The Men of Thorne Island (21 page)

“You won’t have to, Dex. I’ll want to see every game, and I’ll be looking for you on the sidelines with the other coaches.”

Winkie revved the engine. “Let’s get moving, Sara, or you’ll miss your plane.”

Dexter jumped onto the dock and pushed the cumbersome boat into the blue-green water of Lake Erie. Winkie adjusted the throttle and turned the chugging craft around to face Put-in-Bay. Sara walked to the stern and held on to the railing. She searched the shoreline for the one person who hadn’t said goodbye. Nick was nowhere in sight. Maybe it was better this way. There was nothing more they could say to each
other, no way to bring their different worlds together. But still, she wished she’d see him just one more time.

She blinked hard to prevent a flow of tears. “Stop it, Sara. You’re going home,” she said to herself. “You have to do this. You couldn’t go on forever living like Goldilocks with four grumpy bears. You have to go back where you belong. And financially you have no choice.”

But all the logic and rational thinking in the world couldn’t convince her. As she watched the newly patched roof of the Cozy Cove disappear among the tops of the trees, she realized she wasn’t going home at all. She was leaving it.

S
ARA ENTERED
the reception area of her office and breathed a sigh of relief. Emily Marshall wasn’t at her desk so Sara wouldn’t have to deal with her new assistant’s flawless attention to detail. In the two months since Emily had taken Candy’s place, Sara hadn’t once caught the middle-aged dynamo in a mistake. She also hadn’t seen the woman smile.

It wasn’t like Emily to miss Sara’s arrival in the mornings. What if something had happened to her? Sara’s fears were put to rest when she entered her office. Coffee simmered in the spotless glass pot. Lethally sharp pencils sat in a perfect row on her blotter. Her computer screen displayed appointments for September sixth with irritating clarity. Emily was fine.

Just then—ignoring Sara’s repeated requests to enter without knocking—Emily rapped sharply three times before squeezing through the narrow space left by her stingy opening of the door. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you came in, Miss Crawford,” she said. “I try to schedule my trips to the ladies’ room at times when you have least need of my services.” She blushed under her pale makeup. “Unfortunately Mother Nature had her own agenda this morning.”

“It’s quite all right, Emily,” Sara said, wondering just how Mother Nature toyed with a woman whose
demeanor and personal time clock hadn’t altered in any noticeable way since Sara had met her.

“I hope the coffee is to your liking,” the woman said. “I thought it was strong yesterday, so I adjusted the numerical setting to four instead of five.”

No, please, Sara thought. I need at least an eight! Forcing a smile, she said, “How does the schedule look for today?”

Emily clucked her disapproval. “You know how people are. It’s September, and quarter three paperwork is due. I’m sure we’ll have some Johnny-come-latelies today with last minute questions.”

Sara rubbed her forehead in anticipation of the headache she’d have by five o’clock.

Emily set a cup of coffee on Sara’s desk. “I have the hard copy list of your morning clients. We should be able to meet with all of them by lunch if we keep our noses to the grindstone.”

Sara pinched the bridge of her nose to offset the headache she’d just gotten and thought of Candy who probably didn’t even know what a grindstone was. She, along with her menagerie of pets, now lived on Thorne Island with Eliot Ryan in his cottage near the north shore paper birches. Candy had agreed to be manager of the Cozy Cove Inn. The first visitors would arrive in a week.

Emily left the office, and Sara rotated her chair so she could see out the window. All that met her gaze was a smattering of clouds reflected in the glass facades of even taller buildings than the one that housed Bosch and Lindstrom. There wasn’t a real tree or bird in sight. And the ocean, while only a mile away, was hidden by the monoliths of Fort Lauderdale’s downtown banking complex.

Sara was happy for Candy, and she reminded herself of that even as she longed to see Ryan’s hanging baskets and the sloping terrain of the vineyard. She was happy that Candy had found the one man who could appreciate her idiosyncracies and help manage her chaotic life. Sara’s mind wandered, as it often did, to the man who, for almost four weeks, had identified the holes in her life and unintentionally and unexpectedly filled them. But Sara’s story lacked the happy ending because he was also a man whose own life was apparently complete without Sara in it.

And today the holes were bigger than ever. She missed it all—the inn, the vineyard, the men…the man. She especially missed that other Sara Crawford who’d inherited an island and discovered her soul. She missed them with a deep-down ache she was beginning to believe would never go away. Now there were only debits and credits and balances on paper, which left Sara feeling that her life was desperately, incurably out of balance.

Another tap on the door interrupted Sara’s thoughts. “Come in, Emily,” she called.

The assistant poked her head into the office. “I’m so sorry, Miss Crawford, but there is the strangest man outside. He’s
Eye
-talian if you know what I mean, and he insists on seeing you.”

Italian? Sara’s heart leaped. It couldn’t be. Not when she was just thinking of him. Miraculous coincidences didn’t happen to logical women like her. Happiness just didn’t drop out of the sky for sensible women. Still, stubborn hope flickered inside her. “Did you say Italian, Emily?”

“Yes.” She stuck her arm inside as if trying to keep the appendage as far from her face as possible.
Her fingers curled around the top of a brown paper bag with grease stains on the bottom. “He says his records are in here. And he’s carrying a pizza, which he says is for you.”

Disappointment heavy as a stone sat in the pit of Sara’s stomach. “It’s all right, Emily. That’s just Mr. Papalardo. Show him in.”

An anchovy pizza was the last thing Sara wanted at nine o’clock in the morning, but Mr. Papalardo dropped it on her desk with a flourish. “For you, Miss Sara,” he said. “’Cause I know my records, they are not what you like to see.”

She smiled at him, genuinely pleased to see his mustachioed grin. He was a cheerful, if annoying, reminder of that other life, the one that had satisfied her before she’d known she could be much happier in another place. “Don’t worry about it, Mr. Papalardo. I’ll straighten it all out.”

“I know you will. You are a smart lady.”

If I’m so smart, then why am I so miserable?

Pointing to the steaming box on her desk, he added, “And I know you like anchovies.”

Sara waited for Mr. Papalardo to leave her office before moving the pizza to the top of a file cabinet. She dumped his records on her desk. In thirty minutes she had the papers sorted into manageable piles. Later she’d call Candy to tell her their favorite client had come in. And to ask after the grapes, and the inn, and Dexter’s new job with the Cleveland Browns, and Brody’s son, Carl.

She never asked about Nick, but when Candy mentioned him, Sara drank in the information as if it were the sustenance that kept her alive. Nick was still tapping away at his computer, digging with Brody on
Mondays and fishing. Although some days he did putter around the press house. And he’d gotten his own cell phone and used it on occasion. Some days he even asked about her.

While Sara prepared for her first scheduled appointment, Emily Marshall fielded phone calls and eliminated interruptions. After two hours Sara longed for a diversion. She even admitted to an unexpected surge of relief when there was a knock at her door. “Come in.”

This time her assistant insinuated a mere three-quarters of her slim body through the opening. “I’m sorry to intrude, Miss Crawford, but this seems to be our morning for strange visitors.”

Sara sighed. “Who is it now?”

“There’s a man outside who insists on seeing you. He’s even more overbearing than Mr. Papalardo. He’s in quite a state and won’t take no for an answer. He says he hasn’t filed personal income tax for years, and he needs a good tax accountant to keep him out of prison.”

Emily pinched her lips together before adding in a coarse whisper, “He used the word
prison.
”

This change-of-pace problem might be an interesting diversion. “Tell him I’ll see him tomorrow and give him an appointment for the afternoon,” Sara said.

Emily Marshall grew more agitated. She tugged at the silk bow on her blouse. “I don’t think that will satisfy him,” she said. “He’s quite demanding. Frankly, he frightens me.”

Despite the fact that almost all men frightened her assistant, Sara had heard enough. She picked up the phone to call security. She had only punched in two
of the four digits when Emily was propelled the rest of the way into the office. Sara stopped dialing and put the phone back on the receiver.

Precariously balanced on Emily’s left hand was a silver platter. “Now the man insists I show you this.”

Sara held on to the edge of her desk and stood. Disbelief made her dizzy, while hope made her heart race. She approached the shining platter and blinked hard to bring the familiar objects into clear focus. There, surrounded by a band of sparkling silver, lay a cluster of plump, oval, magnificent green grapes.

Sara reached out and grasped one between her thumb and forefinger. It was cool and firm and separated from its tiny twig with a succulent snap. She held it up in front of her eyes and covered her mouth with trembling fingers. Still, a gasp of profound awe escaped her lips and filled the office. It was followed by a spurt of joyous laughter. “They’re mine, Emily! These grapes are mine!”

“What nonsense…”

Sara popped the grape into her mouth and bit down. “Wonderful,” she said around the sweet, sloppy juice teasing her tastebuds. She grabbed her assistant’s arms, ignoring the look of terror on the woman’s face. “Where is he? The man who brought these—where is he?”

“He’s crazy,” Emily proclaimed. “Another crazy
Eye
-talian.”

The door opened all the way, revealing Nick leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. “That’s just great,” he said. “This woman’s only known me ten minutes, and she’s already got me pegged.”

Sara’s heart seemed to stop beating altogether be
fore returning with a vengeance to hammer against her ribs. Not taking her eyes off Nick, she absently removed the platter from her assistant’s hand and set it on the desk. Emily scurried toward the door and flattened herself against the frame—to avoid contact with Nick—while she made her escape.

He came all the way into the office and closed the door. “You busy?”

Giddiness left Sara weak and exhilarated at the same time. Nick looked spectacular. Tall, strong, ruddy with Thorne Island sunshine. No one had a right to look that good. He brushed his hair off his forehead, for a moment appearing almost shy.

“She’s right, you know,” Sara said. “You are crazy.”

He nodded. “But I’m getting better. Some people need help from a good therapist. I just need a sexy accountant.”

Sara flattened her hand against her stomach, trying to quell the trembling radiating from there to all her extremities. If it reached her knees, she knew she’d buckle. “Do you know where to find one?” she asked.

He stepped closer. “Oh, I’ve found one, if she’ll just give me an appointment. I’m not sure I deserve it, but I’m hoping she’ll take pity on me.”

Sara’s gaze dropped from the dusky pewter of Nick’s eyes to his chest, where a three-inch band of colorful fish swam all the way around the light blue background of his shirt. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

“At the Fort Lauderdale airport. As long as I’m in Florida, I should look like a Floridian.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, suppressing
her laughter. “But it does make me take pity on you.”

He put his arms around her and pulled her flat against the fish. “Good. I’ll take your pity and any other emotion you care to throw in.”

“How long do you plan to stay?”

“Well, that depends on you.”

“Really?”

She raised her face to accept his kiss. He slipped his finger under her chin and lowered his mouth. The kiss started slowly, a plea to forget the mistakes of the past. Sara answered with a building passion that soon fired the kiss into a hard, hungry demand to make up for lost time.

When it ended, she drew back and looked into familiar eyes that mirrored her own happiness. “Was it hard, Nick?” she asked. “Was it hard for you to leave the island and come here?”

“Every damn thing I’ve done in the last four months has been hard, Sara. Some of them even impossible—like trying to get you out of my mind. Only, right now none of them seems as impossible as trying to keep my hands off you and remembering this is a place of business.” He slipped his hand under her suit jacket and massaged her back over her blouse. “God, I’ve missed you.”

She nestled her cheek against his neck. “You don’t know how many times I’ve wanted to tell Candy to give you the phone just so I could hear your voice.”

He kissed the top of her head. “We could have worked this out,” he said. “The more I thought about it, the more I realized that one of us was just too stubborn to give an inch.”

Sara threaded her fingers into the hair covering
Nick’s collar. The coarse, dark curls twined around her nails. The style was different. Longer. Maybe he hadn’t even seen Gina since she’d been gone. “I agree with you,” she said, “only don’t tell me which one of us you think was the stubborn one. I don’t want to spoil this moment.”

He laughed softly in her ear. The rich, throaty sound hummed through every part of her, confirming that even the sound of his laughter fired her passion for him. She pulled his head down and met his mouth for another shattering kiss. “We’ve got to make this work, Romano,” she said. “Come floods or pestilence or bankruptcy…”

“Not bankruptcy,” he announced. “Money’s not a problem.”

She stepped away from him and smiled at his typically cocky expression. “I accused you once of robbing banks. Have you taken up the profession for real?”

“No, nothing like that.”

She studied his features more closely and realized he was being perfectly serious. He truly wasn’t worried about money. And then it hit her. “Don’t tell me you found the missionary’s treaure.”

“Well, yes, I did, but…”

Grasping his hand, Sara exclaimed, “Where was it?”

“I was working with Ryan in the fermenting room to get things ready for the grape harvest, and behind a crumbling section of the limestone wall, I discovered a leather pouch with Father Bertrand’s initials.” He chuckled. “Funny, after all the Digging Days I suffered through, I find out the coins weren’t buried at all.” He reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a gold medallion and handed it to Sara. “Here’s a
souvenir. Unfortunately someone got to the pouch before I did. There were only a few coins left.”

She studied the faded likeness of a human face surrounded by a wreath of flowers. “Did you tell Brody you found it?”

“No. I got him down in the cellar on false pretenses and let him discover the pouch himself. After all, the treasure hunt was his idea from the beginning.”

Sara pictured Brody’s excitement. “What did he do? Immediately transfer the coins to his safety deposit box?”