The Men of Thorne Island by Cynthia Thomason Page B

made a sandwich for him he was still in middle school, and the burden had been placed on Paloma, his mother’s Peruvian housekeeper. Paloma was nice enough, but she’d always ruined his lunch by sticking carrots or celery into the bag. Sara had left a chocolate bar. Granted, it waslow-fat and tasted like cardboard, but it was still a heck of a lot better than carrots.
    After three hours of typing a sentence or two every fifteen minutes, Nick gave in to his curiosity about what was happening in the vineyard. He went to a bedroom with a window facing north, where he could see Sara and Ryan working like little grape elves a hundred yards away. Then he went back to his monitor, deleted everything he’d written so far and shut down the computer. It was no use trying to write. He went to the kitchen, out the back door and headed for the vineyard.
    Ryan was gone, but Sara was still there. She’d made the rusted spigot on the side of the old press house work, and she was bent over splashing water on her arms. Nick watched her, thinking that this simple act of a woman cleaning her arms might very well be the most sensual, intimate thing he’d ever seen. His insides coiled like a spring.
    She stood, balancing herself with one hand on the rough stone exterior of the press house, and rotated a bare foot under the running water. That was when she saw him. And Nick Bass, alias Nicolas Romano, who never thought for a moment that she would be glad to see him, felt her welcoming gaze pour through him like warm honey.
    She waved him over. “Nick, come here. You have to see.”
    He joined her as she turned off the water and playfully flicked a couple of drops into his face. “Promise me you won’t be cynical.”
    He pretended to be insulted—in fact, he was a little. “Who, me? cynical? Can’t remember when I ever was.”
    She snickered while sliding her feet into plastic sandals. Then she walked down a row of vines until she came to the one she wanted to show him. Reaching through the new growth of wide green leaves, she brought out a mysterious cluster of tiny objects that she cradled in her palm. “They’re alive, Nick,” she whispered reverently. “See for yourself.”
    Nick stared down at minuscule green pellets clinging to a thin thread and determined that they were indeed grapes and showed a lot more promise than that shriveled-up piece of refuse Sara had shown him yesterday. And one day, with a little luck and a dash of Sara’s determination, they might just defy the odds and end up pleasing somebody’s palate.
    “Well, I’ll be,” he said. “Nobody’s paid any attention to these plants for years that I know of. Even Ryan only clipped away randomly.”
    She gently returned the tender cluster to its nest of leaves. “There aren’t many healthy vines,” she admitted. “But there might be enough to have some kind of harvest, maybe by late summer.” She pointed down the row to patches of dark, moist earth. “Ryan and I turned the dirt and fertilized around the bases of the most promising ones.”
    Late summer. She’s talking about harvesting grapes in late summer.
    “Of course Ryan will have to take care of the vines. I won’t be here, but it will be enough to know that we succeeded.”
    So she was leaving, after all. The practical side of Nick experienced a flood of relief. This was best for the men of Thorne Island, wasn’t it? But the emotional side, the one he’d never been well acquaintedwith, gripped like a vise around his heart and made his next breath hitch in his throat.
    “He may not want to do the work when I’m gone,” she said, turning away from Nick and facing the rows of vines.
    “Who, Ryan?”
    She nodded. “It’s hard when you don’t have a partner to share the responsibility. And of course it will be especially difficult if the rest of you make fun of him.”
    “We wouldn’t do that.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Well, at least try not to. Ryan is a sensitive guy, you know.”
    He