The Men of Thorne Island
Read The Men of Thorne Island Online
Authors: Cynthia Thomason
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 [email protected]. Visit my Web site at www.cynthiathomason.com, or write me at P.O. Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, Florida 33355.
Cynthia
Thomason
Cynthia Thomason
To my son, John, whose strong opinions matter, and whose artistry with the English language has always made me proud.
S
ARA
C
RAWFORD
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 sur
rounded 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.
T
HE 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.
