She trailed her fingers along the earthen walls as they rounded a corner. “Is it effective?”
“No one’s ever told me otherwise,” he said, amused by her emphasis on practicalities. They walked in silence for a while, looking between the walls and the blue sky overhead. He tried to imagine seeing only these walls, this sky, hunkered in a defensive position with other Trojans, then tried to imagine the view from the other side, huge swaths of sea and sky and beach. He tried to imagine what came next, but failed. “I’m thinking that whatever’s wrong with me has been wrong with men since we crawled out of the oceans,” he said finally. “Look at this place. Besieged and sacked and rebuilt, then sacked again. Then forgotten. What’s left are the stories people told about the battles, and some walls. All for a woman.”
A smile curved her lips. “Are you saying you wouldn’t go to war for me? That my face won’t launch a thousand ships?”
He didn’t know what to say to that. Fuck trade routes. In that moment, he understood every jealous-lover story, the volcanic passion and rage and possessiveness that would drive a man to launch a thousand ships to reclaim a woman. Suddenly, he felt like he could build a siege engine with his bare hands, rage down the walls.
“Maybe there’s nothing wrong with you,” she said, studying him with an awareness that singed him. A bee landed on her elbow, and waddled up her arm. She watched it, unflinching, until it lifted in flight. “Maybe you are the way you are, and you just need to find your way home.”
*
At Grannie’s insistence Rose gamely climbed to the top of the replica of the wooden Trojan horse to wave at Keenan from four stories up. He stayed on the ground to take pictures with various cameras and cell phones, then aired out the Land Rover while they shopped.
Rose emerged from the gift shop with a bag she tucked into her suitcase, stowed in the Land Rover’s rear compartment. “How long to Istanbul?” she asked.
He looked at his watch. “If they finish the mandatory shopping and restroom stops in the next half hour or so, we should be in Istanbul in time for dinner.”
“They’re looking forward to crossing the Dardanelles,” Rose said. “Thanks for rearranging the schedule so efficiently.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Are you going to sightsee around Istanbul with us?” she asked softly.
He hadn’t planned to. Rose and the Babes could handle a modern city; the buses and cabs were all easy to use, and most people spoke enough English to be of assistance. He’d planned to drop them at their hotel in the Beyo?lu district, leave Rose his contact information in case anything happened, and get back to his life.
“Yeah,” he said. “Might as well see this through.”
*
The mood perked up on the drive to Istanbul. Between them, the Babes hammered out a schedule that included the Spice Market, the Blue Mosque, the Hagia Sophia, and a cruise on the Bosphorus.
“We’re staying in the nightlife center of Istanbul,” Grannie said. The wind on the Dardanelles flapped the pages of her guidebook. “Bay-og-lu. Is that how you say it?”
“Bey-o-lu,” Keenan said, then repeated himself as he plucked Florence’s hat from the breeze before it flew off the side of the ferry. “The g is silent.”
Florence crammed the hat on her head and tightened the chin strap, then repeated the word.
“Where do you live?” Rose asked, as innocent as a nun. Her cheeks were slightly sunburned. He found himself wanting to press his lips to them, feel the heat.
“Near the Galata Tower,” he said.
“That’s just a few blocks from our hotel!” Grannie exclaimed, flipping pages in the guidebook. “That’s convenient.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, straight-faced. “Very convenient.”
Rose simply smiled, and turned her face to the sun.
*
Back in the Land Rover, they crossed the Galata Bridge, then slowly made their way through traffic to the hotel’s entrance. “I can’t park here,” Keenan said. “I’ll unload your bags, then return the truck.”
Rose’s phone started to ding. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said, shouldering her tote and reaching for her big suitcase. “I have cell service!”
The Babes groaned. “Keenan, take that away from her,” Marian said.
Rose clutched it to her chest. “You need to text me to know where to meet us for dinner tonight, right?”
“Sure,” he said, bland as vanilla pudding.
*
He had every intention of meeting them for dinner, but when he got back to his apartment, his cell phone rang. When Rose’s text came through, he was on the phone with his team leader, going over the specifics to extract a hostage negotiator from a nasty little situation in Syria. The entire team was on standby, ready to fly out on thirty minutes’ notice.
Can’t make it. Sorry.
Work?
Work.
I understand.