The Men of Thorne Island

When the full impact of the man’s statement registered, Sara didn’t know whether to laugh or run from the room. “What a horrible thing to say,” she commented.

His ancient office chair squeaked as he slowly turned to face her. “Not to someone creeping around my house, it isn’t.”

“I wasn’t creeping,” Sara responded. “What would be the point of creeping after riding in that boat with the earsplitting motor? Don’t tell me you didn’t hear us arrive?”

“Of course I heard Winkelman’s boat. I just figured Winkie had forgotten the toilet paper or something and was dropping it off. I sure never thought he was leaving behind a snooping female.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “So now I’m creeping and snooping?”

He raised his hands as if he was stating the obvious. “Look,” he said. “You came into my place without so much as a hoot or a holler and tiptoed up to my room like a typical nosy woman.”

“Let’s get one thing straight. This is my place and I’ll walk around in it any way I please!”

That seemed to get him. His eyes registered the shock of bad news, then narrowed with irritation.

Sara couldn’t help noticing that those eyes were a startling shade of gray.

Dear Reader,

I’ve spent most of my life fixing things. As a teacher, I strove to improve young minds. When I became a licensed auctioneer, and my husband and I bought an auction house, my penchant for mending and refreshing became more tangible. I polished silver until it gleamed, and viewed every old piece of furniture and flea-market find as a potential heirloom.

It was only natural that the heroine of my first contemporary novel would be a fixer, too. But when Sara Crawford inherits a run-down inn and a neglected vineyard on a Lake Erie island and resolves to renovate, she doesn’t know she’ll have to fix the island’s four inhabitants, as well.

I hope you enjoy sharing Sara’s determined and sometimes humorous efforts to bring joy and purpose back to the lives of the men of Thorne Island. And when her persistence clashes with one sexy, stubborn man with a secret, she learns that her own priorities could use a little revamping themselves.

I’d love to hear from you. E-mail me at cynthoma@aol.com. Visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com, or write me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, Florida 33355.

Cynthia Thomason

The Men of Thorne Island

Cynthia Thomason

To my son, John, whose strong opinions matter, and whose artistry with the English language has always made me proud.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER ONE

SARA CRAWFORD entered her office at precisely eight-thirty on Monday morning, walked halfway across the plum-colored carpet and stopped dead. “Whatever that is, it can’t be good,” she muttered. “Especially this close to tax deadline.” The red-and-white Federal Express envelope on top of her desk had all the appeal of a hurricane warning flag on a Fort Lauderdale beach.

Tossing her purse and briefcase on a chair, she headed for the chrome credenza lining one wall. Before she could even think about tackling the contents of the package, she needed to deal with the coffee machine.

A crusty brown stain in the bottom of the glass pot did more to irritate her than her assistant being late again. Sara carried the pot into her bathroom, dribbled a few drops of detergent over the burned-on mess and filled the pot with steaming hot water.

Then she sat at her desk and picked up the cardboard envelope addressed to Sara Crawford, CPA. It wasn’t particularly thick, so maybe it didn’t contain a late-filing client’s tax records. Nor was the return address familiar: Herbert Adams, Attorney, Cleveland, Ohio. Puzzled but relieved, she reached for her letter opener.

“Oh, hell! Look at the time.”

Candy Applebaum’s oath came from the reception room just before the administrative assistant stuck her head in Sara’s office. Her red hair was piled on top of her head, secured by a bright orange elastic band that did nothing to prevent over-moussed strands from sticking out in all directions. “I’m so sorry I’m late, Sara,” Candy said. “I almost made it on time, except I had one catastrophe after another this morning. My cat climbed on the table and swatted at the birdcage. The feed tray fell out of the rungs and all the bird seed went everywhere, and I had to…”

Sara smiled. “It’s all right, Candy. I just got here myself.”

Candy glanced at the credenza and grimaced. “I did it again, didn’t I? Forgot to turn off the coffeepot. Was it really gross?”

“Well, it—”

“No problem. I’ll take care of it.” Candy headed for the bathroom, but stopped at Sara’s desk and dropped a crumpled sack onto the cluttered surface. “Before I forget, this just came for you. Mr. Papalardo delivered it personally.” She sighed as she went into the bathroom. “He’s the sweetest man.”

Sara set down the FedEx envelope and stared in horror at the brown paper bag. He’d done it again. After she’d warned him repeatedly, he pulled the same trick every year. She could just picture the world’s “sweetest man” waiting on the sidewalk until she’d entered the building and then slinking inside. The security guard would greet him cheerfully. The janitor would wave hello. After all, everyone loved Tony Papalardo.

A dull ache centered itself behind Sara’s eyes. She picked up the bag and turned it over, foolishly hoping it would be different this year. It wasn’t. Bundles of paper loosely bound with rubber bands and paper clips scattered onto her desktop. Some scraps were actually identified with official Pappy’s Pizzeria stationery. Most of them were barely legible receipts smudged with tomato sauce or memos scratched on chianti-stained napkins. Sara put her head between her hands.

“Something wrong, Sara?”

A rhetorical question. “Candy, do you think Mr. Papalardo has any idea that he’s not my only client and today is April twelfth? Only three days to the deadline.”

Glancing over her shoulder at the mess on Sara’s desk, Candy said, “Oh, not again. Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

“Thanks.” Sara glanced toward a pewter mirror across the room. She could almost visualize herself tugging every pin from her French twist and pulling out each strand of blond hair by the root. But she didn’t have time. Instead, she picked up Tony Papalardo’s paper bag and crushed it in her hands. “I’m going on vacation with my friends in five days, Candy,” she said. “Nothing is going to stop me from getting on that plane to Aruba. I’m really leaving.”

Candy grinned with delight. “Well, of course you are, Sara. And you’ll have a wonderful time. Isn’t that new guy you’ve been dating part of the group?”

Sara answered with caution, knowing where the question was leading. Candy was always trying to secure a happily-ever-after for her boss. “Yes, Donald is going, but don’t jump to conclusions. We’ve only had four dates.”

“Okay, but when you two stroll along those moonlit beaches, who knows what will happen?”

Sara shook her head and laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

The phone rang in the outer office, and Candy scurried to answer it while Sara picked through the pile of pizzeria flotsam. She was interrupted when her intercom buzzed. “Yes, Candy.”

“It’s for you, Sara. A Mr. Herbert Adams from Cleveland. He said you’d be expecting his call.”

Cleveland? Of course, the envelope. Sara reached for the FedEx package with one hand and grabbed the phone with the other. “Hello, Mr. Adams? This is Sara Crawford. I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to open what you sent. I have it right here, though.”

The voice on the other end was crisp and competent. “Miss Crawford, I was Millicent Thorne’s attorney.”

It took a moment for the name to register, but when it did, Sara smiled. She hadn’t seen her mother’s Aunt Millie for fifteen years, since the summer she’d turned fourteen—the summer her mother died. But she remembered the disciplined woman with her sensible shoes and pearl-buttoned cardigan sweaters. “Of course,” she said. “How is Aunt Millie?”

There was a pause. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Miss Thorne passed away five days ago.”

Sara had only seen Millicent Thorne a half-dozen times in her life. Millie traveled a great deal, and Sara had been busy with school activities. Still, the news of her death sent a wave of sadness through her. Mr. Adams, a stranger, called to tell her that a member of her family had died, a woman she barely knew. There ought to be a sin covering this kind of situation. The sin of missed opportunities because at this moment Sara did indeed feel as if she’d let some part of her life slip away, and there was no way to get it back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I’m aware that you and Miss Thorne were never close.”

“How did she die, Mr. Adams?”

“Peacefully in her sleep, and she wanted for nothing. Your aunt lived comfortably, thanks to a lawsuit she won a few years ago. Her last years were spent in relative luxury.”

“I’m glad of that, at least.”

“She had a sizable estate,” Mr. Adams said, “and a will that clearly stipulated her wishes. She had a good many friends and helpful neighbors, whom she remembered in her will. And she remembered you, Miss Crawford.”

“Me? Why me? I hardly knew her.” Sara’s headache intensified. “I can’t accept an inheritance, Mr. Adams. If it’s money, perhaps you could arrange for one of Miss Thorne’s charities—”

“It’s not money, Miss Crawford. It’s Thorne-family property, and Miss Thorne very definitely wanted you to have it. She said she remembered you as a levelheaded girl. She thought you could manage it quite well.”

Property? What did Sara know about managing property? Ever since she’d left her father’s cozy bungalow in Brewster Falls, Ohio, she’d lived in college dormitories and rentals until settling a couple of years ago on the sixth floor of a Fort Lauderdale condominium. She’d given up fireplaces and front porches for the efficiency of a one-bedroom dwelling. She didn’t have time to handle more than a few hundred square feet of ceramic tile. “Where is this property, Mr. Adams?” she asked.

“Open the envelope and see for yourself.”

“Oh, of course.” She cradled the phone between her cheek and shoulder and cut through the envelope flap. After removing the contents, she pushed aside a standard legal-looking document and reached for a colorful brochure. “Own a Piece of Paradise,” was written across the top. There was a photograph of a lush green oblong of land in the center of a field of blue water. Underneath it said, “Beautiful, unspoiled Thorne Island.”

“Thorne Island?” Sara said into the phone. “I’ve inherited an island?”

“Indeed you have, Miss Crawford. An island about five miles off the coast of Sandusky, Ohio, in Lake Erie.”

Sara’s jaw dropped. She grabbed the phone before it slipped from her shoulder. “I can’t believe this, Mr. Adams. An island! I lived in Ohio most of my life, yet I’ve never heard of this place. The Bass Islands, yes. The resorts such as Put-in-Bay, of course. But Thorne Island? Where is it exactly?”

“Less than a mile from Put-in-Bay. The island played a role in the Battle of Lake Erie. I’m told Commodore Perry used it as a lookout. It’s a small property, only forty acres total, but if the pictures in the brochure are any indication, it’s quite lovely.”

Sara opened the brochure. A quiver of delight replaced the shock as she gazed at the glossy photos of Thorne Island, her island. One picture showed a small harbor with a narrow dock jutting into the lake. Another was of a charming Colonial-style cottage surrounded by a picket fence. A wooden sign over a gate read Cozy Cove Inn.

The rest of the brochure was sales propaganda written by the Golden Isles Development Corporation. It consisted of glowing reports of the island’s natural beauty, maps and details of how to reach it, various plots for sale and phone numbers of the development-company personnel.

“When was this brochure written, Mr. Adams?” Sara asked. “How long has the island been developed?”

“Actually it never was. I doubt there’s been any change there since the original few buildings were constructed over a hundred years ago. I mentioned a lawsuit a few minutes ago. It was a class-action suit filed by owners of various Great Lakes island properties against the Golden Isles Development Corporation. Company executives purchased several islands under fraudulent circumstances. The corporation was exposed in the Cleveland Plain Dealer a number of years ago. Miss Thorne and her cosuitors reaped an impressive financial award in the judgment. And the chief executives of the corporation are, to my knowledge, still cooling their heels in jail.”

“Wow. So does anyone live on the island now?”

“There were a few residents, people who paid rent to Miss Thorne, although no rental income has been deposited into Miss Thorne’s account recently. I haven’t kept up with the current population of the island. I found the brochure in Miss Thorne’s papers and included it in your package so you would have some idea of the property.”

“Do you know more about the island’s history, Mr. Adams?”

“Miss Thorne once told me it was discovered by a missionary on an expedition paid for by the king of France. The island was originally called Bertrand Island after the missionary. Your aunt changed the name a few years before she died.”

Sara couldn’t help herself. She was falling in love with the old missionary’s discovery. The peace and tranquillity of the island beckoned her like an oasis in the desert. Suddenly she knew she wouldn’t be going to Aruba in five days, after all.

“I’ll arrange to fly into Cleveland on Saturday,” she said, rifling through the papers on her desk and finding the deed to her property. “Is there any reason I should see you before I go to the island?”

“Well, there is the matter of property taxes owed at the present time. I’d be glad to handle that for you if you like.”

Property taxes? “How much is due?”

“I’m afraid Miss Thorne let this matter slide. With penalties and interest, there is a current balance of thirty-eight hundred dollars. Is that a problem?”

Thirty-eight hundred dollars! Sara pictured a huge wedge being lifted from the pie that was her savings account. Still, taxes had to be paid or penalties would escalate rapidly. And surely she would make up the deficit with the rental income. “No, it’s not a problem, Mr. Adams. I’ll send you a check.”

“Very well, then. Enjoy your visit to your island, Miss Crawford, and good luck.”

Sara hung up and buzzed her assistant. “Candy, please change my flight reservations. Arrange for an open-ended ticket to Cleveland for April seventeenth.”

“Cleveland? You’re going to Cleveland now?”

“That’s right.”

Predictably adaptable, Candy relinquished moonlit beaches and embraced the heartland. “Cool. I watch Drew Carey all the time. Cleveland rocks, you know.”

“That’s good to know,” Sara said. She disconnected the intercom and punched in a number on her private line. A familiar voice answered after two rings. “Crawford’s Texaco.”

“Dad, hi.”

“Sarabelle! What’s new?”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you, which I’m going to do in person. That’s why I called, to let you know I’m planning to stop in Brewster Falls in a week or so.”

“Hey, great! Best news I’ve had all day.”

It was the reaction Sara expected. She leaned back in her chair, drew a deep breath and savored the sound of her father’s voice.

THE FRIENDS with whom Sara had planned the Aruba trip were disappointed when she canceled—and baffled by her decision. She pictured Donald’s expression from his tone of voice when she called him. “Why would anyone want to go to Lake Erie?” he asked. “Isn’t it dead or something?”

“No, it isn’t dead—not anymore.” She told him about the anti-pollution groups that had worked diligently to clean up the water and explained that Lake Erie was now a safe playground for boating and swimming. Donald practically snored over the phone.

Sara ignored his reaction. Her growing enthusiasm for her trip more than compensated for her friends’ pessimism, even though the five days before her flight were the most hectic of her life. She managed to complete all her tax returns, even Tony Papalardo’s, while she tended to details necessary for an extended trip and packed a range of clothes to fit the capricious nature of a Lake Erie spring.

When she arrived at the Cleveland airport, she rented a car and headed west toward Sandusky. She planned to take a ferry to Put-in-Bay on South Bass Island—the largest of the Lake Erie islands. She didn’t know how she would get to Thorne Island, but Herbert Adams had said it was only a mile farther, so she didn’t anticipate a problem.

Leaving her car in the ferry lot, Sara boarded the large passenger boat midafternoon and arrived at South Bass less than an hour later. She was enchanted with the island’s primary village, Put-in-Bay. Quaint, refurbished cottages lined the narrow streets. A small business district boasted ice-cream shops, cafés and specialty stores. Visitors could choose from several inviting hotels. The island’s charm made Sara more anxious to see her own property. She inquired at the harbor about transportation to Thorne Island.

An employee of the ferry company gave her disappointing news. “There isn’t any boat that goes to Thorne,” he said. “Leastways, not a public one.”

“Then how do people get there?” she asked.

“People don’t,” he said. “Not tourists, anyway, though Winkleman goes there two, three times a week.”

“Wonderful. Where do I find Winkleman?”

“At the Happy Angler this time of day. You could set your watch by it.”

Having gotten directions to the local tavern and a description of Winkleman, Sara located the captain she intended to hire. She walked into his boisterous circle of friends and tapped him on the shoulder. “Pardon me. Are you Mr. Winkleman?”

He set a mug of beer on the counter and leaned back on a well-used bar stool. “Guess I could be,” he said.

“I’m looking for someone to take me to Thorne Island. I understand you go there.”

Winkleman removed a sudsy mustache from his upper lip with his index finger and pushed an old naval cap back on a patch of thick gray hair. “Was just there yesterday. Don’t plan to go again for two days.”

A two-day layover—even in charming Put-in-Bay—was not part of Sara’s plan. “I really need to go today, Mr. Winkleman. Is there anyone else who could take me?”

“Nobody else goes.”

The sailor’s succinct answer puzzled Sara. Why wasn’t there regular service to Thorne Island? She recalled the photos of the pretty harbor and the delightful Cozy Cove Inn. Surely these attractions should lure tourists to the island. “I’ll pay you of course,” she said. “More than your regular fee, if that will help to persuade you.”

He squinted at her from beneath scraggly charcoal eyebrows. “It’ll cost you twenty bucks.”

It sounded reasonable. “That’s fine,” she said. “I left my bags at the harbor office. Can we go now?”

“Gotta finish my beer first. Meet you there.”

Fifteen minutes later Sara decided that maybe twenty dollars wasn’t such a bargain, after all. The captain’s boat smelled of fish, and twice during the short ride to Thorne Island, she had to pull her bags clear of a steadily increasing pool of water seeping into the stern.

Conversation with her captain was practically impossible because of the roar of the engine. She tried to ask him about the people who lived on the island. Again he said very little, commenting only that everyone there was a close buddy of his.

When a patch of green became recognizable as a shoreline, Winkleman slowed the boat. Sara tucked her wind-whipped hair into what was left of the French braid she’d fashioned that morning. Then she turned her attention to her island.

She thought she’d recognize the tidy little harbor from the brochure and looked for the bright yellow mooring ropes spanning the length of its pier. Instead, she saw a dilapidated wooden platform jutting into the water on precariously tilted posts. Winkleman maneuvered into position beside one of them.

“Is this the main dock?” she asked.

“This is the only dock,” he said.

She climbed onto rickety boards that creaked under her feet. There was none of the usual activity one expected of a quaint village harbor. There were no shops or boats. The entire area consisted of a one-room clapboard bait house with broken windows.

“Oh, dear,” Sara sighed. “I hadn’t expected things to be quite this way.”

Winkleman tossed her bags onto the dock and grinned up at her. “Nice, ain’t it? Some of these islands have begun to look pretty shabby. The fellows that live here keep Thorne up pretty good.”

Her gaze wandered to the clumps of overgrown plants that skirted the shoreline. A narrow, dirt pathway through a thicket of brush and trees led somewhere. “There is a hotel on the island, isn’t there?” she asked.

Winkleman appeared thoughtful. Finally a light dawned in his eyes. “Right. The Cozy Cove. It’s just up that pathway.”

Thank goodness. Sara’s misgivings were replaced with a glimmer of hope. At least the delightful little bed-and-breakfast was real enough. So what if the dock needed some work? She could manage funds for a few minor repairs. She picked up her suitcases, anticipating her first evening on her island.

Winkleman untied his mooring line, took the twenty she offered and pushed away from the dock. “See ya.”

Apprehension suddenly dampened Sara’s enthusiasm. What if there was no phone on the island? In her rush to pack, she’d left her cell phone in Fort Lauderdale. And now her only link to the mainland was about to roar out of her life. “Wait! Mr. Winkleman, how can I reach you?”

He chugged back to her and took a ragged tablet from the console of his boat. “I’ll be back in two days,” he said while scribbling, “but here’s my number if you need to call. Doubt you will, though. The boys take care of things. Ol’ Brody has a cell phone. He’d probably let you use it.”

She set down a suitcase and took the paper before it could blow out of his hand and into the water. Then she shoved it deep into the pocket of her purse. All at once, that phone number and a cell phone belonging to someone named Ol’ Brody seemed absolutely vital to her existence. Winkleman was a hundred yards from the dock when she finally turned and headed up the pathway.

Following two twists in the lane, Sara came to a wood-sided building that appeared as weary as she suddenly felt. She leaned against the weathered picket fence surrounding the property and tried to associate the structure in front of her with the one in the brochure photo.

It was barely recognizable as the Cozy Cove Inn. Only a sign hanging by one rusty nail from a post at the front gate confirmed its identity. The front-porch roof sagged against the peeling white gingerbread molding of its supports.

Sara stepped onto the porch, dropped her bags by her feet and sank into a drooping wicker chair. She might have sat there indefinitely had she not noticed the baskets of blooming spring flowers hanging from the eaves. They were the only sign that someone still cared about the place.