Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,27

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