Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,42

head on a pillow and was staring right at her, but he didn’t move an inch.

“What? No love for your girl?” she said. “I bet you’re hungry.”

She went into the kitchen, switched on another light, and found a note from Tink by the toaster.

Hey, Girl,

Took Bobo out & ate your leftovers. I was tempted to try on your clothes, but not my size. Too bad. See you mañana at your mom’s dinner.

Love,

Me

ps—I’m doing yoga tonight with La Channing! Check in when you’re back . . . make sure I’m still alive.

She chuckled. Tink hadn’t seen his toes in years. It was too late to call, so she got out some Eukanuba, scooped the food into Bobo’s bowl, and set it on the floor. “C’mon, boy. Chow time.” Bobo was twelve years old and a little hard of hearing, but he still had some bark in him. A special present from Dad, he was waiting in a wicker basket on the front porch when she got home from her very first day of high school. Guys would come and go and maybe even break her heart, but Bobo was always true.

She went back into the living room. “Hey, what’s the matter, boy?” The dog shook his head, let out a sleepy woof, and buried his nose in his paws. “Okay, I’ll take you on a big run tomorrow, all the way to the lighthouse. And I’ll make you scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast. How’s that?” He snorted.

Tess saw the light flashing on her answering machine. One message. She walked over and hit play. She heard her mother’s voice: “Tessie, it’s me. Just a reminder. Dinner at six tomorrow. If you’re back earlier and feel like brunch with the old ladies, swing by church in the morning. It would be nice for everyone to see you before you go.” There was a pause. Then she said, “Love you.”

Tess climbed the slanting stairs to the second floor. “C’mon, boy,” Tess said. “Bedtime for Bobo.” She turned on the television and switched to the Weather Channel. A reporter was finishing a story about the damage from that nasty storm. It had slammed a bunch of tuna boats returning to Gloucester, sunk a tug somewhere near Providence, and was moving down to Delaware and Maryland. “Yeah, and it almost killed me,” she said, shaking her head.

She slipped off her shirt and jeans, took off her bra, and changed into her tattered #11 Drew Bledsoe football jersey and some thick wool socks.

She hopped onto the four-poster bed, threw her head back on the pillows, and knew she was never going to get to sleep. She felt wired, like she could fly. It was Charlie St. Cloud and that incredible kiss. Damn, it was too short. She should have stayed a little longer and given him a little more of a test drive, but she knew that was dangerous. She didn’t entirely trust herself in those situations. She easily could have followed him back to that cottage and spent the night. Of course, she wouldn’t have necessarily slept with him. She wasn’t that kind of girl. But she might have done just about everything else.

So why had she run? It was an old habit born of experience and disappointment. She couldn’t remember exactly when, but somewhere along the way, she had given up even imagining that a guy could sweep her away. She had turned off those emotional faucets, and they were rusty from disuse. It was better that way. She once calculated that there had to be someone out there in a world of 6.3 billion people who would love her well and long. She even planned to sail out to find him. It was a romantic idea, but deep down, she knew the truth. She would spend four months all alone on the water, never docking long enough to get attached.

She got out of bed, pulled on her big red bathrobe, and stepped into the hall. Then she climbed the steep ladder up to the widow’s walk on top of the house. It was a small square room enclosed in glass that looked on the harbor below and the twinkling lights of Boston to the southwest. For hundreds of years, women had climbed these rungs to watch their men return from the sea. Tess laughed: She loved turning tradition on its head. Soon, her family and friends would climb this ladder to look for her mast when she was on her way back from