A Winter Garden by David A. Ross

Author:David A. Ross
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: FICTION / General, TRAVEL / Europe / Greece, FICTION / Romance / General
Publisher: Open Books
Published: 2010-08-06T00:00:00+00:00

ON THE MORNING they were to sail with Phil and Dazey Cullinain to Agni, Doran and Gisela arrived at the pier where the Overdraft was docked. The light was brilliant, the sky infinitely blue, and the sea calm as glass. There was little sign of activity on the boat, and Gisela wondered aloud if perhaps they’d gotten the day or time wrong. “I’m certain he said we’d sail today at eleven,” Doran confirmed.

“Looks to me like they’re still asleep,” said Gisela.

“I’m going to knock,” Doran ventured.

A moment or two after Doran’s inquiry, Cullinain appeared looking haggard and hung over. “Right-o, mate,” he croaked. “Just give us a minute, will you?”

Gisela was immediately dubious. “Do you suppose he knows what he’s doing?” she asked Doran.

“He told me he’s been sailing for forty-five years,” Doran assured her.

“That fact aside,” she said, “he looks barely able to tie his shoes.”

“I’m sure he’ll be okay,” Doran said and sat down upon the pier to wait for the Cullinains to rise and shine. Gisela sat cross-legged beside him.

Ten minutes passed before Cullinain appeared and invited them to come aboard. “Dazey will be another minute or two,” he said. “She’s just now getting dressed in the aft-cabin. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea? A brandy, perhaps?”

“No, thanks,” said Doran as he stood on the deck and looked into the forward-cabin. The yacht’s interior was down-at-heel and rather grimy from negligence, though the boat’s owners obviously did not notice their own muddle.

“I’m accustomed to coffee in the morning,” said Cullinain as he put a pot to boil upon the stove in the tiny galley. And once his coffee was made and poured into his cup, he spiked the brew with a shot of brandy. “Java with a tipple,” he explained. “Gets the juices flowing.”

Doran well knew the signs of an alcoholic; his father had drunk himself to death, and was now ten years in the grave. Cullinain was no doubt well along the same path. Though Philbar Cullinain’s affable personality was not yet drowned in booze, nor thoroughly consumed by grief, nor stifled by anger: something altogether likeable remained, even shined in his eyes, and shone upon his beset face. Having long ago judged himself totally wanting, he refrained, where others were concerned, from any judgment whatsoever. He habitually accepted others as they were and offered unconditional friendship. That was his magic; that was his redemption.

“How long have you lived aboard ship?” Gisela asked..

Cullinain scratched his head. “Seven years now,” he said.

“This is my friend Gisela Van Zyl,” Doran introduced.

Cullinain smiled warmly and held out his hand for her to shake. “Happy to make your acquaintance, darling,” he said.

“The pleasure is mine,” said Gisela. “Thank you for inviting me to come along.”

Cullinain waved off the thanks. “It’s a beautiful day. And we’re all here together on Corfu! What could be better?” As he sipped his brandied coffee, his eyes seemed to clear, his aspect to brighten. “Well, let me just see what’s keeping Dazey.”

But as

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