by Ben Sherwood
“Great.”
“Can I bring anything?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered. You drink beer or wine?”
“Take a guess.” This was an easy test.
Without hesitating, he said, “Sam Adams all right?”
“Perfect.”
“I live over there by the forest,” Charlie said, pointing to the thatched-roof cottage with a brick chimney that was nestled against the trees. “I’ll meet you at the front gates. Eight o’clock work for you?”
“It’s a date.”
Tess heard the words—“it’s a date”—and couldn’t help laughing. Charlie waved, then strolled off toward his cart, leaving her alone on the hill. For months, she had walled herself off from the world with preparations for the race. She had deflected every invitation and dodged every overture. She was the last person in Essex County who was supposed to have a date tonight.
She kneeled down by her father’s grave and put one hand on the stone. God, life was strange. Maybe Dad really was looking out for her. He had heard her prayers in the storm. He had guided her home. And maybe he was the reason she found herself saying yes to Charlie St. Cloud’s invitation.
“Dad,” she whispered into the wind. “Thank you.”
ELEVEN
THE SPLASHES OF PURPLE AND PINK PAINTED ACROSS THE sky meant trouble.
For years, Charlie had vigilantly organized his life around the sundown meeting with Sam, and there was no margin for error. He knew that night he had until exactly 6:51 P.M., the precise moment of civil twilight when the center of the sun’s disc dropped six degrees below the horizon and the hidden playground was dark. That gave him twenty-one minutes to race around in his old ’66 Rambler to pick up swordfish steaks at the Lobster Company in Little Harbor, and then whip over to the other side of town for salad and dessert ingredients at Crosby’s.
It was going to be very close.
He thought of Tess standing up there on the hill and couldn’t believe his gumption. He had actually asked her to dinner at his place, and her green eyes had lit up when she said yes. Joe the Atheist would be stunned. Had he ever been around a woman like this, so full of spunk and sass? Just talking to her made him feel more alive.
“Relax, you just spent fifteen minutes with her,” Charlie told himself. He was a practical man in all matters, including the heart. He had to be. In his life governed by the setting sun, there was no room to get carried away.
Indeed, it had been four years since he had gotten tangled up with anyone. Becca Blint was his last girlfriend. They had met at the Pub at the Landing on beer-tasting night and had fallen for each other over a pint of Angkor Extra Stout from Cambodia. She was a first-grade teacher in Peabody and was funny, flirty, and older. She had definitely taught him a thing or two during their summer together, sprinting through the sprinklers, skinny-dipping in the pond, and snuggling up in the cottage. But when autumn came, Becca wanted to go away on weekends to watch the leaves change or use frequent-flyer miles, jet off to Paris, and visit the Père-Lachaise Cemetery, where Jim Morrison was buried.
Charlie never told her his secret about Sam, and soon his need to be in the graveyard every night at sundown became ridiculous to her. When he had run out of excuses and was exhausted by her nagging, he tried to relax the sunset rule a little, showing up a few minutes late now and then. Nothing terrible happened, so he pushed the limits further. One night, he actually got there after dark, and that’s when he realized that Sam was beginning to fade. At first, the change was almost imperceptible, but then it became frighteningly obvious that he was losing his gift. The hard fact was that the more he lived in one world, the less he could see the other.
So he drew the line, retreated to his old ways, and refused to discuss the subject with Becca. When the New Year arrived, she was gone. Charlie found a note pinned to the steering wheel of his cart. I’m done with this cemetery, she wrote. And I’m finished with the living dead. Breaks my heart that I can’t be the one to set you free.
It hurt to see her go, but the choice between Sam and Becca was a no-brainer. He could see no compromise. After that, he protected himself by working even harder and avoiding any real attachments, especially of the female variety.
He kept up the happy-go-lucky appearance and was always first with a joke or quip. But when it came to real entanglements, he had mastered the dodge. Every chance, he sabotaged, and every night, he remembered why. He had robbed Sam of life, so he, Charlie, didn’t deserve love or happiness.
The logic was irrefutable.
Now this scary new feeling inside was sounding every alarm. Tess was trouble. If anyone could toss his carefully ordered world upside down, it was she.
He aimed the Rambler into a parking place on Orne Street, glanced at the sky, and checked his watch. Seventeen minutes to go. He got out of the car and saw an energetic woman in a burgundy track suit leading a group of tourists away from Little Harbor, the rocky cove where boat-makers and fishermen had done business for centuries.
Uh-oh. Where to hide?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” she bellowed, “please note how our chimneys lean to the east. See? Over there?” She pointed toward a tilting smokestack. “That’s because of the sun and the way the mortar dried.”
Fraffie Chapman was the town historian and chairwoman of the esteemed Historic District Commission. No citizen could add a cornice or gable or even brick a walk without prior approval of Fraffie’s board. Her arched nose was strong, her white hair poofy, and she looked remarkably like one of her direct ancestors: George Washington himself, who had twice visited Marblehead.
“Look at that color,” she said rapturously, pointing with her walking stick to the door of an old house. “Gorgeous! Authentic blue. Exactly matches the colonial original!” She took a few more steps. “This way, please. Now, you see those shutters up there! I can’t even bear to look.” She covered her eyes in mock horror. “They do offend me greatly. Shutters weren’t used in the eighteenth century! They came into fashion in the early nineteenth. So, the Historic District Commission is demanding that the owners take down these monstrosities.” Charlie laughed to himself. To many townsfolk, the Hysterical Commission was more like it.
“Any questions?!” Fraffie shouted, but the visitors cowered. She turned and stomped toward him. “Marblehead is a clapboard town, not a shingle town,” she declared to no one in particular. “We won’t let the off islanders turn this into Disneyland. No, we won’t!”
Charlie crossed the street to take cover behind a Ford Explorer. Maybe he could avoid her. But then he heard her piercing voice: “I see you, St. Cloud! You can’t hide from me!” She frowned, cocked her head, and marched over to him. “You better cut those bushes on West Shore. I’m serious this time. Get them in shape or face my wrath!”
Charlie preferred letting the boxwood and yew in front of the cemetery grow wild. They made the entrance feel more natural. But he didn’t have time to argue. He could tell from the low light reflecting on the water that the sun had already dipped below the tree line.
“Those bushes aren’t historical,” Fraffie intoned. “They’re a blight. I’m giving you one more chance. Remove them or we’ll go to war.”
Charlie imagined her shooting him with her very own musket or slashing him with a cutlass. Then he mustered his most polite tone. “I’ll see what I can do; now, excuse me please. I’m in a hurry.”
Fraffie turned back to her group and pointed her cane toward the waterfront. “That’s Gerry Island out in the harbor. Elbridge Gerry was our most famous native son. He was Vice President of the United States in 1813, and we named a school, a street, and a veteran fireman’s association after him.…”
Off Fraffie went, declaiming about pitched roofs and paired chimneys. Charlie rushed down the street and opened the door to the Lobster Company, with its sign in the window: UNATTENDED CHILDREN WILL BE SOLD AS SLAVES. He stepped inside and was accosted by the musty smell of brine and fish. Big tanks filled with lobst
ers gurgled in the middle of the room. The concrete floor was wet from water splashing over the edges. As a boy, he had loved pushing his face up against the moist glass and watching the crustaceans do battle.
At the register, a pale man in pinstripes was collecting his purchase. Pete Kiley had played second base on the high-school team and was now an associate in a fancy Boston law firm. He and Charlie had turned more double plays than any infield in Marblehead history. Now Pete and his family lived out on the Neck in an expensive home and took vacations in France and Italy.
“Hey,” Pete said, turning around. “I’ll be damned. If it isn’t number twenty-four … shortstop … Charlie St.—”
His routine was always the same no matter where they ran into each other, and Charlie knew it was intended to cut through the awkwardness. Pete had done something with his life, and Charlie hadn’t. But the truth was that Pete’s attempt to recall their glory days only made things feel worse.
“Sorry I can’t stay and chat,” Pete said, twirling his BMW keys, “but the wife is waiting for me in the car.” He punched Charlie in the shoulder. “Give me a ring one of these days, and we’ll have you over for dinner. It’s been too long.”
“You bet,” Charlie said, watching him go. Of course, he would never make the call.
“That kid’s making too much money,” an old voice said behind the counter. “Just shows you, taxes should be higher on the rich.” Bowdy Cartwright had owned the Lobster Company forever. He was a jowly fellow with at least three chins who had amused generations of kids with his uncanny imitation of a puffer fish. “What are you looking for today?” he asked. “We’ve got good haddock for chowder and clams for steamers with drawn broth—”
“I’ll take two swordfish steaks, half a pound each.”
“You got it. Just off the boat from the Grand Banks.”
A young woman stepped out from one of the back rooms of the store. Margie Cartwright flipped her long blond hair to one side and flashed a red lipsticky smile. She went straight to the cash register, leaned over, and thrust her cheek toward him.
“Come on, Charlie. Give one up for your old gal.”
Way back before he ruined everything, Margie was his sweetheart. She was a year older. He was a sophomore, she was a junior, and they had met one freezing Thanksgiving at the big game against Swampscott. She was a cheerleader who insisted on wearing a little skirt and sweater whatever the weather. After all, she said, girls with pompoms had no business in parkas and long pants. Their romance was innocent enough, with nights spent immersed in conversation over chicken parm at the House of Pizza. Then came the accident, and Charlie retreated. All the cheerleading in the world would not lift his spirits. Margie tried her hardest to bring him back, but he pushed her away.
Charlie leaned forward and kissed her.
“Thatta boy,” she said, batting long eyelashes. Charlie smelled her Chloe perfume. In many ways, Margie hadn’t let go of her glory years. Her long blond hair was unchanged, and she wore a tight pink sweater, short black skirt, and high boots. Up and down the coast, the fishermen knew her name and outfits, her only form of protest against spending her life in the family’s fish shack.
“So? Whatcha cooking tonight?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing much.”
“Here ya go,” Bowdy said, handing Charlie a paper bag. “That’s two swordfish steaks, Margie. A little more than a pound.”
“Two steaks? Oh really!” Margie said, arching a well-plucked eyebrow. “Fish for two?”
“Nah …”
“C’mon, Charlie! Who is she? Maybe I can put in a good word for you.”
Charlie threw a $20 bill on the register. “Sorry, Margie. I gotta run. Ring me up, please.”
“You’re no fun anymore. What’s the big secret? You know I’m going to find out anyway! Might as well tell me.”
Charlie thought for a moment. She was right. Her far-flung network of spies would report back within days. What was the harm in telling? She knew the skinny on every person in town. In fact, maybe she could help.
He checked his watch—eleven minutes to go—and decided to skip Crosby’s for salad and dessert. If he improvised at home and whipped up something from scratch, he still had a few minutes to get some valuable intelligence. So he leaned forward conspiratorially, and said, “Swear you won’t tell?”
“Cross my Catholic heart.”
“All right,” he said, lowering his voice. “What do you know about Tess Carroll?”
TWELVE
“NANA, CAN YOU HEAR ME? NANA?”
Tess leaned forward and peered into her grandmother’s soft green eyes. The old woman was sitting in a brown recliner near a window in the Devereux House nursing home. Tess had walked over on her way home from the cemetery and had immediately noticed that the smell of medicine and disinfectant was stronger than ever in the long green hallway leading to Room 216.
“Nana, it’s me,” Tess said. “You won’t believe it. I think I just met a great guy!”
Her grandmother blinked and stared straight ahead at the TV. Walker, Texas Ranger was on, and she made a habit of watching every day. Her wrinkled hand fumbled for an orange-juice carton with a straw. She lifted it up, and took a sip without saying a word.
Tess was Theresa Francis Carroll’s namesake and she had always been able to count on her grandmother’s care and wisdom when she was bounced by some of life’s unavoidable speed bumps. In fact, she had come to Nana for consolation after Scotty McLaughlin had dumped her at the Corinthian Club on New Year’s Eve in 2000. A romantic at heart, Nana never had an easy life. At nineteen, she married a dashing lobsterman from the rival town of Nahant and was already pregnant when he vanished in a nor’easter. “No one could compare,” she told Tess and so despite a long line of suitors, she never remarried. Her life story, repeated dozens of times, always made Tess cry. “Wait for your true love,” Nana admonished. “Never settle.”
From her grandmother, Tess had learned what it meant to be a survivor. To support her infant son, Nana had gone to work in the shoe factories in Lynn. Her whole life had been a struggle and, at eighty-six, the fight was still in her after an eleven-year battle with lung cancer. Twice before, doctors had taken extraordinary measures to bring her back from death’s door, and each time there was a little less of her left. Now the small sign next to her bed said simply: DNR—DO NOT RESUSCITATE.
And yet, in Tess’s mind, Nana was still indomitable. She was a diehard Democrat who kept a crumpled, yellowing Boston Globe picture of the three young Kennedy brothers on her mantel. She loved to gossip about the men in town, and she insisted—outrageously—on smoking Marlboro Reds even after her health had given way.
Some days, she recognized Tess. Most days, she mistook her for her older sister who had passed away the day George Bush defeated Michael Dukakis by 325 electoral votes. On occasion, it seemed as if she didn’t even see Tess at all. She just gazed into space with those soft eyes. Her one stab at dignity was her insistence on being dressed every day in a colorful hat and cheerful jewelry from the dime store.
Now she sat frozen in her recliner, humming and staring out the window.
“What are you searching for out there?” Tess asked. The view from Devereux House looked out on an asphalt parking lot, where Tess saw a bird on a fence.
“Are you looking at that sparrow? Is that what you see?”
Nana smiled, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
“So what have you been up to?” Tess asked. “Is Mr. Purdy still chasing you around the rec room? You told me he’s a real pervert.” Again, silence.
So this is what it came down to. A long life, and now this? Years alone in a fog. Tess swore she wouldn’t allow herself to end up this way. She would go out in a blaze of glory. She never wanted to fade away. That was the worst thing that could happen.
“Listen, Nana, I came to say good-bye,” Tess said. “Remember? I’m going on a big sail all the way around the world.” She paused a
nd looked at her grandmother’s beaded necklace. “I’ll bring back jewels from the Orient. How’s that sound?”
Nana’s lips curled up. There was a little twinkle in her eye. Tess wondered what she was thinking. Could she even hear any of this?
“You know I’m here, don’t you?” Tess said. “You know I’m right next to you.”
The room was silent. Nana’s mouth pursed, her wrinkles radiated, and then she finally spoke in a firm voice: “Of course I do.”
It was the first time in months she had acknowledged her presence. Tess was speechless.
“You all right, honey?” Nana said.
Tess couldn’t find words.
Nana’s eyes focused and she said, “It’s okay, dear. Everything’s going to be all right, and I’ll see you very soon.”
Then Nana’s lids closed, and her head began to tilt. Soon she was snoring softly. Tess got up and kissed her grandmother’s powdery cheek.
“Love you,” she said. “See you soon.”
THIRTEEN
CHARLIE LET GO OF THE ROPE AND FLEW THROUGH THE air. He tucked into the cannonball position, held his breath, and splashed into the cool water. With a few good kicks, he swam to the mossy bottom, grabbed hold of the big boulder to keep himself down, and listened to the sound of crackling air bubbles and his pounding heart.
He had made it to the forest before sundown with only seconds to spare, but now for the first time, he faced unfamiliar feelings about being there. Conflicting ideas were washing around in his brain: He imagined borrowing Joe’s boat and whisking Tess away on a sunset cruise around the harbor, uncorking a good bottle of wine, then motoring over to Manchester for dinner.
But that wasn’t an option. He had a promise to keep and a ritual to perform. First, he and Sam played catch in the clearing, then they jumped into the little pond he had dug with his own hands all those years ago. Charlie had copied every detail from the swimming hole on Cat Island. The dimensions were exactly the same; the braided rope was nearly identical; and the big knot at the end was triple-tied. Those days at YMCA summer camp had been the happiest ever, crammed with afternoons racing Widgeons and Ospreys, and evenings diving from the old rope.
