The Men of Thorne Island. Cynthia Thomason
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“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.
THE 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.
Leaving her car in the ferry lot, Sara boarded the large passenger boat midafternoon and arrived at South Bass less than an hour later. She was enchanted with the island’s primary village, Put-in-Bay. Quaint, refurbished cottages lined the narrow streets. A small business district boasted ice-cream shops, cafés and specialty stores. Visitors could choose from several inviting hotels. The island’s charm made Sara more anxious to see her own property. She inquired at the harbor about transportation to Thorne Island.
An employee of the ferry company gave her disappointing news. “There isn’t any boat that goes to Thorne,” he said. “Leastways, not a public one.”
“Then how do people get there?” she asked.
“People don’t,” he said. “Not tourists, anyway, though Winkleman goes there two, three times a week.”
“Wonderful. Where do I find Winkleman?”
“At the Happy Angler this time of day. You could set your watch by it.”
Having gotten directions to the local tavern and a description of Winkleman, Sara located the captain she intended to hire. She walked into his boisterous circle of friends and tapped him on the shoulder. “Pardon me. Are you Mr. Winkleman?”
He set a mug of beer on the counter and leaned back on a well-used bar stool. “Guess I could be,” he said.
“I’m looking for someone to take me to Thorne Island. I understand you go there.”
Winkleman removed a sudsy mustache from his upper lip with his index finger and pushed an old naval cap back on a patch of thick gray hair. “Was just there yesterday. Don’t plan to go again for two days.”
A two-day layover—even in charming Put-in-Bay—was not part of Sara’s plan. “I really need to go today, Mr. Winkleman. Is there anyone else who could take me?”
“Nobody else goes.”
The sailor’s succinct answer puzzled Sara. Why wasn’t there regular service to Thorne Island? She recalled the photos of the pretty harbor and the delightful Cozy Cove Inn. Surely these attractions should lure tourists to the island. “I’ll pay you of course,” she said. “More than your regular fee, if that will help to persuade you.”
He squinted at her from beneath scraggly charcoal eyebrows. “It’ll cost you twenty bucks.”
It sounded reasonable. “That’s fine,” she said. “I left my bags at the harbor office. Can we go now?”
“Gotta finish my beer first. Meet you there.”
Fifteen minutes later Sara decided that maybe twenty dollars wasn’t such a bargain, after all. The captain’s boat smelled of fish, and twice during the short ride to Thorne Island, she had to pull her bags clear of a steadily increasing pool of water seeping into the stern.
Conversation with her captain was practically impossible because of the roar of the engine. She tried to ask him about the people who lived on the island. Again he said very little, commenting only that everyone there was a close buddy of his.
When a patch of green became recognizable as a shoreline, Winkleman slowed the boat. Sara tucked her wind-whipped hair into what was left of the French braid she’d fashioned that morning. Then she turned her attention to her island.
She thought she’d recognize the tidy little harbor from the brochure and looked for the bright yellow mooring ropes spanning the length of its pier. Instead, she saw a dilapidated wooden platform jutting into the water on precariously tilted posts. Winkleman maneuvered into position beside one of them.
“Is this the main dock?” she asked.
“This is the only dock,” he said.
She climbed onto rickety boards that creaked under her feet. There was none of the usual activity one expected of a quaint village harbor. There were no shops or boats. The entire area consisted of a one-room clapboard bait house with broken windows.
“Oh, dear,” Sara sighed. “I hadn’t expected things to be quite this way.”
Winkleman tossed her bags onto the dock and grinned up at her. “Nice, ain’t it? Some of these islands have begun to look pretty shabby. The fellows that live here keep Thorne up pretty good.”
Her gaze wandered to the clumps of overgrown plants that skirted the shoreline. A narrow, dirt pathway through a thicket of brush and trees led somewhere. “There is a hotel on the island, isn’t there?” she asked.
Winkleman appeared thoughtful. Finally a light dawned in his eyes. “Right. The Cozy Cove. It’s just up that pathway.”
Thank goodness. Sara’s misgivings were replaced with a glimmer of hope. At least the delightful little bed-and-breakfast was real enough. So what if the dock needed some work? She could manage funds for a few minor repairs. She picked up her suitcases, anticipating her first evening on her island.
Winkleman untied his mooring line, took the twenty she offered and pushed away from the dock. “See ya.”
Apprehension suddenly dampened Sara’s enthusiasm. What if there was no phone on the island? In her rush to pack, she’d left her cell phone in Fort Lauderdale. And now her only link to the mainland was about to roar out of her life. “Wait! Mr. Winkleman, how can I reach you?”
He