Page 11 of The Cruise Club
‘I’m hungry,’ Betty said as Spiros secured her chair by a table, shaded by a vast umbrella, where a cool breeze whispered across the bay.
Carmen reached for a menu and began to study the Greek specialities, hoping for something suitable for Betty.
‘You try Mána’s kolokythokeftedes and dolmades,’ Spiros said.
Carmen read the translation and doubted that Betty would enjoy Spiros’s mother’s courgette balls and stuffed vine leaves. However, sensing her moment to escape, she nodded enthusiastically.
‘Would it be all right if I left my mána here for a short while and looked around the village?’ Carmen asked.
‘But of course,’ Spiros spread out his arms. ‘Go, beautiful lady, enjoy, and when you come back, I have food waiting.’
Carmen patted Betty’s arm and explained that she would be back soon. Not waiting for Betty to protest, she leaped like a gazelle, away from the taverna. ‘Thank you!’ she called out to Spiros.
The young man’s smile was wide and touching two fingers to his lips, he blew her a kiss. ‘Have fun!’ he called out.
Flustered by Spiros’s attention, Carmen’s cheeks were hot as she left the taverna.
Were all Greek men so friendly? But as she wandered around, Carmen embraced the hidden world.
It was as though she’d stepped into a timeless, enchanted place, and the memory of Betty’s continual protestations soon faded.
No wonder Maxos was a highlight of the cruise’s stopover in Kefalonia.
She came to a lane and noticed a small, three-storied, villa.
With steps patterned in pretty mosaic tiles, terracotta pots stood either side of a blue front door.
A sign announced, Villa Galini . Carmen noticed another sign in the window which read, For Sale .
She considered the owner the luckiest person on earth to have such a gorgeous home, where shuttered windows on balconies overlooked a horseshoe-shaped beach.
She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to sell it.
‘How I’d love to live somewhere like this,’ Carmen whispered as she stared at the villa, ‘to write all day at that window, with a glorious view of the bay.’
Turning away, she was startled to see, draped over a rickety picnic table, the hunched figure of an old man in the shadow of overhanging fir trees. Moving closer, Carmen felt a stab of anxiety. Is he breathing?
Unsure of what to do, she reached out to shake his shoulder.
‘Don’t worry!’ a voice called out. ‘He’s asleep.’
Carmen spun around and, to her surprise, realised that another man was sitting on a bench overlooking the beach. An open notebook lay on his lap, and he held a pen between his fingers. Wearing a Panama hat, linen trousers and shirt, he raised his Ray-Bans to stare.
It was Ruskin Reeve again.
Carmen felt her heart pound, and a flush spread across her perspiring face. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes locked on Ruskin’s authoritative figure. Beside her, the older man began to snore, and she noticed a dusty cap upturned on the table, beside several stacked jars.
‘He sells honey, you should buy some,’ Ruskin said. ‘The old boy keeps bees, and they forage on herbs and thyme on the hillside.’
‘I see.’ Carmen felt starstruck. She’d unexpectedly come across her idol twice in one day, and now, in his presence, she hadn’t a clue what to say. Unsure whether to speak or smile, she stood frozen, her eyes flicking from Ruskin to the older man.
‘Are you all right?’ Ruskin asked and leaned an arm along the length of the bench. ‘You look awfully hot.’ He tilted his sunglasses and stared. ‘Don’t I know you, have we met?’
‘Y… yes,’ Carmen stuttered, ‘we bumped into each other on the jogging deck this morning.’
‘Of course.’ Ruskin patted the bench. ‘Take a seat, this heat is terribly tiring.’
Obeying Ruskin’s command, Carmen’s feet felt like lead as she moved forward.
She wished she’d worn something pretty and feminine, perhaps a cool kaftan like Fran’s.
Her khaki shorts and shirt hardly cut a dash in front of this handsome and educated man.
Even her walking sandals were granny-like, and she knew that the floppy old hat she’d chosen to shade the sun had more of a boy-scout look than anything remotely fashionable, making her feel even more out of place on this picturesque beach.
‘I mustn’t disturb you,’ Carmen said as she nervously sat on the edge of the bench.
‘Don’t worry, I was only jotting down a few thoughts.’ Ruskin yawned.
Carmen knew that he was probably wishing that an attractive female had chosen to stop by. It was just his luck to be saddled with a dreary soul whose thickly framed glasses made her look like a 1950s librarian.
Staring beyond the beach where a fishing boat glided to the open sea, she heard Ruskin announce, ‘I’m a writer.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Carmen wanted to tell him that he was the sole reason she’d come on the cruise but thought he’d believe her to be some sort of groupie and instead asked, ‘What are you writing?’
‘I’m not sure, but this place combines mystery and history, pirate legends and the ruins of an old fortress which gives it an inexplicable aura.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’ Carmen stared ahead, too, suddenly caught up in Ruskin’s vivid imagination. ‘It’s easy to imagine how this atmospheric setting could inspire stories with all the legends that must be woven through the ages.’
‘ You should be a writer,’ Ruskin added cynically and yawned again.
‘But I am!’ Carmen blurted out.
As soon as the words had left her lips, she wished that she could bite them back. What on earth would this world-famous man think of the mousey, drab woman dressed like a camp ranger about to go into the wilderness?
‘Really?’ Ruskin sighed.
He was losing interest, and Carmen could see that Ruskin was restless. He probably thought she’d self-published a cute little book of short stories that sold only to a handful of friends.
‘Well, I mustn’t keep you, and I’m going for a swim.’ Ruskin closed his notebook and rose to his feet. ‘Don’t forget to buy some honey. It’s terribly good for the mind.’
Placing the notebook alongside a jar nestling in his satchel, Ruskin wandered off without so much as a glance at Carmen or a wave goodbye.
‘How discourteous,’ Carmen mumbled as Ruskin’s figure disappeared down the lane. She was annoyed that she’d been so quickly dismissed. ‘But then,’ she sighed, ‘why on earth would a man like that want to stick around and talk to a woman like me?’
The old man had begun to stir, and Carmen saw him open one eye as he slowly raised his head from the table. Knobbly fingers reached for a jar, and he pointed to a sign that read, Ten Euros .
‘Very well,’ Carmen sighed and reached for her money. ‘But, at that price, it had better be good.’