The Men of Thorne Island (12 page)

“No problem,” she said to herself. “Surely Brody has butter he can sell me.”

She left the inn and walked the short distance to Brody’s commissary. When she reached the steps of the cottage, she heard his voice coming from inside. His tone was brisk and authoritarian, almost intimidating, and she stopped before going inside. If Brody was angry about something, she didn’t want to be in the path of his tirade. She waited outside but gave in to the temptation to eavesdrop.

“Don’t give me any of that horse manure about not being able to deliver,” he said. “I know darn well you can.”

Sara didn’t hear an answering voice and assumed Brody was talking on his phone.

“Hire a boat if you have to,” he said. “You’ll get your money. I want three hundred feet of your best-grade conduit delivered to Thorne Island as soon as possible. And while you’re at it, send me eight new ceiling fans. But don’t try to pass off those junky nineteen-ninety-nine specials on me. I want them to be quiet. If one of them even so much as purrs like a cat, I’ll have it back in that store before you even know it left.”

Brody added other items to his list, including heavy-gauge wire, fuses and some materials Sara had never heard of. Her dwindling bank balance swam before her eyes. What in the world was Brody doing? She couldn’t afford to pay for all that. If this was Brody’s way of getting rid of her, it might just work.

She bounded up the steps, prepared to confront him. But another sharp retort from Brody stopped her.

“What do you mean, how am I going to pay for all this? Young man, do you have any idea who I am?”

There was a silence during which Sara could practically feel the air crackling around her, and the nervousness of the employee on the other end of that phone.

“Listen to me,” Brody commanded. “As soon as we’re done with this conversation, you call Vernon Russell, the president of the main branch of First Union Trust Bank of Cleveland. Tell him that Carlton Brody just placed an order at your store and wants him to send payment in full.”

Another pause. “No, I don’t have his damn number. What do I sound like, a telephone operator? Why don’t you earn that big salary of yours and look it up! And I expect to see that order here lickety split!”

Since it was impossible to slam a cell phone with the same vigor one could propel a regular phone to its cradle, Brody must have compensated by pounding his fist on the countertop. Anyway, the loud crack that followed the end of the conversation was proof to Sara that Brody expected his demands to be met.

She turned away from the door. Suddenly aware that she hadn’t drawn a normal breath in minutes, she expelled a long whistle of air. Brody’s conversation played over in her mind. The man had actually arranged to pay for improvements to the inn!

“Unbelievable!” she said to herself. Like a snake that had just rolled over in the grass, the old grouch had revealed a soft spot.

“What are
you
doing here?”

Sara spun around to stare into Brody’s squinting dark eyes. Standing in his doorway, he might have frightened the wits out of her at one time, but not this evening. It was all she could do not to grin.

“How long have you been standing there?” he demanded.

“Ah…not long. A few minutes.”

“Long enough to hear a private telephone conversation, I’ll warrant.”

She shrugged innocently. “Maybe a little of it.”

“Just like a sneaky female. Don’t read anything into it. I just can’t abide shoddy work. And that two-bit junk you ordered wouldn’t bring a damn doorbell up to code.”

“I didn’t realize,” she offered weakly. “Brody, I want you to know I appreciate—”

“Never mind that,” he said. “Nothing’s changed. I still don’t want a bunch of beachcombers swarming over my island.”

“I know,” she said. “I understand your position.”

“Good, ’cause I stand firm on it. A little fancy wiring shouldn’t put any ideas into your head. Now, what are you doing here, anyway?”

For a moment she couldn’t remember. “Oh, yes,” she finally said. “Butter. I need to buy two sticks of butter.”

He stepped inside his cottage and waved her in behind him. “I’ll see if I’ve got any.”

She followed him to the refrigerator. He pulled out a box that had three sticks left in it. “I guess I can let you have two sticks,” he said.

“Thank you, Brody.”

He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, calculating. “Let’s see. A pound of butter is a dollar seventy-nine. You want half of it. That’s ninety cents.” He slid the sticks out of the box and put them on the counter, waiting until she’d produced the right amount of change.

“I’m not assuming that odd penny,” he said. “I do enough around here without throwing money away.”

Sara picked up the butter. “You certainly do, and I’m happy to pay the extra penny. Good evening, Brody.”

He huffed through his nose, and Sara pictured a bull pawing the dirt in preparation for a charge. Only now she knew his huff was worse than his horns.

O
N
S
UNDAY
, a few minutes before two o’clock, Winkie’s boat arrived from Put-in-Bay. Dodging questions from Nick about where she was going and why Winkie was there, Sara started the Volkswagen and nudged the gearshift into reverse. “Don’t worry, Bass,” she called up to him. “We promise not to have any fun without you.”

She and Winkie piled the grocery sacks into the car and drove to the back of the inn from where they carried everything inside without being spotted. However, Sara realized it would be much more difficult to keep the men out of the kitchen for the two hours it would take her to prepare the meal.

She assigned Winkie the job of keeping her dinner guests from walking in on the preparations. She gave him a large thermos of lemonade and a cooler of beer. “If they ask for anything other than these drinks, tell them you’ll get it,” she said.

What proved to be absolutely impossible was masking the aroma coming from the inn kitchen. Once Brody called out to his buddies from a back window, “What’s that woman cooking up now? Whatever it is, it doesn’t smell half-bad.”

“You just wait, Brody,” Sara said before taking another sip of a 1990 White Thorne chardonnay. She
rolled a chicken breast in flour and put the heavily coated morsel in the fry pan. It sizzled delectably.

At four-thirty, the meal was complete. Sara set six places at the big dining-room table, uncorked another bottle of wine and filled the glasses. Then she went to the bottom of the stairs and called up. “I want you all to stop what you’re doing and come to the dining room. And wash your hands!”

When she returned to the kitchen, Sara had her first panoramic view of the havoc her preparations had caused. The double sinks were piled with dirty pots and pans. The floor and scrub table were dusted with flour and several sticky-looking substances. And the stove she’d scoured and polished days before defied description. Her facial muscles scrunched with distaste as she moved to get a closer look at the crusty brown stains on the porcelain surface.

Resigning herself to having to clean up later, Sara carried bowls and platters to the table and closed the door on the disaster. Aromatic steam rose from a platter of golden fried chicken, mashed potatoes slathered in butter, asparagus dripping with cheese, fresh corn on the cob and milk-thickened chicken gravy.

She had just put a basket of rolls in the center of the table when the men entered the dining room. For an interminably long moment they appeared dumbstruck. Sara decided their stares were appreciative, though, despite the comments that came from their mouths.

“What the hell’s all this?” Brody asked.

“It appears the bean counter can cook,” Nick answered.

“I think it’s nice,” Ryan said.

Dexter, who had long denied himself such un
healthy fare, didn’t say a word. He simply raced Winkie to the nearest chair and attached a napkin to the collar of his paint-blotched knit shirt.

“Dig in, everyone,” Sara said. “I hope you like it.”

B
Y THE END OF THE MEAL
the one problem Sara didn’t have was what to do with leftovers. Every last morsel had been consumed. She allowed the gusto with which the men attacked the food to compensate for the absence of true camaraderie, which she’d hoped might have been a result of all her work. Dinner conversation had centered around the usual—sporting events and fishing.

She passed out slices of cherry pie and stood at the head of the table while the men devoured the last, sweet part of their meal. When Nick noticed her standing there, he said, “Boys, I think we owe Sara our thanks for putting this food on the table.”

“I’ll agree with that,” Dexter said. “I’d forgotten how terrific good food tasted.”

“Fit for a king all right,” Brody said.

Wiping cherry juice from his chin, Winkie agreed.

Ryan smiled at her. “Thanks, Sara.”

She folded her hands at her waist. “You’re welcome,” she said. “This meal is my way of saying thanks to all of you. I want you to know that I appreciate what you’re doing for the Cozy Cove. Each one of you has put in long, hard days, and I’m very pleased with the results. But mostly, it gives me a great deal of satisfaction to know that deep down you really do care about the inn and the island—”

Brody leaned back in his chair, patted his midsection and interrupted her as if she’d never said a word.
“Well, fellas, I guess this just about wraps things up for today. I suggest you all get to bed early. Tomorrow’s Monday.”

Sara stared at him in disbelief. “Pardon me, Mr. Brody,” she said, “but I was talking.”

He squinted down the table at her. “You were? Well, you go on talking to these other guys. I’m hitting the hay. Digging Day comes early around here.”

“Digging Day? You’re not working on the inn tomorrow?”

Brody stared at her as if the chicken wasn’t the only thing that had gotten fried in that kitchen. “Now lookie here. Nothing, and I mean
nothing
interferes with Digging Day.”

She looked at the other men for support. “But I assumed—”

Dexter stood up and glanced at his watch. “Not only that, but there’s an Indians game coming on in a half hour. They’re playing in New York tonight. Should be a good game.” He nodded toward Ryan. “You coming, little man?”

Ryan rose and gave in to a yawn. “Nope. A meal like this makes me sleepy. I’m turning in.” He waved at Sara as he walked toward the lobby. “Thanks again, Sara.”

“And I’ve got to get back while I’ve still got daylight,” Winkie said. “Got a fishing charter in the morning.” Brody and Dexter followed him out of the dining room.

Sara slumped into her chair and stared at the mountain of dirty dishes cluttering the table. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Nick put his hand over his mouth. If he was hiding a grin, she didn’t think she could stop herself from slapping it off.

“Let me guess,” he said after a moment of uncomfortable silence. “You’re a little disappointed in their after-dinner etiquette?”

She glared at him.

“Hey, I’m still here.”

“It’s supposed to make me feel better knowing that you hold yourself up as the epitome of good manners?”

He rested his arm on the back of the chair and stared at her. “I may not be an epitome, but I’m all you’ve got.”

She tossed the napkin she’d been unconsciously shredding onto the table. “Why can’t Brody give up that ridiculous Digging Day ritual just once so we can get these projects done? And why do the others have to follow him like sheep?”

He shrugged. “Because we’re men. We’re inconsiderate clods, as you’ve pointed out on more than one occasion. Why are you so surprised when we stay in character?”

Sara chewed on her lower lip and nodded. “Bass, when you’re right, you’re right.” She stood up and started around the table, making a stack of dirty plates. When her arms were full, she deposited that load in the kitchen and met Nick at the door. He carried serving bowls and silverware.

“I shouldn’t have been surprised,” she announced after returning a third time. “I should know what to expect from you men by now.” She stuffed soiled napkins into the bowl of a glass and headed for the kitchen again.

“I guess I’m just a slow learner,” she said when she and Nick made the last journey into the kitchen.

While she scraped food from the plates into the
trash bin, he filled the sink with hot water. Sara walked by and squirted a little detergent in. Nick took the plastic bottle from her and added a lot more. Then he slipped the glasses into the water.

Sara took a dishrag and drying towel out of the linen drawer and came up behind him. “I’ll do that,” she said.

“Never mind. I’m already here.”

N
ICK WASHED
the glasses and stacked them on the counter. Sara picked up one and dried it, then dried it some more. She buffed it to a shiny gloss while the other glasses just sat there. Nick moved on to the plates.

He finally looked over his shoulder at her. “Sara, I think you’re about to rub the little flower right off the glass.”

She turned away from him with an undignified snort and set the glass on the scrub table.

He handed the glass back to her. “Let me wipe off the table.”

“I suppose I’m overreacting,” she said, watching his movements with a vacant stare. “After all, it is Digging Day, and you’ve told me how important that is to Brody. It’s just that the inn is so important to me…”

“I know.”

“And I thought…” She turned away from him. Her voice quivered like sycamore leaves in an island breeze. “It’s not so much the Digging Day thing, even though I don’t understand why it’s so blasted special. I’d hoped…”

Her words stopped, but the quivering didn’t. It rip
pled into her shoulders. She placed one hand flat on the table and covered her mouth with the other.

Nick hadn’t heard a woman sob in years, but there was no mistaking the sound when it came from Sara. It was low and mournful. Nick knew she’d had too much to drink. He knew she must be dog-tired. He knew the men had disappointed her. He knew all that, but damned if he could think of a way to comfort her.

So he pleaded to her back. “Oh, jeez, Sara, don’t do that.”

She hiccupped. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why…”

He tossed the dishcloth into the sink and placed his wet hands on her bare arms. “Come on now, nothing’s as bad as all that. It was a really great dinner.”

“I know that.” Her words came out on a sniffling breath.

He turned her around so she was looking at his shirt, instead of the table. Then he couldn’t believe the next thing that came out of his mouth. “Look, do you want to talk about it?”

A bigger sob shook her body before she looked into his eyes. “W-with you? What good would that do?”

Thank God!
“Well, then, what
do
you want me to do?”

Her luminous moist eyes sucker punched him. She trembled in his arms. Her chest rose and fell against some sort of old-fashioned, lacy cotton thing. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but the only thing that escaped was a soft sigh.

And Nick’s breath caught in his throat as a slow burn sizzled inside him. “Damn it, Sara, I don’t know what to do to make you feel better. I sure hope this works because I promise it’ll do wonders for me.”

He kissed her. Her lips were warm and salty, and
sweet with the flavor of White Thorne wine. When he ran the tip of his tongue across the line of her lips, they grew soft and pliant. He had to remind himself that this was a kiss of comfort, not passion.

But the instant he pulled her body to his and pressed his palm against her back, the second his fingers became tangled in her hair, a quick, hot rush of desire shuddered through him.

He felt her dig into the flesh of his shoulders as a sound came from her throat. It wasn’t a cry of hurt like the others had been. This was a sensual plea for him to continue. Her lips parted and he plunged his tongue into her mouth. He backed her up a few inches, settled his hands under her bottom, and lifted her to the edge of the table.

His heart raced in anticipation of what was finally going to happen. In another minute she’d be stretched out on that table and he’d be…

Then the damned overdried glass she’d set back down on the table stopped everything.

It tipped over, rolled with a clumsy awkwardness across the surface and fell to the floor with a teeth-rattling crash. Sara flattened her palms against Nick’s chest and pushed him away.

“Nick, no. We can’t do this.”

“Yes, Sara, yes we can.”

She moved off the table and stared at him with brilliant blue eyes that swam with passion, not tears. “We agreed not to do this,” she said.

Nick clenched his fists, driving super-charged energy to those parts of his body and away from muscles that flexed with wanting to take her in his arms again. “I never should have agreed to that ridiculous condition,” he said. “Besides, you were crying, and
I didn’t know any other way to make you stop. Aren’t you at least going to admit it made you feel better?”

“It made me feel good, but not better. They’re two different things.”

“What exactly do you mean, Sara?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’d like to be appreciated.”

“You want to be appreciated by us?”

She sniffed loudly. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

“But, Sara, we’re fixing up your inn. Isn’t that enough?”

She snatched the dish towel and stepped around him to get a plate to dry. “You have absolutely no idea why I was crying, do you, Nick?”

“I sure as hell know why you stopped!”

There were times when arguing with Sara was challenging and fun. This wasn’t one of them. Nick went to the sink and fished in the suds for his rag. “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s get this mess cleaned up.”

“No, you go on,” she said. “I’ll finish.” When he didn’t budge, she added, “Really, Nick, go! I want you to.”

He swiped carelessly at the chicken platter. “Why? Because if I stay, you’ll be tempted?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“And would that be so bad?”

She stopped drying a plate and looked at him for the first time since they’d returned to their chores. “Yes, Nick. It would be terrible. Now please leave.”

He threw the rag into the water and stormed out of the kitchen. What else was there to do? Though he went to his room, it was still too early to go to bed. Pent-up energy crackled in his body. A burning need clawed at his insides.

He paced, all the while enumerating the many rea
sons Sara was right. Why it would be terrible if they gave in to the desire that simmered between them. Okay, so they lived in different worlds. Nick knew he wasn’t willing to give up his isolated lifestyle to rejoin the mainstream Sara lived in. He was a nonconformist living under an alias, while she was a card-carrying member of the establishment.

So what? Couldn’t they put their differences aside and grab a few minutes of pure pleasure?

Nick sat in his chair and plowed his fingers through his hair. He flicked the power button on his computer, and the screen came to life. Okay. He’d put Sara out of his mind for a while. He’d turn his feelings of passion into some of the best writing he’d done since she’d arrived on Thorne Island.