Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,36
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,”