Cynthia Thomason - The Men of Thorne Island

“Okay, but when you two stroll along those moonlit beaches, who knows what will happen?”

Sara shook her head and laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

The phone rang in the outer office, and Candy scurried to answer it while Sara picked through the pile of pizzeria flotsam. She was interrupted when her intercom buzzed. “Yes, Candy.”

“It’s for you, Sara. A Mr. Herbert Adams from Cleveland. He said you’d be expecting his call.”

Cleveland? Of course, the envelope. Sara reached for the FedEx package with one hand and grabbed the phone with the other. “Hello, Mr. Adams? This is Sara Crawford. I’m sorry. I haven’t had a chance to open what you sent. I have it right here, though.”

The voice on the other end was crisp and competent. “Miss Crawford, I was Millicent Thorne’s attorney.”

It took a moment for the name to register, but when it did, Sara smiled. She hadn’t seen her mother’s Aunt Millie for fifteen years, since the summer she’d turned fourteen—the summer her mother died. But she remembered the disciplined woman with her sensible shoes and pearl-buttoned cardigan sweaters. “Of course,” she said. “How is Aunt Millie?”

There was a pause. “You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Miss Thorne passed away five days ago.”

Sara had only seen Millicent Thorne a half-dozen times in her life. Millie traveled a great deal, and Sara had been busy with school activities. Still, the news of her death sent a wave of sadness through her. Mr. Adams, a stranger, called to tell her that a member of her family had died, a woman she barely knew. There ought to be a sin covering this kind of situation. The sin of missed opportunities because at this moment Sara did indeed feel as if she’d let some part of her life slip away, and there was no way to get it back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“I’m aware that you and Miss Thorne were never close.”

“How did she die, Mr. Adams?”

“Peacefully in her sleep, and she wanted for nothing. Your aunt lived comfortably, thanks to a lawsuit she won a few years ago. Her last years were spent in relative luxury.”

“I’m glad of that, at least.”

“She had a sizable estate,” Mr. Adams said, “and a will that clearly stipulated her wishes. She had a good many friends and helpful neighbors, whom she remembered in her will. And she remembered you, Miss Crawford.”

“Me? Why me? I hardly knew her.” Sara’s headache intensified. “I can’t accept an inheritance, Mr. Adams. If it’s money, perhaps you could arrange for one of Miss Thorne’s charities—”

“It’s not money, Miss Crawford. It’s Thorne-family property, and Miss Thorne very definitely wanted you to have it. She said she remembered you as a levelheaded girl. She thought you could manage it quite well.”

Property? What did Sara know about managing property? Ever since she’d left her father’s cozy bungalow in Brewster Falls, Ohio, she’d lived in college dormitories and rentals until settling a couple of years ago on the sixth floor of a Fort Lauderdale condominium. She’d given up fireplaces and front porches for the efficiency of a one-bedroom dwelling. She didn’t have time to handle more than a few hundred square feet of ceramic tile. “Where is this property, Mr. Adams?” she asked.

“Open the envelope and see for yourself.”

“Oh, of course.” She cradled the phone between her cheek and shoulder and cut through the envelope flap. After removing the contents, she pushed aside a standard legal-looking document and reached for a colorful brochure. “Own a Piece of Paradise,” was written across the top. There was a photograph of a lush green oblong of land in the center of a field of blue water. Underneath it said, “Beautiful, unspoiled Thorne Island.”

“Thorne Island?” Sara said into the phone. “I’ve inherited an island?”

“Indeed you have, Miss Crawford. An island about five miles off the coast of Sandusky, Ohio, in Lake Erie.”

Sara’s jaw dropped. She grabbed the phone before it slipped from her shoulder. “I can’t believe this, Mr. Adams. An island! I lived in Ohio most of my life, yet I’ve never heard of this place. The Bass Islands, yes. The resorts such as Put-in-Bay, of course. But Thorne Island? Where is it exactly?”

“Less than a mile from Put-in-Bay. The island played a role in the Battle of Lake Erie. I’m told Commodore Perry used it as a lookout. It’s a small property, only forty acres total, but if the pictures in the brochure are any indication, it’s quite lovely.”

Sara opened the brochure. A quiver of delight replaced the shock as she gazed at the glossy photos of Thorne Island, her island. One picture showed a small harbor with a narrow dock jutting into the lake. Another was of a charming Colonial-style cottage surrounded by a picket fence. A wooden sign over a gate read Cozy Cove Inn.

The rest of the brochure was sales propaganda written by the Golden Isles Development Corporation. It consisted of glowing reports of the island’s natural beauty, maps and details of how to reach it, various plots for sale and phone numbers of the development-company personnel.

“When was this brochure written, Mr. Adams?” Sara asked. “How long has the island been developed?”

“Actually it never was. I doubt there’s been any change there since the original few buildings were constructed over a hundred years ago. I mentioned a lawsuit a few minutes ago. It was a class-action suit filed by owners of various Great Lakes island properties against the Golden Isles Development Corporation. Company executives purchased several islands under fraudulent circumstances. The corporation was exposed in the Cleveland Plain Dealer a number of years ago. Miss Thorne and her cosuitors reaped an impressive financial award in the judgment. And the chief executives of the corporation are, to my knowledge, still cooling their heels in jail.”

“Wow. 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.”