Losing Faith (8 page)

He then moved across the saloon and walked down three steps into another cabin. This one was quite large, with a king-size bed.
This must be Cullen’s cabin.
Abel ran his hand along the bed, and an image of Cullen lying there flashed through his mind. He blushed, feeling almost like a voyeur, and quickly shook the image from his mind’s eye. There was also a dressing area and two doors. He opened each and found one was a shower and the other a water closet. Abel closed the door and realized he was still carrying the bag with the wine in it. He figuratively smacked himself in the forehead again.

“I’m no wine expert, but the lady at the wine store recommended this.” Abel handed Cullen the blue bag.

“Thanks.” Cullen took the bag, placed it on the counter, and went back to putting some cheese on a plate.

Abel knew for sure now that Cullen didn’t seem to be in the mood for company. “I feel like I’m intruding. If tonight isn’t convenient, we can certainly do it another time. No hard feelings.”

Cullen looked up, and their eyes met. For the first time, Abel realized how handsome Cullen was. His host was wearing a black V-neck T-shirt, blue jeans riding low on his hips, and he was barefoot. The black shirt looked great with his dark hair and emphasized the hint of silver at his temples. And his brilliant eyes, albeit not as bright as they were in the morning sunshine, were a very deep blue just the same. Abel’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Cullen’s voice.

“No. I’m sorry. It’s just… well, it’s been a difficult day. Don’t go.”

“I’m sorry… but Cullen, really? If you want to be alone, I get it.”

Cullen stepped up from the galley and laid a hand on Abel’s shoulder. “That’s one of the problems. I’ve been alone too much, and I’m getting sick of it. Please stay.”

Abel didn’t want to go, but he didn’t want to intrude either. “Okay, but only if you insist.”

“I insist. And thank you. Now, how would you like a glass of that wine?”

Abel hesitated. “No, thank you. But I will take a glass of water.”

Cullen sighed. “Damn. I’m so stupid. I forgot. You don’t drink.”

“Never tried the stuff,” Abel admitted.

Cullen opened the fridge. “I have club soda, cranberry juice, and orange juice.”

“I think I’ll have a combination of all three. That is if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all.”

While Cullen mixed Abel’s drink, Abel looked around the boat some more. He studied a photograph hanging on the wall of a family of four. He knew right away it had to be a picture of Cullen’s family. He looked just like his father and definitely had his mother’s smile. “This has to be your family.”

“Yep. That’s my mom and dad, my little sister, Elaina, and me on Easter Sunday. I was eight.”

“Are you a close family?”

“We used to be. My father died almost two years to the day after that photo was taken.”

“Can I ask of what?”

Cullen handed Abel his drink. “Lung cancer. He was a chain smoker. In fact, he had cancer at the time that photo was taken. He just didn’t know it then.”

“I’m really sorry. And your mom?”

“She was killed about six years ago in a car accident.”

“Oh, Cullen. Now I see why you’re on the outs with the Almighty.”

Cullen laughed sarcastically. “You haven’t heard the half of it.”

“I’d like to,” Abel said sincerely, taking a sip of this drink. “This is good. Thank you. What are you having?”

“A little bourbon on the rocks. Episcopalians are allowed to drink, especially former Episcopalians.”

Abel laughed. “It’s a good thing I don’t. I believe if I started in my current state, I might not stop. And that wouldn’t be good for my career.”

Cullen placed a plate of cheese and fruit on the table. “Help yourself.”

Abel did help himself and continued looking around with a cracker in hand. He studied all the pictures closely, and every other picture was of Cullen and an extremely good-looking man with sandy-blond hair. They were touching in one way or another in every photograph and smiling broadly. It appeared they were very happy and quite comfortable together.

When Abel looked in Cullen’s direction, Cullen was leaning against the refrigerator, feet crossed at the ankle, sipping on his drink and watching him closely. He had a dark and brooding expression on his face, and Abel was concerned. “Everything okay?” Abel asked.

“It depends.”

Taken aback by that comment, Abel asked, “On what?”

“Whether you’re gonna ask me about the person in all those photographs.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to.”

“Not just yet, if you don’t mind. I think I need another couple shots of bourbon before we go down that road.”

Abel nodded. Little things were starting to add up, and Abel had a pretty good idea who Cullen was, but he would leave it alone for now and let Cullen tell him when he was ready. It seemed they both had secrets.

ABEL LEANED
back and rubbed his stomach, feeling more full then he had in a very long time. “You’re an excellent grill master,” he said. “And I insist you allow me to clean.” He stood, gathered their plates and silverware, and carried them across the saloon to the galley.

Cullen also leaned back, rested his arm across the back of the banquette, and took a sip of the red wine Abel had contributed to the dinner. “You’ll get no arguments from me on that front. I hate doing dishes.” He held up the glass. “And this is really good, by the way.”

Abel had explained the reaction he’d received from the clerk at the wine store over dinner. “For someone who supposedly doesn’t drink, she sure knew her red wine.”

Dinner conversation had mostly consisted of a lot of small talk. Some discussion about the Southern Baptist Church and their beliefs compared to the Episcopal Church. Huge differences, to say the least, but they both seemed to be avoiding anything too heavy. But something seemed different to Abel. The ease they’d shared at the Riverwalk was no longer there, and honestly, Abel missed the connection.

Cullen was on his third glass of wine—not that Abel was counting—but Abel could tell Cullen’s mood seemed to be improving. It was either Abel or the alcohol or maybe a combination of both, but Cullen did seem more at ease.

While Abel did the dishes, he could see Cullen eyeing him, almost like he had something to get off of his chest but was unsure if he could do it. Maybe it was about the guy in the picture or quite possibly about his day, which he’d already said had sucked.

Abel dried and stacked the last plate, dried his hands, and folded the towel and laid it on the edge of the sink. “Do you mind if I get a bottle of water out of the fridge?”

“Help yourself.” Cullen stood, crossed the saloon, and slipped behind Abel into the small galley.

Abel bent over, dug through the refrigerator, and froze when he felt Cullen brush against his backside and Cullen’s hand rest briefly on his hip. The feeling was both exhilarating and frightening at the same time. Abel closed his eyes and focused on trying not to jump or pull away.

“Sorry,” Cullen said. “It’s a tight space. I mark a great boater by whether or not a person can do what we call the galley dance.”

“Galley dance?” Abel repeated, now a bit intrigued.

Cullen retrieved a rocks glass and poured himself a couple of fingers of bourbon. “Yeah. The galley dance is when two people can get into a rhythm and easily move and work together in the small space in unison. Cole and I had it down to a science.”

Cole! Is that the name of the man in the photos? The elephant in the room?

It suddenly dawned on Abel that the Riverwalk had been neutral ground for them. It had been easy to connect there. They could give a little at a time and keep what they weren’t ready to share without being too exposed. But here—this boat—was Cullen’s home. His memories. His life. No wonder he was distant. There was no hiding here for him. Cullen was very exposed and vulnerable.

Abel thought about what it would feel like to have Cullen at his home. To actually see his sad existence. His lack of family photos. Hell, his lack of photos of any kind. The nonexistence of anything that was actually his. Everything in the house but his clothes and his computer equipment was owned by the church, and he lived under their rules.

With that realization Abel decided to let the comment go, and if Cullen wanted to bring the man up again, he would.

“Abel?”

Abel was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of Cullen’s voice.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. No. I’m good.”

He could see Cullen eyeing him warily.

“No really. I’m good.”

“Okay. Let’s go topside and enjoy the rest of the evening.”

“Lead the way, Captain,” Abel teased.

Abel followed Cullen up the steps to what he learned was called the cockpit and then up to the flybridge or helm. Cullen took a seat, and Abel looked around. “Do you mind?” Abel gestured to the canvas.

“Not at all.”

Abel unsnapped the canvas and lifted it off the helm equipment. It was all very intimidating. “This looks like the cockpit of a 747.”

Cullen chuckled. The sound was warm and seemed to come from a place deep down. This was the Cullen he knew. “It looks way more intimidating than it is.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Cullen pointed to the different pieces of equipment. “This is the GPS unit. This is the depth finder, and this is the autopilot.”

“What are these?” Abel pointed to the various gauges.

“Voltage meter. Temperature gauge. Oil pressure gauge. And as you can see, there’s one for each engine.”

Abel nodded. “What are these things?”

“Oh, various stuff. Horn. Bilge pumps. Lights. Windlass anchor controls. Search light controls. Stabilizer controls.”

“Stabilizer controls?”

“Yeah. You can lower or raise the bow depending on the height and direction of the seas. Or you can balance your load from port to starboard so she rides evenly in the water.”

“I’m very impressed.” And Abel meant it. There were a lot of buttons and gauges to master, and it was obvious Cullen was an experienced captain.

Abel replaced the canvas and snapped it back into place. He took a seat in the curve of the couch and sipped his water. The marina was quiet except for the distant sounds of what Cullen explained were lanyards or rigging tapping against the masts of the many sailboats in the harbor, moving gently in the light breeze. The constant flash of the Oak Island Lighthouse reminded Abel that he was never far from home. The sounds of the marina and the rhythmic movement of the boat were very soothing, and he could see why Cullen liked being on the water. Abel finally started to relax.

“Cole was my husband,” Cullen said unexpectedly.

“What?” Abel said, caught off guard.

“The guy in the picture. Cole. He was my husband.”

Cullen stared at Abel hesitantly, as if he half expected him to run or to try to exorcise him or something.

“
Was
your husband?” Abel managed to say in an even tone and with as little surprise in his voice as possible. In fact he wasn’t surprised. In their pictures they were too comfortable together to be anything but lovers.

“He died.”

Abel decided to allow Cullen to take the lead. This was obviously very difficult for Cullen, and he wanted to make it as easy as possible. After all, Cullen was in essence coming out to a Southern Baptist minister. That in itself took balls.

“I’m very sorry for your loss.”

A few minutes of silence trickled by, and then Cullen finally asked, “Is that all you’re gonna say? Aren’t you gonna tell me I’ll burn in hell and jump overboard before I try and take advantage of you, or even worse, try to convince you to take a trip on the wild side?”

Abel did his best to stifle a laugh. “Not hardly.”

A seemingly reluctant smile landed on Cullen’s lips. “Thanks for that.”

“Will you tell me about him?”

As Abel waited patiently, Cullen swirled the caramel colored liquid in his glass and stared at it like it might be the courage he so desperately needed. He finally took a sip and then looked out over the water and closed his eyes as if he were traveling back in time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and gravelly. “I had completed my discernment, graduated the seminary, been ordained, and had just completed two six-month runs as a transitioning diaconate when I was finally assigned my first cure, or ministry. It was at the Church of St. Mary of the Harbor in Provincetown, MA. I was more than ready, and being openly gay, I was thrilled to be assigned to P-town, where gayness flowed like Niagara Falls.”

Cullen paused, and Abel took advantage of the silence. “Is P-town some gay mecca or something?”

“You could say that,” Cullen opened his eyes and chuckled. “At the time, it was mostly gays and sixties throwbacks, or hippies who were all destined to save something or other. Trees, whales, patchouli. You get the idea. I mean, don’t get me wrong. They were lovely, generous, warm, and accepting people, and I loved my congregation dearly, but some of them were a little out there.”

Abel nodded. “I’m sorry for the interruption. Please go on.”

“On my first Sunday in my new parish, I saw him sitting in the fourth row, third person from the end. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen. I remember focusing on his hair for some odd reason. It was a beautiful, almost golden color. Not quite blond, not quite brown, shoulder-length with sunstruck blond highlights, and he wore it parted slightly off-center, combed back and behind his ears. His looks were striking, really. So much so that I had a hard time not staring at him throughout the entire mass.”

Cullen closed his eyes again and sighed. “He was wearing a navy blue suit and a gold-and-navy tie, and even from the sanctuary, I could see his vivid blue eyes looking up at me. When the mass was over and made its way down the aisle, our eyes met and he smiled. And… that’s all it took. I was hooked.”

Cullen opened his eyes and took another sip of his bourbon. “It seems like a lifetime ago.”

“How long ago was it?”

“Oh, about eleven years or so now.”