The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud Page 7

  Tess ran through the list of all the things she needed to do before the starting gun next week. Her first stop on Monday morning would be at Lynn Marine Supply on Front Street. She would give Gus Swanson an earful about that survival gear. Those leaking boots were inexcusable, especially when he charged her full price.

  Next, she would have to face Tink in the loft. She dreaded the moment. He would give her the full inquisition, and then they would go stem to stern and tally the damage. Of course, the rigging would need tuning. The storm sail would have to be resewn. The hull might need fresh paint. Her team would have to work overtime to make the repairs in time for the race.

  “I know,” she said aloud. “It’s a waste of hard work and money.” That was what really made her feel the worst. Dad had left her a chunk of dough and had urged her to spend it seeing the world. It wasn’t much, but he had broken his back saving it, and he wouldn’t be happy watching her blow it on repairs. He was an old-fashioned sailor who didn’t like expensive fiberglass boats with Kevlar sails. “Sailing,” he liked to joke, “is the fine art of getting wet and becoming ill, while going nowhere slowly at great expense.” And yet, if the ocean was in your blood—and the two were almost chemically identical, he liked to remind her—you couldn’t stop yourself from going to sea no matter how much it cost or how quiet the wind.

  She sat silently for a few moments and she could hear his voice. God, how he howled at his own jokes. He would slap his knee, his eyes would squint, and his face and neck would turn red as he unleashed a big laugh. It was only a distant sound in her mind now, gray cells rubbing together, but the memory made everything all right. She waited for more of his laughter—more of that feeling somewhere deep inside. And then suddenly she heard the gunning of an engine and an awful drone. It sounded like a buzz saw. It was coming from just over the hill.

  Tess jumped up, her dad’s laughter disturbed, and stomped off to see what on earth was causing the ruckus.

  What have you done with your precious life? Florio’s words had lingered in the air long after he had gone off to the fire station to partake of the wine and cheese reception in his memory. No matter what chores were there to distract Charlie, the question followed. In the Dalrymple family plot, he poured the cement foundation for a new headstone and searched for answers. On the Mount of Memory, he chopped up an oak that had fallen in the storm and he wondered. What had he done with his second chance?

  He watched a squadron of geese take flight in a tight V-formation, honking as they cleared the treetops, circling once over the grounds, then winging across the harbor. One thing was for sure: He had spent far too much of his precious life battling those evil creatures. Sure, painters came to Waterside to capture them quaintly on canvas. Old ladies showed up to feed the goslings with bags of crumbs. Little did they know, the gaggle was a public menace. They chomped on grass, devoured flowers, dirtied monuments, and even attacked mourners.

  On this fine afternoon, Charlie sat on a bench by the lake with Joe the Atheist, who had invented an ingenious method of scaring off the loathsome birds. It involved deploying an armada of remote-controlled toy motorboats.

  “PT-109, ready for attack,” Joe said.

  Charlie’s mind was elsewhere. “You think you’ll ever do anything important with your life?” he asked.

  “What are you talking about? This is important,” Joe said. “We’ve got a job to do.” He looked through a pair of army field glasses and positioned a metal box with a joystick in his lap.

  “I’m serious. You think you’ll ever amount to anything? You think God has a plan for you?”

  “God?” Joe said. “You kidding me? I believe in luck. That’s all. You’ve either got it or you don’t. Remember last year? I was one digit away from winning thirty-four mil in the Mass. lottery. You think God had anything to do with that? No way.” He shook his head. “Someday, I’ll hit it big. Till then, I’m stuck with you.” He smiled and leaned forward. “Look! One more squadron of geese at two o’clock by the Isle of Solitude,” he said. “Requesting permission to attack.”

  “Permission granted,” Charlie said.

  Joe jammed the control stick forward. A gray patrol boat zoomed straight for the birds. The engine blared and a horn hooted. “Two hundred feet and closing,” he said, peering through the binoculars. “.08 knots. Target acquired.”

  As always, the boat worked perfectly. With much panic, the last remaining birds scooted along the water, took flight with a few flaps, and soared over the trees. The little boat banked hard, swooping close to the shore, kicking up a wave of spray. And then Charlie saw a young woman standing on the far side under a willow. She was tall, beautiful, and was waving toward him. She seemed to be shouting, but her words were drowned out by the droning engine. He recognized her from town: It was Tess Carroll, the sail-maker.

  “I’ll catch you later,” he said to Joe, who was focused on maneuvering PT-109 back to its little dock.

  “Ten-four,” he said.

  Charlie jumped in his cart and steered around the lake toward Tess. She was a minor celebrity in town, and truth be told, he had long admired her from afar. They had gone to high school around the same time but she was a couple of years younger. Tess had always been a standout, maybe even a little intimidating, winning races in sail week or campaigning against the local power company’s NOx and SOx emissions from its Salem smokestacks. Two years ago, Charlie had buried her father, and she had come just about every week since to pay her respects. She was always alone or with her golden retriever. She never wanted to be disturbed. Joe the Atheist had tried a few times but had gone down in flames, and Charlie knew to stay away.

  But there she was now, quite stunning in jeans and a button-down, marching along the path, right toward him, her ponytail sashaying behind. He ran his hands through his hair, wiped his face to make sure there wasn’t any lunch still clinging to it, and slowed to a stop. He brushed some crumbs from his chest, tucked in his shirt, stepped out of the cart, and faced her. And as the first words formed on his lips, a pang of self-consciousness punched him deep inside. This uncomfortable, awkward sensation was no stranger: It visited whenever a young woman came to the cemetery, especially one so appealing.

  Charlie didn’t even have a chance. Before he could say hello, Tess let loose. “God almighty!” she said. “Do you really need to make such a racket? A person comes here for some quiet and what does she get? The invasion of Normandy!”

  “Actually, it’s our geese-management program,” Charlie said, but as the phrase left his lips it sounded funny.

  “Geese-management program?” Tess barely contained a guffaw.

  “Yes,” he said, reflexively, “the Canada geese population—” He stopped mid-sentence. She was staring at him with the most remarkable smile.

  “No, go on,” she said. “I’m mesmerized. Tell me more about the Canada geese population.” She twiddled her ponytail with one hand and tilted her head. That feeling was rising in Charlie—the fizzy mixture of attraction and awkwardness.

  “Let me start over. I’m sorry about the noise. We get a little carried away here sometimes.” He grinned. “I’m Charlie—”

  “St. Cloud,” she said. “I remember. Not a Marblehead name, is it?”

  “Nope,” he said, stunned that she knew him. “It’s from Minnesota. Long story.”

  “Good, I like stories.”

  “You’re Tess Carroll, the one going around the world,” he said, a smidge too enthusiastically. He had read about her just the other day in the Reporter. A front-page feature had described her solo race, and a color photo had shown her in the cockpit of an Aerodyne 38. “That’s some boat you’ve got,” he said. As soon as the phrase left his tongue, he whipped himself for not conjuring something more charming or witty.

  “Thanks,” she said, pushing a wisp of hair from her eyes. Charlie saw that her thumbnail was black and blue, a hazard of her line of work.

  “You sail?” she asked. “Don’t think I’ve seen you o
n the water.”

  “Used to. You know, Optimists, 110s. Nothing fancy.” Charlie felt that nervous sensation. “Look, I’m sorry we disturbed you. Won’t happen again.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She scrunched her face. “I’m just being a pain in the ass today. I’ve got a killer headache.” She rubbed her forehead, and the sun glinted in her eyes.

  Charlie lived in a verdant world surrounded by every imaginable shade of green, but for all the moss and bluegrass, he knew this: Her eyes were perfection. Light as lime on the outer edges, rich as emerald toward the center. Transfixed, he found himself saying the opposite of what he intended: “I better go now. Leave you be.”

  “What’s the rush? Another attack on those poor geese?”

  Charlie laughed. “Thought you wanted a little quiet, that’s all.”

  “It’s better now.”

  Charlie felt her eyes looking him up and down, and he was embarrassed about the mud on his boots and the stains on his pants.

  “You know,” she said, “my dad’s buried here. Just on top of that hill.” She pointed. “The view’s pretty nice up there.”

  Without another word, she took off, her ponytail bouncing behind her. Charlie wasn’t sure whether to follow. Was she inviting him for a look? Or was she finished with the conversation? Every instinct told him to go back to work. He had no business chasing after Tess Carroll. But then he found himself racing up the hill to catch her. When he reached the crest, she had already plopped down on the grass. Her legs were stretched out, and she was looking down toward the harbor where the boats pointed northeast on their moorings. In the distance, a fisherman hauled a lobster pot from the water with a gaff hook.

  “Looks like Tim Bird had a good catch today,” she said. “His stern sure is riding low.”

  “Your dad was a lobsterman, wasn’t he?” Charlie said.

  She looked at him. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  Charlie wasn’t sure whether to fess up. He didn’t want to seem strange, but he remembered every job he had worked in the cemetery. He recalled every eulogy.

  “How’d you know about my dad?” Tess asked again. This time her voice was more insistent.

  “I was working the day he was buried.”

  “Oh.” Tess leaned forward and put her face in her hands. She rubbed her forehead and smoothed her hair back. “God, I was in such a fog. Barely remember a thing.”

  But Charlie recalled the entire funeral and the fact that her dead father hadn’t shown up in the cemetery. It wasn’t too surprising: Many folks chose to move on immediately to the next level without ever stopping in Waterside.

  He studied Tess’s face. The memories were coming back now. She was the kind of girl he had dated long ago when everything seemed possible. She was also the kind of woman he never encountered in the graveyard. She had everything going for her—a successful business, a thirty-eight-foot sloop, and those green eyes.

  And yet . . . strangely, she wasn’t intimidating at all. She was more lovely, more real than anyone he had known in a long time. That feeling inside was now under control, and he was beginning to feel emboldened. “This may sound weird,” he said, “but I loved what you read that day.”

  “What I read?”

  “You know, that poem you recited by the grave.”

  “You remember?”

  “It was e. e. cummings’ dive for dreams.”

  “My dad’s favorite,” she said.

  “I went and looked it up afterward.” He paused, then recited a few lines:

  trust your heart

  if the seas catch fire

  (and live by love

  though the stars walk backward)

  “(and live by love,” she repeated, “though the stars walk backward)”

  “It’s great,” Charlie said, “but I’m not really sure what that means.”

  “Me neither.”

  Her face relaxed, her eyes twinkled, and her lips curled up in a bow. She leaned back and let out a good laugh. It echoed across the grounds, and Charlie was sure it was the best sound he had heard in ages.

  Then she rolled over, fixed her eyes on him, and said: “So tell me, Charlie St. Cloud. What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

  It figured she would spot a cute guy the week before leaving town. That’s what had always happened. Her timing was either impeccably off or the guys she liked turned out to be nothing more than deadweight. Tess wanted to live by love, but the stars never walked backward for her, and they most definitely didn’t line up for romance. She was unlucky when it came to the heart, always had been, always would be, and that was a big reason she wanted to get away. For her, sailing was a cinch, but relationships were not. Somehow, mastering the wind was always easier than taming unruly men.

  And yet, she was lying in the grass and she was kind of—maybe—sort of—liking this guy Charlie. It was strange. She had lived in this town all her life and had never really noticed him until today. Sure, she had seen him around in his blue uniform, but he had always seemed a bit shy, preferring the darkest edges of the local bars and dinner joints. Back at school, everyone had known about the St. Cloud boys. They were the most promising brothers in Essex County until the elder had killed the younger on the General Edwards bridge. It was an accident, a real tragedy, and folks whispered that Charlie had never gotten over it.

  But here he was and he seemed perfectly okay. All right, he worked in a cemetery and that was a bit odd, but he was funny, kind, and great looking in that rough way. His arms and shoulders were solid, and he had obviously been working hard that morning. His shirt was damp from labor, his hands were a little muddy, there were flecks of grass in his hair, but damn it if he didn’t quote cummings. There was a gentleness to him, a sweetness. And then there was the way he was looking at her.

  “Oh, Charlie?” she said. “Quit staring and answer my question.”

  He blinked. “What question?”

  “What’re you doing here? Why work in the cemetery?”

  “Why not? Beats having an office job. I get to be outdoors all day, plus, I kind of run the place. It’s fun being the boss, you know?” He pulled a blade of grass from the lawn, put it between his fingers, cupped his hands, and blew. It made a strange whistle, and suddenly the trees seemed to come alive. This guy was too much. Paul Bunyan in a graveyard. Even the birds sang to him.

  She pulled a few blades herself and held them to her face. “Love that smell.”

  “Me too.”

  “You’d think they’d bottle it and sell it.”

  “All you need is some hexanol, methanol, butanone, and—”

  “Okay. You talk to the birds. You know the chemicals in grass. Are you for real?”

  Charlie laughed. “Of course I am. Real as you are.”

  Tess studied the dimple on his cheek. The shock of hair flopping down over his eyes. The little slanted scar on his temple. He was real, all right. But then she wondered about him and this netherworld he worked in. “So what about all the dead people?”

  “What about them?”

  “Isn’t it a little creepy, you know, working here every day?”

  He laughed. “Not at all. Hospitals and nursing homes deal with death. Funeral homes too. But this is different. This is a park. When folks get here, they’re in caskets and urns, and we never even get close to them.”

  Tess pulled the rubber band from her ponytail. She let her hair fall around her shoulders. Her headache was still there, and she was groggy from the lack of sleep, but she was also feeling more relaxed. She liked the deep timbre of Charlie’s voice. She wanted to know more, so she pushed forward. “What about your brother?” she asked.

  “My brother? What about him?”

  It was almost imperceptible, but she sensed him pulling back.

  “He’s buried here, isn’t he? Is that why you’re here?”

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “It’s my job,” he said. “Pays the bills and beats selling insurance in an off
ice, know what I mean?” Tess watched his eyes. She knew his answer was just camouflage. This wasn’t just any job. He wasn’t here to pay the rent.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to work. It’s been really nice talking.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, that was none of my business. Me and my big mouth.”

  “Trust me, there’s nothing wrong with your mouth,” he said. “Maybe we can talk about it another time.”

  Tess stood and looked up at Charlie. He was more than six feet tall. She wanted to wipe the smudge from his forehead and brush the leaves from his shoulders. But suddenly the intrepid sailor didn’t know which way to tack.

  “I’d like that,” she said. “Another time.”

  “Hey, good luck with that trip of yours,” he said.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Hope I see you again when I get back.”

  “Get back?”

  “You know, I’m sailing in a few days.”

  She watched his face closely. His brow furrowed, and then he surprised her.

  “Listen, if you don’t have plans, how about dinner tonight? I’ll throw some fish on the fire.”

  “You cook too?!”

  “Nothing fancy.”

  Tess couldn’t stop the reflex. “Do you always pick up women in the cemetery?”

  “Only if they’re breathing.”

  Tess smiled. She liked his guts and she knew exactly what she wanted. “I’d love to,” she said.

  “Great.”

  “Can I bring anything?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. You drink beer or wine?”

  “Take a guess.” This was an easy test.

  Without hesitating, he said, “Sam Adams all right?”

  “Perfect.”