The Men of Thorne Island. Cynthia Thomason

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СКАЧАТЬ So does anyone live on the island now?”

      “There were a few residents, people who paid rent to Miss Thorne, although no rental income has been deposited into Miss Thorne’s account recently. I haven’t kept up with the current population of the island. I found the brochure in Miss Thorne’s papers and included it in your package so you would have some idea of the property.”

      “Do you know more about the island’s history, Mr. Adams?”

      “Miss Thorne once told me it was discovered by a missionary on an expedition paid for by the king of France. The island was originally called Bertrand Island after the missionary. Your aunt changed the name a few years before she died.”

      Sara couldn’t help herself. She was falling in love with the old missionary’s discovery. The peace and tranquillity of the island beckoned her like an oasis in the desert. Suddenly she knew she wouldn’t be going to Aruba in five days, after all.

      “I’ll arrange to fly into Cleveland on Saturday,” she said, rifling through the papers on her desk and finding the deed to her property. “Is there any reason I should see you before I go to the island?”

      “Well, there is the matter of property taxes owed at the present time. I’d be glad to handle that for you if you like.”

      Property taxes? “How much is due?”

      “I’m afraid Miss Thorne let this matter slide. With penalties and interest, there is a current balance of thirty-eight hundred dollars. Is that a problem?”

      Thirty-eight hundred dollars! Sara pictured a huge wedge being lifted from the pie that was her savings account. Still, taxes had to be paid or penalties would escalate rapidly. And surely she would make up the deficit with the rental income. “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 СКАЧАТЬ