The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud (10 page)

FIFTEEN

T
ESS WAS FEELING STUFFED AND EVEN A LITTLE TIPSY, BUT
she agreed to another Sam Adams. Her appetite was back, and the brew had numbed her killer headache. She still had those sea legs from the storm, but Charlie had pulled out all the stops for dinner, and she was enjoying every moment. His grilled swordfish with tomato and capers had been sublime, and the salad of beets and oranges was heavenly. She definitely had no room left for dessert. But she would find a way.

They were seated at a little round table on the edge of his living room. The lights were low, a log crackled in the fireplace, and two candles framed his face. He was telling her a story about his surname, which came from St. Cloud, Minnesota, the Mississippi River town where his mother was born and from which she escaped as soon as she could. The original St. Cloud, he explained, was a sixth-century French prince who renounced the world to serve God after his brothers were murdered by an evil uncle. Tess watched his mouth move and listened to his beautiful, deep voice. Then, seamlessly, he was delving into something called nephology, the scientific study of clouds, based on the Greek
nephos
. There were nine types, he said, each defined by appearance and altitude. He was full of strange and wonderful facts, and his mind worked fast, making the most unusual leaps. She sipped on her beer, stared into his eyes, listened some more, and felt her edges begin to soften.

She always hated guys who fussed over her with fancy dates to Boston including five-star restaurants and valet parking. They ordered vintage wine, waxed on about white truffles, and blabbed endlessly about themselves with the preposterous hope of luring her into bed. They were predictable, insincere, and boring.

Charlie was different. He was like some rare and exotic animal—a gentler, more sophisticated breed than the critters she had grown up around. There was also something effortless about the evening. For starters, there wasn’t a cookbook in sight. He did it all himself—sautéing, flambéing, and all those other unfathomable activities in the kitchen that she had no idea about. But what struck her the most wasn’t what Charlie had to say about cirrostratus clouds. It was how he listened. He seemed to absorb every single word that came from her, and tonight, feeling as comfortable as she did, there were many of them.

“I really love the name of your boat,” he was saying. “
Querencia
, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “You speak Spanish?”

“No, but I read a book about bullfighting once. Isn’t that the spot in the ring where the bull feels protected and secure?”

“Exactly,” she said. “Sometimes it’s a place in the sun. Other times it’s in the shade. It’s where the bull goes between charges. It’s like an invisible fortress, the only safe place.”

“Just like your boat.”

“Yeah, and just like Marblehead.”

Soon, Tess found herself wanting Charlie to know everything about her. She wanted him to know how she had broken her arm riding a bike on the Causeway when she was eleven. She wanted him to know how Willy Grace, her first boyfriend, had tricked her into a camp-out on Brown’s Island when he had a lot more than stargazing on his mind. She wanted him to know how she had always slow-danced to the fast part of “Stairway to Heaven.” And she wanted him to know more about her dad, who for some reason tonight felt closer than ever.

Yes, Tess felt a rare connection to Charlie, and it was at once exciting and frightening. With every passing moment, she knew that she was losing a little bit of control and that wasn’t good. Everything about him was like a gentle undertow pulling her deeper and deeper. But she was leaving in less than a week, and no good-looking, great-cooking, careful-listening guy was going to sink her.

“Want dessert?” he said all of a sudden.

“Do I look like a girl who ever says no to dessert?”

“Coming right up,” he said, gathering the dishes.

“Better be good.” She sat back in her chair and admired the way he walked into the kitchen. He was wearing 501 jeans, and she could just make out the impressive cuts of his deltoids and triceps under his sweater. “You sure I can’t help with anything? I feel like a lump just sitting here.”

“Make yourself useful and change the CD.”

“Any requests?”

“Nope, it’s a test.”

Tess looked around for the stereo. The room was wonderfully dark and warm. Rough-hewn beams ran the length of the ceiling. Antique maps and framed black-and-white photographs punctuated the walls. Piles of books were everywhere—crammed into shelves, stacked on the floor, or heaped atop rugged old furniture made of wood and leather. The place felt like a secret hideaway, so safe and cozy that you’d never want to leave.

On a stand in the corner, the stereo was playing the blues, something vaguely familiar on the guitar, maybe Muddy Waters, but that seemed too predictable for him. She was sure he had picked something special and different for the evening, even if she wasn’t sophisticated enough to recognize it.

Looking over his stacks of CDs, she felt a twinge of pressure. What if he didn’t like what she chose? She thumbed through a few, all the latest stuff: Cornershop, Wilco, the Magnetic Fields. She saw the Jayhawks and slipped
Hollywood Town Hall
into the machine. The Minnesota band felt just right: not too predictable or noisy, with a few jangly ballads.

“Not bad. You can stay,” Charlie said, emerging from the kitchen with a chocolate cake and candle.

“Wow! What’s the occasion?” she said.

“Your birthday.”

“But it’s not till February.”

“September, February, whatever. I thought we should celebrate early because you’re going to be away.” He held the cake forward so she could blow out the candle.

In that moment, Tess almost melted, but something inside told her to be on guard. She carefully took his measure. He was standing there all tall and handsome, with the candle flickering in his eyes. His dimple danced on one cheek, and the cake itself seemed miniature in his large hands.

“Go on,” he said, “what’re you waiting for? Make a wish!”

Was he pulling her leg? No one on planet Earth was that sweet. She took a breath, wished for him to be as perfect as he seemed, and was about to puff out the candle when he busted up laughing. “You totally fell for it, didn’t you?” he said.

Tess couldn’t help giggling too. “Yes, I did,” she said. She poked one finger into the icing. “Tell the truth. Why the cake?”

“It’s the anniversary of Ted Williams hitting .406.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope,” Charlie said, setting down the cake. “This week in 1941, Teddy Ballgame played a doubleheader and went six for eight. The guy was only twenty-three years old.”

“Oh no,” she said. “A Red Sox fan.”

“You?”

“Hate baseball. It’s so boring, I call it standball. You know, they just stand around for nine innings. Football is more my speed, and the Patriots are my guys.”

“Really?” he said, a bit incredulous. “I didn’t figure you going for guys with no necks.”

“Oh yeah, big time, and the hairier the better.”

With that, Tess suddenly felt relieved. The bubble had burst. They didn’t agree on everything, and that brought a curious comfort. He wasn’t perfect after all. Football vs. baseball. Sure, it was trivial, but that was beside the point. Then she realized she was actually keeping score. Normally she didn’t really notice what guys thought about things. But here she was regretting that she hadn’t followed the Sox box scores since Dad had died.

He handed her a piece of cake, and she took a bite. She closed her eyes and said nothing.

“It’s okay, right?” Charlie said. “I ran out of time and threw it together.”

“It’s edible,” she said, rolling the chocolate over her tongue. She was working it—and Charlie—which she enjoyed. Finally, she smiled. “Actually, it’s wonderful. Like everything tonight.” She stopped, studied her Sam Adams and realized it had to be the beer talking now.

“You like to cook?” Charlie asked.

“No, I like to eat,” she said, slowly savoring another bite. “I make a mean Jell-O and I’m huge with the mac and cheese, but other than that, I’m pretty useless.” A third bite. “The worst part of solo sailing is the food. Miserable freeze-dried rations.” A fourth bite.

“Slow down,” he said. “I only made one cake.”

She grinned. Why did dessert even taste different tonight? Maybe it was Charlie, a guy who even made food better.

“So where’d you learn to cook?” she said. “Your mom?” The question had a little edge: If he was a mama’s boy, it might take some more luster off him.

“Yup, my mom,” he said, without hesitation. “I called her in Oregon to get some ideas for tonight. Know what? She was appalled that I wasn’t taking you out to dinner on our first date. She warned me it was a big mistake and said I’d give you food poisoning.” He winked. “Thank God, I don’t always listen.”

“Not so fast. I think my stomach feels upset.”

“I hear booze kills the bugs. How about another beer?”

“You trying to get me drunk?”

“Definitely,” he said, disappearing again into the kitchen.

“Well, I can outdrink you and outeat you. Bring it on,” she said. He had passed yet another test. He wasn’t embarrassed to be close to his mother, but it also sounded like there was a healthy distance between them, and that must have been hard to figure out after the accident.

“So what’s your mom doing in Oregon?”

“She moved out there right after the accident,” Charlie called back. “She didn’t want any reminders. She’s got a new life now. She’s married with stepkids.”

“You mean she just left you here?”

“No, I refused to go. So I lived with the Ingalls family till I graduated. Since then, I’ve been on my own.”

Tess got up from the table, walked over to a darkened corner of the room with maps on the wall, and switched on a lamp. The charts were tacked up with pins, and they showed the roads and waters of the Eastern seaboard. Tess noticed strange concentric circles drawn neatly on each of them. The rings spread out from Marblehead and reached all the way to New York and Canada. Next to the maps, there were tables listing the exact times of the sunrise and sunset for every day of the month.

“What are these about?” she asked when Charlie returned. She put a finger on one of the loops. “I know it’s got something to do with distance, but I can’t figure it out.”

“It’s just a project of mine,” he said, delivering a beer and going to the other side of the room. “Now, tell me more about this trip of yours.”

“What about it?”

“For starters, your route?”

“Okay, I start in Boston Harbor on Friday, then head south to the Caribbean, and eventually go through the Panama Canal.”

“Show me.” He was standing in front of a big antique map that was framed behind glass. Tess walked toward him. She was feeling warm, so she pulled the button-down up over her head and threw it on the couch. She was wearing a white tank top underneath, and she could tell his eyes were following her hands as she fixed the bra strap that was poking out. Then she took a few more steps and stopped next to him.

“You’re limping,” he said. It was a cute attempt to cover for himself.

“Just a few knocks from my last sail.”

“That where you got those bruises on your arms?”

“Yeah, I got tossed around pretty good.”

They stood there for the longest time, just inches apart, and Tess traced her route across the Pacific. She could feel his breath on her neck as she pointed to distant stops like the Marquesas, Tuamotu Islands, Tonga, and Fiji. Then he brushed against her for a closer look as she limned the course over the top of Australia, across the Indian Ocean to Durban, around the Cape of Good Hope into the South Atlantic, where the winds would push her home.

“That’s a long way by yourself,” he said. “Don’t think I’d be brave enough to do it.”

“You’re just smarter than I am.”

They were side by side, staring at the whole wide world that she was going to circle. She rubbed one of her bruises, then turned to Charlie and looked into his caramel eyes. “Where do you dream of going, Chas?” She heard herself call him by a nickname—it just came out, but she liked the sound of it.

“Zanzibar, Tasmania, the Galapagos. Everywhere . . .”

“So why don’t you?”

He pushed his hands into his pockets and sighed. “Too many responsibilities here.”

“All work and no play?”

He didn’t answer. For the first time this evening, there was a twinge of discomfort. Despite his smile and twinkle, this man was hiding something. Then, up from deep inside her, came a reaction so surprising that she felt giddy. Instead of wanting to run from his secrets, she just wanted to be closer.

“Come on,” she said, “what’s stopping you?”

His eyes dodged her and then he flashed that smile that must have gotten him out of most tight spots. “Let’s take a walk.”

“In the cemetery? It’s the middle of the night.”

“Anybody who’d sail solo around the world can’t be scared of a cemetery.”

She wasn’t so sure.

“C’mon,” he said, grabbing her button-down and two coats. “I want to show you something.”