Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,28
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 office, 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.”
“I live over there by the forest,” Charlie said, pointing to the thatched-roof cottage with a brick chimney that was nestled against the trees. “I’ll meet you at the front gates. Eight o’clock work for you?”
“It’s a date.”
Tess heard the words—“it’s a date”—and couldn’t help laughing. Charlie waved, then strolled off toward his cart, leaving her alone on the hill. For months, she had walled herself off from the world with preparations for the race. She had deflected every invitation and dodged every overture. She was the last person in Essex County who was supposed to have a date tonight.
She kneeled down by her father’s grave and put one hand on the stone. God, life was strange. Maybe Dad really was looking out for her. He had heard her prayers in the storm. He had guided her home. And maybe he was the reason she found herself saying yes to Charlie St. Cloud’s invitation.
“Dad,” she whispered into the wind. “Thank you.”
ELEVEN
THE SPLASHES OF PURPLE AND PINK PAINTED ACROSS THE sky meant trouble.
For