Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,7

for a long, long time. But nothing was ever permanent. No matter what she did, there was no stopping them from growing up. No stopping them at all.

In Charlie’s numbed mind, a parade of images floated along: Someday soon, they’d be old enough to leave home, go to college, get real jobs, and live near each other. They’d have families. They’d play catch with their own boys and have season tickets to the Sox.

Charlie had never really imagined the future before. He lived in the present tense with Sam and Oscar. But in that moment, his neck in a brace, an IV in his arm, he somehow pictured the days and years ahead—the days and years with his brother at his side, always together, no matter what. There was no alternative. Life without Sam was simply unfathomable.

He reached out across the narrow divide of the ambulance. He pushed his hand past the thick waist of a paramedic. He found Sam’s skinny arm, the IV, the baseball mitt wedged next to his body. He felt his brother’s hand, all limp and cold. And Charlie held on as hard as he could.

FIVE

THE FLAGS ON THE WHARF WHIPPED IN UNISON AS TESS Carroll pulled her banged-up ’74 Chevy Cheyenne to a stop. She got out of the truck and studied the snapping shapes in the wind. There were tiny clues in every curl, subtle hints in each twist. She knew this was a calming southeasterly breeze, no more than four knots. It began up in the ice floes of Nova Scotia, blew down with the trades over New England, and eventually would meander all the way to the Caribbean.

Tess walked to the flatbed and tried to open the tailgate but the darn thing wouldn’t budge. She had bought the old pickup from a junkyard, and her dad had put life into it with a used engine. When it needed another motor, he told her to trade it in. She didn’t listen, and years later when he died without warning, she knew she would never get rid of that Chevy. She kept it running herself now, holding on to the smooth steering wheel like it was a piece of him.

Tess reached over the siding, grabbed hold of a big nylon sail bag, and hauled it out. She was tall and lean with dark straight hair in a ponytail that poked through the back of a Patriots’ cap. She balanced the sack on one shoulder, turned, and walked toward the dock.

Bella Hooper was sitting in the sun on an aluminum lawn chair with a hand-painted sign propped next to her advertising: THE WOMAN WHO LISTENS. When she saw Tess coming, she lifted up one Walkman earphone and bellowed, “Pull up a seat!” A bartender for thirty years at Maddie’s, Bella had retired a few years back to start a new business. For $15 an hour, she would listen to anything you had to say, confidentiality guaranteed. She didn’t dispense advice, and she definitely didn’t accept health insurance, but she was always busy with clients who came down to the dock to give her an earful. Bella’s great gift—perhaps even art—was the ability to keep a one-way conversation aloft with just the proper number of “uh-huhs” and “oohs” and “then whats.”

“C’mon, Tess, I’ll give you my special friends-and-family discount,” she was saying. “Only five bucks for an hour of quality listening.”

“Too bad you don’t take Blue Cross,” Tess said with a smile. “Maybe next time. I’ve got to get out on the water.”

“Suit yourself,” Bella said, adjusting her earphones and settling back into her lawn chair.

Up ahead, a few old wharf rats were playing pinochle on a bench. They were retired fishermen who got by on Social Security and keno jackpots and who lounged around by the water every afternoon, keeping track of boats, monitoring the price of lobster, and telling lies.

“Hey, princess!” an old-timer rasped, peering through Larry King glasses that dominated his scraggly face.

“How you doing, Bony?” Tess said.

“Losing my shirt,” he said, throwing down his cards. “Need a crew for the afternoon?”

“Wish I could afford you.”

“I’m begging,” he said. “I’ll work for free. I can’t take another minute here.”

“He can’t take another losing hand,” one of the guys cracked.

“Please, Tess, let me sail with you.”

“You really want another heart attack?” Tess said, adjusting the sail bag. “You know I’ll give you one.” She winked.

“Whip!” Bony said, using the local slang for “damn” that had been passed down for generations.

“Down bucket!” Tess answered. For