“Now who the hell’s here?” Brody grumbled. “We might as well be on Coney Island for the crowds we get lately!”
Nick strode down the dock and took the line Winkie tossed to him. Sara stayed on shore with Brody, monitoring his reaction to the unexpected arrival.
Nick had only seen Junior a couple of times at the racetrack where Nick and Brody used to meet. But because of his phone calls to him over the years, he knew that Junior was a nice kid. Kid, heck. He was only eight years younger than Nick. The man who stepped out of the boat and extended his hand was a familiar, yet polished version of the boy Nick remembered from the track. “It’s been a long time, Nick,” Junior said. “I think I’m glad you invited me here.”
Nick shook his hand. “How ya doing, Carl?”
“Okay, I guess.” He glanced at the shore where Brody was squinting into the sun. “So there he is,” Carl said matter-of-factly. “Why doesn’t he come down here? Did he send you to test the waters?”
Nick rubbed the back of his neck. “Truth is, Carl, I didn’t tell the old man you were coming.”
Carl’s hands shot to his chest in a defensive gesture. “You didn’t tell him? That’s just great.” He turned back to the boat. “Fire up the engine, Winkleman. I’m outta here.”
Footsteps pounded like a jackhammer on the dock. “Damn it to hell, Carl, is that you?”
Nick and Carl stood rooted to the dock, gazes riveted on the menacing presence coming toward them. Short and squat and churning like a Sherman tank, Brody came closer. Nick grasped Carl’s upper arm and leaned in to him. “There, you see, Carl? I think your dad’s glad to see you.”
“Yeah. I expect him to put on a party hat any minute.”
Carl’s shoulders sagged as he faced the approaching figure. “Yes, Dad, it’s me.”
Brody stopped within a few feet of his son and planted his fists on his hips. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Nick stepped between the two men. “I called Junior, Brody, so if you’ve got the urge to kill somebody, it’ll have to be me.” For a minute Nick thought he might.
“Why would you do something so—”
“Lay off Nick, Dad,” Junior said. “Yes, he called me, but I agreed with him that it was about time I came. I’ve known about this place for years.”
Brody’s eyes became narrow slits. “So Nick told you where I was?”
“Not just Nick,” Junior said. “Vernon Russell at the bank told me, too. I kept the information just in case you ever wanted to see me. And then Nick said you’d had a change of heart, so I came.”
Brody uttered a few indecipherable mutters.
“I was wrong,” Nick said. “Your father’s heart can’t change, unless it’s just to grow blacker.”
Brody directed his anger at Nick. “If my heart’s black, it’s turncoats like you that made it that way.” Jerking his thumb at Carl, he added, “And a greedy son who never amounted to a hill of beans and only saw his father as a dollar sign he could tap in to whenever he needed a few thousand.”
Carl shoved at Brody’s shoulder, forcing his father to face him. “You pulled that dollar sign out from under me quick enough, Dad. And I guess I should thank you, though it’s hard to get past the resentment to say the words. But I sure as hell don’t need your money now.”
Brody sneered. “You marry rich, Carl?”
“No, sir. I married right.”
Sara advanced down the dock. Nick waved her back, trying to spare her the unpleasantness, but she walked right into the fray. “All right,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “I see this is going well. You’re talking.”
Here she goes with that talking-is-the-cure-for-everything baloney.
“Why don’t we all go up to the inn and have some iced tea?” she said. “Winkie, you come, too. And Dad.”
Winkie and Ben had been watching from a safe distance, but at Sara’s urging they joined the group. Most everyone meandered down the dock toward shore. Most, but not all. Brody planted his feet and glared at Sara. “This is all your fault, you know,” he said, shaking his finger at her nose.
“Yes, I do know that,” she said sweetly. “That’s why I offered to make the iced tea.”
Moments passed while Sara and Brody remained locked in a staring contest. Nick waited and watched, not knowing which one he’d put a dollar on if he could find someone to bet with. It was Brody who finally caved in. He pounded a fist into his palm, turned on his heel and clomped away from her. “Damn it to hell,” he said, and followed the others toward the inn.
Sara walked behind him, passed Nick and said with a beatific smile, “I love family reunions.”
Nick caught up and fell into step beside her. “I guess we’re going to live through round one. Now we just have to see how Dexter does tomorrow.”
Because Nick and Sara hadn’t talked since the meeting in the press house, she hadn’t heard the result of Nick’s call to the Cleveland Browns organization. “Someone else is coming?” she asked.
“Yeah, someone’s coming all right. Two someones. The owner and the manager. When I mentioned Dexter Sweet’s name, you’d have thought I’d brought Vince Lombardi back from the dead.”
Sara giggled like a kid who’d just gotten her wildest birthday wish granted. “They’re going to offer him a position. I just know it.”
“I’d say that’s pretty obvious,” Nick grumbled. “Things are changing, Sara, whether I want them to or not. Ryan’s been walking around gaga-eyed ever since that dizzy assistant of yours showed up. And now we might be turning Brody into a creature resembling a human being.”
Sara gave him a sly smile. “Just don’t blame it all on me, Nick. I wasn’t the one who called Carl Junior.”
“Only because you didn’t know he existed.”
She touched his arm, a gesture that seemed to make all his problems disappear into the minuscule compartments where they belonged. Except for his biggest problem of all—Sara was leaving in two days. That one weighed him down like a pair of cement galoshes.
She walked ahead of him up the steps of the Cozy Cove veranda. “It’s a test, Nick,” she said over her shoulder. “To see if you can rejoice in someone else’s happiness. I think you’re up to the challenge.”
Nick wasn’t sure. He watched her go into the hotel to brew the tea she’d promised to serve at the Brody peace talks. There was no denying there was a lot of fierce determination in her. The woman who swore from day one that she wasn’t going to change anything had succeeded in changing just about everything.
But it wasn’t Sara’s iced tea that produced the peace between Brody and Junior. It was Nick’s mediating skills—and a bottle of Kentucky bourbon. By Sunday night Carl had admitted that at one time in his life, he’d been an irresponsible son who’d expected his father to pay for his mistakes. And Brody had confessed that his military and corporate background might have made him a judgmental parent who never tried to understand his only son.
The two men still had a long journey toward forgiveness and acceptance, but when Carl agreed to stay over Sunday night in the Cozy Cove, Nick knew they’d at least made the first steps. And he was more confident of a permanent reconciliation Monday morning when Brody canceled Digging Day so he could take Junior fishing.
Yes, things were changing on Thorne. So did Nick wish Sara Crawford had never come to the island? Did he wish he’d never seen the first strand of silky hair blow across her cheek, or heard the first moan of sexual satisfaction from her pink mouth, or felt the first tremors of passionate anticipation in the parts of her body he’d come to know so well?
Despite feeling absolutely miserable, Nick knew the answer without even thinking about it.
Hell, no.
THE MANAGER of the Cleveland Browns called Sara on her cell phone Monday afternoon as she waited for the building-code inspectors to finish their tour of the Cozy Cove, which had been going on for three hours. Winkie had dropped off the inspectors, picked up Ben, Candy and Carl Junior, and hea
ded back to Put-in-Bay.
“Yes, sir,” Sara said into her phone. “I certainly do know what this call is about.”
“We’re on our way now to meet up with that boat captain you told us would bring us to the island. I assume Dexter is there.”
Yes, yes! He’s been here for years waiting for you. Where else would he be today? “He’s here. We’ll see you soon.”
She ended the call and hurried to the other end of the hall to tell Nick.
He turned off his computer, stood up and took a deep breath. “Operation Dexter is under way,” he said.
She crossed her fingers for good luck and watched him head toward the stairs. When he’d left the inn, she let the forced smile fade from her lips. “Oh, Dad,” she said to herself. “If only things were as simple as you make them sound.”
Her last conversation with her father kept replaying in her mind. “I don’t know, Sarabelle,” he’d said that morning in the kitchen. “If I were you, I’d forget all about going back to Florida and I’d set my cap for Nick. He’s made of stern stuff, and he’s smart, too. I’ve grown to like that young man while I’ve been here.”
She’d only grinned at him over the rim of her coffee cup. “I’ll be sure and let him know how you feel, Dad.”
He’d fielded her grin with unexpected seriousness. “You’d do better to let him know how you feel.”
“There’s nothing between us, Dad,” she’d lied.
Now, as she closed the door to Nick’s room and walked down the hall to pack her bags, she wished she’d told her father the truth. “It wouldn’t make any difference,” she said to the empty hallway. “I’m out of money, out of time and out of arguments. And there just isn’t any elastic left in my heart.”
NICK WATCHED a couple of innings of the baseball game to give Winkie time to bring the Browns execs across the lake. When he heard the sputter of the boat engine, he walked to the television and turned off the power. Dexter stared first at Nick’s hand, which had just interfered with his Monday afternoon, and then at the blank screen where he’d been watching the top of the seventh at Jacob’s Field. “What’d you do that for?”
“Because you’re done watching baseball for today,” Nick said.
Dexter sat up straight and wrapped his big hands around his knees. “Don’t tell me Brody has called another meeting?”
“No. I did. Did you hear Winkie’s boat?”
“Yeah, but I figured if it was a grocery order, you guys could handle it. The game was on.”
“It’s not a grocery order. I want you to come with me.”
Grumbling, Dexter stood up from his well-worn leather love seat and ambled toward the door.
“Aren’t you going to put some shoes on?” Nick asked.
“What kind of a meeting on Thorne Island requires shoes?”
Nick tossed a pair of size-thirteen sneakers at Dex. “This one.”
THEY REACHED the side of the inn and stopped when voices floated out to them from an open parlor window. “Maybe you’d better look inside and prepare yourself,” Nick suggested. “I have this picture in my head of you putting on the same goofy expression you have when you see a photo of Tyra Banks.”
Dexter grinned. “Heck, there’s nobody in the world who affects me like she does.” He leaned forward and peeked inside. He stared a few seconds and then spun around and slammed his back against the outside wall. “Do you know who those men are?” he managed to gasp.
“I ought to. I invited them. That’s the general manager and the owner of the new Cleveland Browns. I thought you’d recognize them from the fan posters on your walls.”
“I don’t have any fan posters.”
“It’s a joke, Dex.” Nick rolled his eyes. “Jeez, why doesn’t anybody ever get my jokes?”
Dexter pushed himself away from the wall. “What are they doing here?”
“They came to see you, of course.” When he read the look of total confusion on Dexter’s face, he added, “No joke. They came quite readily, I must admit. Even risked a ride on Winkie’s tub.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. For the thrill of it.” Sensing another attempt at a joke had failed, Nick added more seriously, “Look Dex, I don’t know what they’re going to say to you. But I have a hunch they might be going to make you an offer you can’t possibly refuse.”
“You mean they’re recruiting losers now?”
Nick wasn’t falling for Dexter’s sympathy bid. “Apparently. But there’s one sure way to find out.”
Nick half pushed, half pulled Dexter to the front door of the Cozy Cove. But once the big man stepped into the parlor, an immediate display of manly rituals took over and confidence bloomed in every feature of his face.
The general manager, who’d worked with Dexter during his playing days, punched Dex on the shoulder, though it looked like it was all he could do not to hug his former teammate. “So this is where you’ve been hiding, you big ox,” the man said.
The owner of the new Cleveland Browns faked a punch to Dexter’s abdomen. “It’s about time we tracked you down, Sweet. You’ve been harder to find than a pigskin in a pen of hogs.”
Virtually ignored in a room filled with scrapbook reminiscences and fiercely pumping testosterone, Nick backed into the lobby. “Good luck, old buddy,” he whispered. He headed for the stairs and the comfort of his keyboard. God, he needed Sara right now. Part of him resented the hell out of her since she was responsible for all the changes on Thorne Island. But the part of him that he’d nearly forgotten about, the part that had helped an old lady who was being cheated out of her retirement by a big corporation—that part realized the men of Thorne Island owed Sara a debt of gratitude.
But of course the biggest part of him, the chunk that missed Sara almost every minute of the day, involved the crazy interaction of every nerve, every sense, every emotion he’d kept buried for more than six years. That part just wanted to hold her and feel her next to him and believe that she wasn’t going away.
He stopped at the entrance to a guest room at the top of the stairs. Before Sara arrived, all the doors to the rooms on the second floor were kept closed. There was no reason to ever look inside any of them. Now the doors were open, beckoning a visitor to enjoy the cheerful atmosphere of polished wood furniture, yellow and blue walls, bright fabrics and slowly turning brass ceiling fans.
Nick entered the room and crossed to the window. The freshly painted white shutters were open, the dainty floral curtains tied back with velvet cord. Sara liked the windows that way, open to let in the sunshine. He looked over the vineyard and spotted her strolling among the grapevines.
Giving them a last, loving dose of Sara-care, he figured. Baby-talking them into warming up to Ryan, coaxing them to thrive in spite of her absence. In a little over twenty-four hours she would be gone. Unless he did something to stop her.
Every time Nick walked across the yard or climbed the stairs, he was reminded of the hardest battle he’d ever fought in his life, the prize he’d figured was the most worth winning of any that would ever come his way—the ability to walk again. Now he wasn’t so sure. Now he figured keeping Sara on Thorne Island was the prize he’d been born to win.
CHAPTER TWENTY
NICK ACCEPTED Brody’s offer to split a frozen pizza and once again discovered that Brody wasn’t much of a cook. The man didn’t even wait for the cheese to melt on top of the pizza before taking it out of the oven. He wasn’t much of a gourmet, either. He gobbled down the lukewarm pie and declared it fit for a king. But that was Brody—the new and improved, slightly more optimistic Brody. And since Nick didn’t feel much like eating anyway, the state of the pizza didn’t really matter.
There were two reasons for Brody’s emerging good humor. He had opened the door to communication with his son, and despite a softening of his attitude toward Sara, he would soon be saying farewell to the woman who’d upset his life. Never mind that if Sara Crawford hadn’t shown up on Thorne Island, Junior probably wou
ldn’t have come either.
Ironically Brody’s good fortune was Nick’s reason for despair.
At dusk Nick left Brody’s and walked around the back of the inn, thinking he might find Sara in the kitchen. He didn’t, but the porch light was on, prompting him to go toward the vineyard. He saw her next to the press house at the point where rows of thick, twisting trunks began their orderly march up and down the gentle slopes of Thorne Island. She was a silvery statue in the last gray light of day. Nick walked toward her with the clearest of intentions, but with a dubious arsenal of words to accomplish it.
Sara stood with her arms folded across her chest. She didn’t hear Nick approach, or if she did, she didn’t respond.
Nick thought about calling her name, but decided against it. If he was going to sneak up on her one last time, he would risk her anger to satisfy his desire to feel the softness of her skin first. Stepping behind her, he slid his hands along her arms and clasped her fingers with his. She breathed a contented sigh and leaned against him. It was not the reaction he’d expected, but it was the one he relished.
Encouraged, he pulled her close to his chest and studied her profile. “Is that a smile I see? And should I hope you were thinking about me?”
She dropped her head back to his shoulder. “It was a smile,” she said, “but it wasn’t for you. The Cozy Cove passed all inspections today. We need another bathroom, but the inspector said he’d let it slide for a while under the grandfather rule.”
“Congratulations, Madam Innkeeper. You should be proud of yourself.”
“I’m proud of all of us,” she said.
“So when can we expect our first visitors?”
“Since I hear that note of dread in your voice, I know the answer will make you happy. Not until after the grapes ripen. About four months, I think. Plus, I need to find someone to handle guest relations—someone civil, accommodating and perhaps even cheerful.”
He repeated the qualifications with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Civil, accommodating and cheerful. I’ll need a dictionary to understand those words.”
The Men of Thorne Island Page 22