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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ON SUNDAY, 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 unhealthy 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.”
BY 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 a
t 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.”
NICK 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 rippled 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 reasons 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.
Ivan Banning popped into Nick’s head with startling clarity. Nick’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Yes! Banning would be the release Nick needed tonight. In this chapter Ivan would meet a sexy, uncomplicated woman and for a few pages the detective would forget about drug deals.
IT WAS WELL PAST DARK when Sara finished cleaning the kitchen. In case Nick turned off the generator, she took a lantern from the parlor and carried it to her room. She was exhausted, and despite her disappointment—or perhaps because of it—she knew she would sleep.
If only she could cleanse her mind of Nic
k Bass as efficiently as she’d cleaned the kitchen. She glanced down the hallway to his room. His door was open a few inches, letting the glow of his computer screen spill into the hall. She followed the light, stopping just outside his door. She listened to the steady tap of his keyboard. Imagined his fingers gliding smoothly from key to key. Imagined his fingers…
She shook off the far-too-familiar tingle that rib-boned down her spine. What was he doing in there? she wondered for the hundredth time. What was he writing? Did that computer hold the clues to the man Nick really was?
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AS EXPECTED, Brody’s golf cart rumbled to the front of the inn at daybreak Monday morning. Even if the crunch of tires on gravel hadn’t wakened Sara, Brody’s bellowing would have. Minutes later the front door slammed shut, Nick grumbled something unintelligible at Brody which received an equally gruff response, and the cart set out on its thus far fruitless endeavor to locate a French missionary’s fortune.
Sara yanked the bedcovers over her head in an attempt to drown out the noise. But once the cart had left, she realized she was fully awake and might as well use the quiet time to attend to her own chores. She’d work in the vineyard first and attack spreadsheets later.
She dressed, had coffee and decided to check out the newly painted guest rooms. The lemon walls were cheerful and inviting, and once she ordered new linens from the JC Penney catalog she’d brought from Sandusky, the rooms should appeal to anyone staying at the Cozy Cove Inn.
A total of four rooms had been completed. Dexter had only Sara’s room to work on before he was done. Nick had made it clear that no one would be entering his sacred domain for any reason, and she’d agreed. After all, his idea to have the men do the work was proving to be a godsend, despite this morning’s leave of absence.
Before she reached Nick’s closed door, Sara turned around and headed back down the hall. But she’d only walked a few feet when an outrageous idea stopped her midstride. She shook her head to clear her mind. Some ideas should definitely be ignored, and this one was far beneath the conduct of any person who considered herself honorable.
The Men of Thorne Island Page 14