and once the practical matters were out of the way, she was free to confide in him. “Dad, do you remember Mom’s aunt, Millicent Thorne?”

“Millie? Why sure. What about her?”

“First, there’s some bad news. Millie died a few weeks ago.”

Sadness veiled Ben’s eyes. He was obviously shaken by the news. “Jeez, Sara, that’s a damn shame,” he said. “I didn’t know. I haven’t seen her for a few years. She drove all the way up here from Columbus one time. She was a corker, that Millie Thorne.”

“Why did she come to see you?”

“I didn’t tell you when it happened?”

Sara shook her head.

“It must have slipped my mind. It was really something at the time. You see, Millie owned this island in Lake Erie, a little place, not much to it, but she bought and paid for it, and it was all hers.”

“I know all about that island, Dad.”

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?”