Free The Death and Life of Charlie St. Cloud by Ben Sherwood Page B

bruise on her forearm. She had definitely learned her lesson. Three hours capsized without electricity or radio had scared the hell out of her. Now she had to make good on her promise to her father.
    She scooted across the grass and leaned against his stone. It was cool against her sore back and felt good. She turned her head and pressed a cheek against the rock. She ran her fingers along the engraving, where moss was beginning to grow.

    G EORGE C ARROLL
    1941 – 2002

    “I knew you’d come through for me,” Tess said with tears welling up. She wiped her eyes and sneezed. She had a simple rule about crying. It went back to childhood. She never let Mom or anyone else see her upset. Weeping was for wimps. But in front of Dad it was different. When she was sad, he never flinched. When she felt weak, he never wavered. In fact, he made her stronger. He had comforted her a zillion times through heartbreak and disappointment. Of course, he didn’t always approve of her choices—especially those guys in college who spoke foreign languages and rode motorcycles—but he never judged. He definitely had a temper, especially after a few cocktails, and he wasn’t the most introspective or politically enlightened man in the world, but he was the only person who really understood her. No one else came close.
    “I promise that I’ll change,” she said to the stone. “No more crazy stuff on the water. No more daring the Fates. I’ll be a good girl.” She paused. “I finally scared myself to death.”
    She rubbed her face, then ran her fingers through her hair. She felt another bump on the back of her head.
Ouch
. It was sensitive to her touch. When did that happen? Must have been when she capsized. The exact details of the night were a blur in her brain, and she still felt rotten from the pummeling waves and noxious fumes of diesel combined with that damn salad dressing. She needed a shower and some sleep. She looked at her hands. Her thumb was banged up, and one nail was broken. An oblong bruise ran the length of her arm. Mom would love that. It was so ladylike.
    Tess ran through the list of all the things she needed to do before the starting gun next week. Her first stop on Monday morning would be at Lynn Marine Supply on Front Street. She would give Gus Swanson an earful about that survival gear. Those leaking boots were inexcusable, especially when he charged her full price.
    Next, she would have to face Tink in the loft. She dreaded the moment. He would give her the full inquisition, and then they would go stem to stern and tally the damage. Of course, the rigging would need tuning. The storm sail would have to be resewn. The hull might need fresh paint. Her team would have to work overtime to make the repairs in time for the race.
    “I know,” she said aloud. “It’s a waste of hard work and money.” That was what really made her feel the worst. Dad had left her a chunk of dough and had urged her to spend it seeing the world. It wasn’t much, but he had broken his back saving it, and he wouldn’t be happy watching her blow it on repairs. He was an old-fashioned sailor who didn’t like expensive fiberglass boats with Kevlar sails. “Sailing,” he liked to joke, “is the fine art of getting wet and becoming ill, while going nowhere slowly at great expense.” And yet, if the ocean was in your blood—and the two were almost chemically identical, he liked to remind her—you couldn’t stop yourself from going to sea no matter how much it cost or how quiet the wind.
    She sat silently for a few moments and she could hear his voice. God, how he howled at his own jokes. He would slap his knee, his eyes would squint, and his face and neck would turn red as he unleashed a big laugh. It was only a distant sound in her mind now, gray cells rubbing together, but the memory made everything all right. She waited for more of his laughter—more of that feeling somewhere deep inside. And then suddenly she heard the gunning of