INTRODUCTION 7 page

"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--sauteing, flambeing, 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 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," she said. "A Red Sox fan."

"You?"

"Hate baseball. It's so boring, I call it standball. You know, they just stand around for nine innings. Football is more my speed, and the Patriots are my guys."

"Really?" he said, a bit incredulous. "I didn't figure you going for guys with no necks."

"Oh yeah, big time, and the hairier the better."

With that, Tess suddenly felt relieved. The bubble had burst. They didn't agree on everything, and that brought a curious comfort. He wasn't perfect after all. Football vs. baseball. Sure, it was trivial, but that was beside the point. Then she realized she was actually keeping score. Normally she didn't really notice what guys thought about things. But here she was regretting that she hadn't followed the Sox box scores since Dad had died.

He handed her a piece of cake, and she took a bite. She closed her eyes and said nothing.

"It's okay, right?" Charlie said. "I ran out of time and threw it together."

"It's edible," she said, rolling the chocolate over her tongue. She was working it--and Charlie--which she enjoyed. Finally, she smiled. "Actually, it's wonderful. Like everything tonight." She stopped, studied her Sam Adams and realized it had to be the beer talking now.

"You like to cook?" Charlie asked.

"No, I like to eat," she said, slowly savoring another bite. "I make a mean Jell-O and I'm huge with the mac and cheese, but other than that, I'm pretty useless." A third bite. "The worst part of solo sailing is the food. Miserable freeze-dried rations." A fourth bite.

"Slow down," he said. "I only made one cake."

She grinned. Why did dessert even taste different tonight? Maybe it was Charlie, a guy who even made food better.

"So where'd you learn to cook?" she said. "Your mom?" The question had a little edge: If he was a mama's boy, it might take some more luster off him.

"Yup, my mom," he said, without hesitation. "I called her in Oregon to get some ideas for tonight. Know what? She was appalled that I wasn't taking you out to dinner on our first date. She warned me it was a big mistake and said I'd give you food poisoning." He winked. "Thank God, I don't always listen."

"Not so fast. I think my stomach feels upset."

"I hear booze kills the bugs. How about another beer?"

"You trying to get me drunk?"

"Definitely," he said, disappearing again into the kitchen.

"Well, I can outdrink you and outeat you. Bring it on," she said. He had passed yet another test. He wasn't embarrassed to be close to his mother, but it also sounded like there was a healthy distance between them, and that must have been hard to figure out after the accident.

"So what's your mom doing in Oregon?"

"She moved out there right after the accident," Charlie called back. "She didn't want any reminders. She's got a new life now. She's married with stepkids."

"You mean she just left you here?"

"No, I refused to go. So I lived with the Ingalls family till I graduated. Since then, I've been on my own."

Tess got up from the table, walked over to a darkened corner of the room with maps on the wall, and switched on a lamp. The charts were tacked up with pins, and they showed the roads and waters of the Eastern seaboard. Tess noticed strange concentric circles drawn neatly on each of them. The rings spread out from Marblehead and reached all the way to New York and Canada. Next to the maps, there were tables listing the exact times of the sunrise and sunset for every day of the month.

"What are these about?" she asked when Charlie returned. She put a finger on one of the loops. "I know it's got something to do with distance, but I can't figure it out."

"It's just a project of mine," he said, delivering a beer and going to the other side of the room. "Now, tell me more about this trip of yours."

"What about it?"

"For starters, your route?"

"Okay, I start in Boston Harbor on Friday, then head south to the Caribbean, and eventually go through the Panama Canal."

"Show me." He was standing in front of a big antique map that was framed behind glass. Tess walked

toward him. She was feeling warm, so she pulled the button-down up over her head and threw it on the couch. She was wearing a white tank top underneath, and she could tell his eyes were following her hands as she fixed the bra strap that was poking out. Then she took a few more steps and stopped next to him.

"You're limping," he said. It was a cute attempt to cover for himself.

"Just a few knocks from my last sail."

"That where you got those bruises on your arms?"

"Yeah, I got tossed around pretty good."

They stood there for the longest time, just inches apart, and Tess traced her route across the Pacific. She could feel his breath on her neck as she pointed to distant stops like the Marquesas, Tuamotu Islands, Tonga, and Fiji. Then he brushed against her for a closer look as she limned the course over the top of Australia, across the Indian Ocean to Durban, around the Cape of Good Hope into the South Atlantic, where the winds would push her home.

"That's a long way by yourself," he said. "Don't think I'd be brave enough to do it."

"You're just smarter than I am."

They were side by side, staring at the whole wide world that she was going to circle. She rubbed one of her bruises, then turned to Charlie and looked into his caramel eyes. "Where do you dream of going, Chas?" She heard herself call him by a nickname--it just came out, but she liked the sound of it.

"Zanzibar, Tasmania, the Galapagos. Everywhere . . ."

"So why don't you?"

He pushed his hands into his pockets and sighed. "Too many responsibilities here."

"All work and no play?"

He didn't answer. For the first time this evening, there was a twinge of discomfort. Despite his smile and twinkle, this man was hiding something. Then, up from deep inside her, came a reaction so surprising that she felt giddy. Instead of wanting to run from his secrets, she just wanted to be closer.

"Come on," she said, "what's stopping you?"

His eyes dodged her and then he flashed that smile that must have gotten him out of most tight spots. "Let's take a walk."

"In the cemetery? It's the middle of the night."

"Anybody who'd sail solo around the world can't be scared of a cemetery."

She wasn't so sure.

"C'mon," he said, grabbing her button-down and two coats. "I want to show you something."

SIXTEEN

IT WAS MIDNIGHT IN WATERSIDE, AND THICK FOG OOZED between the monuments. The moon was invisible behind the clouds, great walls of darkness closed in on every side, and Charlie led the way across the lawn. All was silent, and even their footfalls were muffled by the murk. Marble angels and granite nymphs appeared from nowhere as his flashlight slashed the gloom.

It was the witching hour, and Charlie was under a spell. Everything about Tess had thrown him off balance in the best possible way. Sure, his nervousness had made him go on too long about the origins of the St. Cloud family name in Minnesota. Yes, he had filibustered about the differences between cirrus and stratus accumulations. And yet, he could tell she was having fun. She was knocking back beers and laughing at his jokes.

From the moment she had come strolling down West Shore Drive at 8:00 P.M. sharp, he had tried to memorize every detail about the evening. Her hair was blowing wild, and when he greeted her with an outstretched hand, she ignored it, got up on her tiptoes, and kissed him hello on the cheek.

"Dinner ready?" she said. "I'm starving."

Sure enough, she ate two portions of everything and was lavish with her praise of the food. He loved the way she seemed to devour life, savoring every bite. He told real stories, not the canned ones that usually came out on dates. Tonight he had dispensed with the usual version that he projected to the world: the young man content with his job in the cemetery, the happy-go-lucky guy who never wanted to leave Marblehead. Tess drew out the real Charlie, the one with dreams of breaking free of everything and everyone that reined him in.

He even wanted to tell her about his maps on the wall, the sunset tables, and how those concentric circles governed his life. The rings on the charts showed the ambit of his world, demarcating exactly how far he could go from Waterside and still get back for Sam. A trip to Cape Cod. A drive up to New Hampshire. The outer circle was the absolute farthest he could go. Beyond that line, there was no chance of making it home in time. The promise would be broken and his brother would be gone. It could be dangerous sharing all this with Tess, but now, with the night winding down, he was feeling safer and ready to reveal a little more.

"First you get me drunk, then you take me on a forced march," she was saying as they tramped up a hill. "Where are we going?"

"Trust me, it's special."

They walked on, and the moon finally poked through the clouds, gently touching headstones in every direction. "We used to sneak in here all the time when we were kids," Tess said. "I made out with my first boy behind that obelisk over there."

"Who was the lucky guy?"

"Tad Baylor. I think he was in your class."

"The human fly?" Tad had run afoul of the law junior year, when he was captured stealing final exams from the copy room after scaling the wall of the administration building and climbing through a fourth-floor window. "You have excellent taste."

"I was fourteen," she said, "and he was a great kisser."

They kept on going across the lawns. An owl hooted from the treetops. The air was cool, and Charlie buttoned up his pea coat.

"So how long have you worked here?" Tess asked as they passed through a plot of Revolutionary War graves.

"Thirteen years," Charlie said. "Barnaby Sweetland gave me my first job here when I was in high school. He was the caretaker for thirty years. Remember him? The guy had a voice like an angel, and he ran the chorus at the Old North Church. Every day in the field, planting, cutting, sweeping, we could hear him singing to the skies."

Charlie kneeled down near a gravestone and pointed his flashlight at the damp ground. "Barnaby showed me every single thing I know about this place." He scooped up a handful of damp earth with an unmistakable aroma. "You've probably smelled this your whole life when you've gone outside in the rain. It comes from these strange compounds called geosmins. Barnaby taught me the chemical names for everything."

Tess started to laugh. "Be still my heart," she said.

Charlie smiled. His mind was cluttered with all sorts of obscure information, but now he had to wonder: Would a girl setting off to conquer the world ever really fall for a guy who lived in a cemetery and knew why grass and dirt smelled the way they did?

"This way," he said, pushing forward into the night.

"So whatever happened to Barnaby?" Tess said, following closely.

"One winter he took a long walk in a snowstorm and never came back. I found his body up there on the Mount of Memory." Charlie aimed the flashlight into the night. "He had a choir book with a note in it, saying he was tired of working so darn hard. After seventy-two years on earth, he was ready for the next world."

"You mean he killed himself?"

"I don't think so. He just wanted to spend the rest of eternity singing. That's where he promised I would always be able to find him. You know, in the songs of the choir and the organ on Sundays."

"Was he right? Can you still hear him?"

"Yes," Charlie said. "If I pay attention, he's always there in the music."

They had reached the crest of a hill where two willows hovered over a small, square stone building above the harbor. Guarding the entrance were two columns and a pair of crossed baseball bats. Tess walked straight to the front steps. Charlie aimed the flashlight at the name ST. CLOUD carved on the lintel.

"Your brother," she said.

"Yes, Sam." Charlie traced the sharp outline of the structure with his beam. "Mausoleum, noun," he said. "A floor covering used in crypts." He paused. "That's one of Sam's jokes."

Tess smiled, touching the smooth stone. "Is it all marble?"

"Imported from Carrara. They spared no expense. The driver of the eighteen-wheeler that hit us was drunk out of his mind. His company paid for every inch of this. It was all about public relations." He ran the flashlight down one of the columns. "They gave the guy five years, but he got away with three for good behavior. He's probably in a bar right now getting loaded."

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be." He shook his head. "It was my fault. I never should've taken Sam to Fenway, and we never should've been on the bridge in the first place. If I'd been paying any attention, I could've avoided the crash, you know, gotten out of the way of the truck."

And so without noticing, Charlie broke one of his cardinal rules. He began talking about Sam. With everyone else in the world, he had always dodged the topic. It only made folks uncomfortable and awkward. But, he could tell, Tess was different. From the moment he met her, he knew she would understand.

He sat down on the steps of the mausoleum and said, "You were right this afternoon. Sam is why I work here. I promised I'd always take care of him."

"So you think he's around?"

Charlie looked up at her. "As sure as I am of anything."

"God, if only I had that same certainty about my father." She sat down beside him. He could smell her shampoo and feel her warmth. "I wish I knew Dad was close by."

"What makes you think he isn't?" Charlie said.

"There'd be some kind of sign, don't you think?"

"I think those signs are all around if you know where to look."

He made an absentminded looping motion with the flashlight beam, and as it swept the darkness he saw the most unexpected sight: Sam was hanging upside down from a hemlock branch and making a funny face. Charlie shut off the beam and leaped to his feet.

"What's wrong?" Tess said.

"Nothing. Just got a chill." He flipped the flashlight on again, turned it in the direction of the branch, but Sam was gone.

"You were telling me about Sam," she said. He focused on her emerald eyes. Did she really want to hear the answers? He was about to speak, but with his peripheral vision he saw something move. Over her shoulder in the light of the emerging moon, there was Sam racing across the lawn with Oscar.

"What do you miss most about him?" Tess asked.

"I miss punching him in the nose when he was a brat," he said in a voice that he hoped Sam would hear. "He liked to spy on people even when it was totally inappropriate." Charlie checked over Tess's shoulder again, and now Sam was gone.

"Most of all," he continued, "I miss that feeling when you go to sleep at night and when you wake up in the morning. It's the feeling that everything is all right in the world. You know, that amazing feeling that you're whole, that you've got everything you want, that you aren't missing anything. Sometimes when I wake up, I get it just for a moment. It lasts a few seconds, but then I remember what happened, and how nothing has been the same since."

"You think that'll ever go away?"

"I doubt it." And then, incredibly, he found himself opening up even more. "Some days are better than others. You know, I finish work and hang out at the Barnacle or shoot pool at Bay State Billiards. It feels like it's gone, and I'm just like everyone else. Then, without warning, it comes back and lodges in my mind. That's when I don't feel right being around anyone. So I stay here behind the gates, listening to music, thinking, and reading books. I guess I never really know when it'll hit me. It's like the weather. Blue sky one day, thunder and rain the next."

"Same for me," she said, her voice almost a whisper. "But it's strange. Tonight's the first time in two years that I haven't missed him so much it hurts." Then she smiled and did the most incredible thing. She reached over and squeezed his hand.

A hemlock branch snapped behind Tess. She spun around, surprised by the noise. A fistful of needles landed on her shoulder. She turned to Charlie with one eyebrow arched. "Did you just see something? What was that?!"

Date: 2014-12-29; view: 564