Avalon: The Return of King Arthur

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The low red car skidded to a halt on the dusty driveway outside the whitewashed villa. The driver unfolded himself from behind the wheel, stepped out, and cast a lingering, if bleary, glance down the lush hillside at the red tile rooftops and pale-blue swimming pools of Madeira’s elite.

Above the quiet tick of the cooling engine and the warm sea breeze rustling the dry palm fronds, Teddy imagined he could almost make out the clink of ice in crystal glasses and the twittering voices of the buffed-and-polished hostesses below as the evening’s social fandango began anew.

Reaching back into the car, he withdrew a nearly empty bottle of Jameson’s, unscrewed the cap, drained it, and flung the empty bottle into the overgrown garden surrounding the sprawling house. He then turned and walked to the front door and pushed it open. “Cozu!” he shouted as he stumbled into the cool marble-faced foyer.

There came the quick slap of tennis shoes on the stone, and a small, sallow-faced Portuguese man in an oversized white jacket appeared in the arched doorway leading into the rambling interior of the house.

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