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  “A sea urchin!” Sage exclaimed.

  “Oh, yes,” said Ron. “You should always wear swim shoes. Be very careful on the rocks.”

  “Not to mention, sometimes the captains pull up anchor in the middle of the night to beat the crowds to certain beaches,” Judy added.

  I looked to the left, to see if I could still make out the two masts of the Gulet Yasemin over the outcroppings of rocks. I wasn’t so sure that I could. Suddenly I ached for my little berth and my porthole, and my cool white sheets, even Mom’s snoring.

  Mom. What would she do if she woke up and saw I was gone? She would seriously freak.

  “Or we could have been shot by your security guys,” Sage added sharply. “Or had heart attacks from being held at gunpoint.” I was surprised by her surge of anger. The Clarksons had put me at ease with their warmth and friendliness, and I understood that rich people sometimes hired their own security. There were often security guards at my dad’s events, too. Although, come to think of it, their guns were always holstered.

  “We’re really sorry about that,” said Ron. “I agree, it was an excessive show of force. But Lazar and Vasil heard a noise near the boat, and the radar in their cabin had picked up movement. The way the light was falling, they couldn’t see it was two girls in the water. They were just doing their jobs.”

  “It seems weird that people would need that level of protection out here,” I said, gesturing at the quiet water around us.

  “I know. You’d think we wouldn’t need armed guards in the Turkish Riviera,” Judy agreed. “It’s a shame. But it’s not just Turkey that’s heating up. Increased crime against tourists—especially if you look like you have a little cash—why, it’s everywhere. We had a terrible experience in Egypt last year, being robbed at the pyramids, at knifepoint. We love to travel, to all the corners of the world, but after that horror show in Egypt, Ron and I decided, we’ll pay for peace of mind.”

  “That was ghastly,” Ron agreed. “But let’s not scare the girls, or wreck our honeymoon with a bad memory.” He smiled. “We’re from Carmel, California. Where are you girls from?”

  “Oregon,” Sage mumbled.

  “Portland?” prompted Judy. “I love Portland. It’s come a long way.”

  “No. Rosedale. It’s a pretty small town. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

  “I have not. But I do find small towns charming.”

  “Are you studying abroad like Sage, Zan?” Ron asked me.

  “N-n-no. I’m here vacationing with my family,” I replied, squirming under his gaze.

  Riza returned at that moment, sparing me from explaining details. He set down a plate of cookies, pastries, and baklava. As Riza smiled at us, my hand automatically rose to cover my left cheek. Not that it mattered. His eyes danced at both of us, but it was Sage he looked at.

  “This baklava is great,” I said, biting into a juicy piece. Phyllo and walnuts crunched in my mouth, and honey dribbled down my chin. “Did you get it from one of those guys who comes around selling it in a motorboat?”

  “We did. Just this evening,” said Judy. “Isn’t it divine? Please, have more! Otherwise I’ll end up eating all of it myself.” She patted her slim waistline.

  I was about to ask if they’d bought anything else from him, too, but Ron wanted to know where we’d been in Turkey so far. So Sage and I told him while we finished our tea and cookies.

  I felt increasingly at ease around the Clarksons. Ron sat with his arm loosely draped around Judy’s shoulder as she leaned into his broad chest. They seemed genuinely happy together. Even Sage seemed wistful, watching them, and I remembered what she’d said about how her parents had handled—or not handled—her brother’s death. How it had sent them in different directions.

  “Sage mentioned something on the ruins tour about how your aunt has a hotel in Istanbul? You’re going to stay with her?” Ron asked.

  I nodded, but said no more. I liked the Clarksons, but Mom had said not to talk about our itinerary to people I didn’t know. “And where are you guys going next?” I asked, deflecting their questions with a question of my own. A classic Dad move; I’d watched him do it in debates.

  “We’re off to Istanbul, too, for a few days, then on to Cappadocia,” said Ron.

  “For a romantic hot-air-balloon ride.” Judy squeezed Ron’s hand. “They say it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Have you girls ever gone hot-air ballooning?”

  “Nope,” said Sage. “I don’t really love heights. Plus it’s way out of my budget.”

  “I haven’t tried it either,” I said. “But it sounds fun.”

  “Got to live while you can,” Judy said. “If it’s on your bucket list, find a way to do it.”

  “I’ve noticed bucket lists tend to be expensive,” said Sage, wiping honey off her chin.

  “You’re young. You have time,” Judy assured her. “For us, it’s different. Ron used to be a venture capitalist. He hit it big and was able to retire early. I was a software developer for an educational company. I did okay. But I had a little nest egg, some family money. A trust.”

  “Then we hit fifty, and I got cancer—survived it, by the way—and we realized time is precious,” Ron chimed in. “We got married and pooled our resources.”

  “We realized what we really wanted to do was travel the world together. Have adventures,” said Judy, nestling into the crook of his arm with a contented smile. “And now, life is but a dream!”

  “That’s amazing,” I said, surprised to catch a sour look on Sage’s face. Was she jealous? Why shouldn’t these people spend their money on exotic travel, instead of acquiring meaningless stuff, like most of the rich people my family knew? The Clarksons were wealthy, clearly, since they could afford a chartered yacht and their own security for the cruise. But they weren’t superficial like some of the people who came to Dad’s fund-raisers. In fact, their real wealth seemed to be their love for each other, and their genuine appreciation of life.

  I wished my parents could be more like them.

  “Now we own a small art gallery in Carmel and travel when we have time,” Judy said.

  “Travel is something we love to do, and the gallery feeds our souls when we come home,” Ron finished.

  A wheel slowly turned in my mind. What if I studied in another country? Maybe even next year? Then it wouldn’t matter if I had no friends back home; I’d just leave them all far behind. And an ocean between me and Dad and Victoria sounded pretty good, too.

  Sage had struck out on her own to make a new life for herself. The Clarksons, too, had decided to put their money into travel and adventure. Why couldn’t I do the same?

  Before we knew it, we’d finished our midnight snack. Ron was asking the captain to get the tender ready for our transport, and Judy was wrapping fresh, dry towels around our shoulders. “These will keep you warm all the way back to your boat,” she said, giving me a pat on the shoulder. “You can just send them back in the tender.”

  She led us to the swim ladder. I’d hoped Riza would row us back, but when I peered over the railing, I saw it was one of the security guys waiting below in the tender. The one who’d held the pistol and the flashlight. Crap. I glanced at Sage, who also looked disappointed at the sight of the glowering, balding, mustachioed man.

  “Vasil will take you over now,” said Judy, cheerfully.

  We said good-bye to the Clarksons and descended the swim ladder, Sage leading the way.

  We got into the boat and Vasil jammed the oars into the oarlocks. He rowed jerkily toward the Yasemin. Every time he pulled the oars, my teeth clacked together.

  “What’s his deal?” I whispered to Sage.

  “He’s probably pissed that he has to chauffeur us home,” she said. “I’m sure it’s not in his job description.” But she didn’t sound too calm, either, and she kept her eyes on his back.

 
It took a few minutes to get to the Yasemin, and I marveled at how far we had swum, when Vasil let us off at our boat. Sage and I wasted no time climbing up the swim ladder. It was good to be back on firm ground, even if that ground was a bobbing boat.

  Vasil said something in Turkish. He seemed to be talking more to Sage than to me, though, since he was looking at her. Whatever he said sounded kind of harsh. I was getting used to the sound of the language, hearing Selim and Captain Mehmet speak on our boat, but when they spoke, the Turkish sounded like gentle waves. This guy spoke a riptide.

  Sage said something back that sounded brief and curt. When she turned from the railing, her face was clouded over. She stomped off to the opposite side of the boat.

  “What was that all about?” I asked as Vasil rowed off, his oars slapping the water.

  “He expected a tip.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So why not tip him?” My parents always tipped generously when we went on vacations. Mom had been tipping since we got off the plane in Bodrum. “I know you said you were at the end of your cash, but I could get some from my mom’s bag . . .”

  “I didn’t like his tone,” she interrupted. “That’s it. Okay? It’s just not a big deal.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Sage glared after Vasil, now a faint outline rowing away in the moonlight. I had to agree, it’s not like the guy had been stellar on his customer service, ferrying us back to the boat only to demand a handout. I didn’t like his tone either.

  We went to retrieve our glasses and the bottle of raki, only to find someone had already done it for us. Mom? Oh, no. I pictured her confronting me with the evidence, just like she did when she figured out friends and I had been siphoning stuff in the liquor cabinet, or that I’d snuck off to a party and had a few beers, or that I’d lifted some makeup from our local CVS. The look on her face was always the same. Crushed. And it would happen all over again here, when she discovered I’d screwed up yet again. Drinking and then swimming in the dark, Zan? Two bad decisions. Didn’t you stop to consider the consequences of your actions?

  But nobody came out to yell at us as we went down to our cabins. I slipped back into my cool white sheets while Mom snored on, oblivious. And that’s when I started to shake. I’d been held at gunpoint. I’d been rowed back to our boat by a guy with a gun. I knew these were just security guys doing their jobs. Still, I felt like I’d dodged a bullet that hadn’t even been fired.

  10

  The next morning, by the time I’d put on my makeup and sunscreen and dragged myself upstairs, Orhan was already clearing the dishes. The Geezers were propped up at their various stations. Nils and Ingrid were bird-watching. The British ladies were playing bridge. And the Lobsters were bickering. The only people still at the table were Mom and Aunt Jackie, paging through their books. I didn’t see Sage anywhere. She was probably still asleep.

  My head throbbed, almost as if I had drunk the “lion’s milk” after all. I sank into a chair beside Aunt Jackie and rubbed my eyes.

  Aunt Jackie smiled. “Hey there, Sleeping Beauty,” she said. “Jet lag must be getting to you. They say the second day’s worse.”

  Orhan brought me a plate of food. He also poured me a cup of coffee rather than the apple tea that was usually served at breakfast. I took the tiny metal cup gratefully in two hands, since there were no handles. Then I took a sip—and choked. It tasted like a cup of hot, thick dirt. I could see sediment floating around.

  “Turkish coffee,” Orhan reminded me with a smile. “We usually have tea with breakfast in Turkey, but I know Americans often prefer something stronger. Especially after a late night.” He gave me a long, knowing look.

  So Orhan must have put away the raki and the glasses last night, knowing what Sage and I had been up to. But he didn’t say any more about it. I gulped down the coffee and ventured a grateful smile at him.

  “So what’s the plan today?” I asked Mom between bites of breakfast.

  “Cliff tombs,” she replied, as the sleepy motor on the boat grumbled and sputtered to life. “Selim said we’re heading to Fethiye now.”

  The boat began to move. I grabbed for my cup of caffeinated mud just as it slid away from me.

  The Lobsters stood up from their sunny cushions and scuttled under the awning to join us at the shaded table. “Finally,” said Maeve, wiping sweat off her brow with an embroidered handkerchief. “Blimey, it’s really heating up early this morning. And I’m ready to see some more ruins. This spot was a little too secluded for my taste.”

  “Secluded is entirely fine by me,” said Milton. “This is the first place we’ve gone in Turkey where no one’s been trying to sell us jewelry or carpets. Honestly, you can’t go anywhere without someone telling you they’ve got a brother or a cousin in the bloody carpet business. It does my head in.”

  “I don’t mind it, really,” Maeve said. “There are lots and lots of beautiful things to buy here. Is it so awful that they advertise them? I mean, everyone’s got to make a living.”

  I thought of Baklava Guy and his tray of gold trinkets. Maybe he was just some guy trying to make a living, too, overcharging tourists—many of them probably drunk—on the water where his prices weren’t regulated and his transactions went unrecorded. I wondered where he came from and where he had gone, and if we’d see other Baklava Guys at our next port of call.

  As we pulled out of our sheltered inlet and away from the rugged coastline, I scanned for the Gulet Anilar. I didn’t see the masts around the bend, just the two smaller boats that had been in the cove when we pulled up yesterday.

  “Where’s the Anilar?” I asked, standing up to look around.

  “It’s weird to look out and not see it, isn’t it?” said Fiona.

  “Oh, those Clarksons think they’re too good for us,” growled Milton. “We’re always mucking up their views, I’m sure.”

  I thought of the Clarksons with their arms around each other and their adoring gazes, and wondered if Milton was right. Ron and Judy were traveling in their own happy bubble, with their own private staff, and they were probably sick of people from our boat swimming up to their yacht and disturbing their floating love nest. I really couldn’t blame them.

  As the captain steered us toward a new cove, the passengers—except for Sage—all gathered under the awning, seeking shelter from the sun, comparing notes on what was now, finally, coming into view. The Lycian cliff tombs.

  My breath caught in my throat. There were way more of them than we’d seen in Dalyan. And I totally wanted to climb those cliffs. Of course, I had no gear. Or training on a real wall. Still, I’d never felt so drawn to rock.

  “Look at that. They’re like elaborate houses for the dead,” said Nils, training his binoculars on the cliffs. “Carved doors and pitched roofs. Doric columns. Lintels. Extraordinary!” He passed the binoculars so everyone could have a look.

  “Some of them look almost cozy, don’t they,” remarked Ingrid.

  I took my turn with the binoculars, marveling at the honey-combs of doors and windows carved right into the cliffside. Some had little roofs; others had pillars and elaborate moldings. And yet they looked eerily unoccupied. I wouldn’t have called them cozy at all. This was a housing project for ghosts.

  “You’d think Selim or Mehmet or even Orhan could tell us a thing or two about the tombs,” grumbled Milton. “Seeing how much money we’re paying for this little jaunt. Believe you me, that’s what I’ll be telling Mr. Tabak when we see him in Fethiye, if he doesn’t grant us that partial reimbursement.”

  “Oh, hush, Milton,” snapped Maeve. “Quit complaining, will you?” She cast a worried glance at Aunt Jackie. “You’ll hurt Jackie’s feelings.”

  “I will not quit complaining,” he huffed. “I am a consumer. The price of this cruise was dear. I don’t appreciate being strung along with false promises.”

  “I have a guidebook, you will a
ll be happy to know,” said Nils, holding up a Norwegian travel guide. “It says a little bit about Lycian architecture. I will read aloud, in translation of course, if everyone is interested. Yes?”

  Without waiting for a response, he launched into a lecture, translating in halting English. “The tombs were built around the fourth century BC. The house styles of the crypts were modeled after the wood houses the Lycians lived in, complete with windows and doors. The tomb chambers are empty, having been looted long ago, but they are accessible for viewing for those who have strong legs and care to take the hike.”

  “So dead people got the best real estate, with the best views,” remarked Fiona.

  Aunt Jackie was holding the golden urn with the rose petals very close to her chest, clutching each of the seahorse handles.

  Mom moved her chair closer to Aunt Jackie.

  “Was it right around here, then? Where Berk proposed to you?” Mom asked her quietly while Nils read on architectural details of the cliff tombs.

  Aunt Jackie nodded, her eyes glistening.

  “Are you ready to do the scattering ceremony?” Mom said gently. “We could find some privacy on the other end of the boat, now, just the three of us.”

  Aunt Jackie shook her head and looked up at the cliff tombs. The brown cliff façades glowed orange as the sun beat down upon them. “There,” she said, pointing at a tomb on the top of the honeycomb. “That was where he proposed, actually.”

  Mom stared at her. “Not out on the water?”

  “No. We hiked up there together, and he popped the question.”

  “Wait. Uncle Berk proposed to you at a tomb?” I asked. It was such an eerie premonition of how short-lived their marriage would be—just ten years—and how tragically he would die, falling off a cliff himself, though in a different part of the country.