Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,35
Tink pulled out a slice of baloney and tossed it to him. “So what’s the girl up to?” he asked. “She got a hot date tonight?” The dog woofed. “Figures.”
Tink hated that this would be his life for so many months while Tess was sailing around the world. He got up from the bench, wiped the mustard from his beard, and tucked in his flannel shirt.
“Time to go, boy,” he said, snapping the leash on Bobo. He tossed the trash in the can, and they lumbered down Darling Street. Ahead, he saw the steady stream of Saturday night traffic on Washington. He trudged up the hill toward Abbot Hall, cut into the square, and saw a pretty woman in front of a pale blue saltbox.
La-Dee-Da Channing was sitting on her stoop, filing her nails, lost in InStyle magazine. A fancy green scarf was tied around her head, and she was wearing Jackie O shades even at dusk. La was an aspiring actress who didn’t let her administrative post in the harbormaster’s office keep her from dressing for Tinseltown.
“Evening,” he said.
La didn’t even look up. “Brad and Jennifer practice Bikram yoga together,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston. All the stars do yoga in a heated room.”
“Whatever happened to jogging?”
La looked up and focused on his belly. “You tell me.”
“Ouch,” he said, patting his prodigious tummy.
“You look great tonight,” she said. “You even took a bath.”
“Thanks,” Tink said, feeling his chest puff out. “Everybody washes on Saturday.”
“Not you,” she laughed. “Bobo!” She leaned forward toward the retriever. “Here, boy.”
Tink shrank, watching her rub the dog’s ears. “You going to Maddie’s later?” he asked.
“You buying?”
“Anything for you, La.”
“Awww, what a sweetheart.” She lowered her glasses, and her brown eyes gave him a long look. Just when all seemed lost for the night, Tink felt a glimmer of hope. “See you at Maddie’s,” he said, tugging on Bobo’s leash. “Maybe afterward we can try some of that yogurt stuff.”
“Yoga, you goof!”
“I’ll be Bob and you can be Jennifer.”
“Brad,” she laughed. “Better watch out or you might get hurt.”
“No chance. You have no idea what this hunk of burning love can do,” he said. “Just wait, it’ll blow your mind.”
FIFTEEN
TESS 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