The Lovers Read Online Free Page A

they were still standing in the doorway. “Would you like to come into your house?” she said.
    “Please,” he said, and made an exaggerated demonstration of wiping his sandals on the doormat. “It’s a beautiful day.”
    Yvonne smiled. She didn’t want to let on that she had not been outside. They moved into the dining area and stood by the table.
    “I have your money,” she said.
    “Let’s not talk about that yet.” He lifted his hand asthough to shield himself from the thought of money. “How do you like my Datça?”
    “I like it very much. I was actually here before.”
    “Really? When?”
    “Maybe twenty-five years ago,” Yvonne said. It had been twenty-eight years exactly.
    “You must have liked it, no, if you come back?”
    “I was on my honeymoon,” she said.
    “Oh, yes, everyone has fun on their honeymoon.”
    Yvonne looked at the floor, embarrassed. She thought of the sex swing and the photo, and the parts either might have played in his honeymoon.
    “And is your husband joining you?”
    “No,” Yvonne said. “He passed away.” Up until a year ago she had told people Peter had been killed. But when they realized no knives or guns or poison had been involved, they seemed less interested, even disappointed, and this inevitably turned Yvonne against them. There had been a long period when the details of his death were the only thing on her mind at any given time of day, and always at night.
    “I am sorry,” Mr. Çelik said. “I’m so sorry.” His sympathy, so unexpected from a stranger, caused a stinging sensation in her nose, the start of tears.
    “It’s okay,” she said, as though consoling him. Now he was the one looking at the floor.
    “Maybe,” she started, unsure of what she was going to say. She had to save him. “Maybe you could give me some good restaurant recommendations? It’s been so long.”
    “Of course,” he said, brightening up. She knew his type, the kind of person who was happiest with a task, a purpose. “I will draw you a map.”
    They both looked around for paper. “Maybe in that cabinet there,” Mr. Çelik said. “Do you mind if I look?”
    He located a pad of paper with thin blue lines spaced widely, and sketched a small map. “Here we are,” he said, and drew a star, “and here’s a good place for meat, and here”—he squiggled another star—“is a good place for fish.” The watch on his wrist was large and thick black hair sprouted up on either side of the wide band. “Tell them you’re staying at my house.”
    “Thank you,” she said, taking the drawing from him. She already knew the tangle of crooked lines and wayward stars would prove useless.
    She lifted her purse and, this time, Mr. Çelik did not object. She removed the white envelope she’d been given by the woman with the plastic thimble on her thumb who exchanged her money at the Amsterdam airport. Mr. Çelik had specified in his e-mail that he preferred to be paid in euros rather than Turkish lire, but she confirmed with him now.
    “Euros, yes?” she said.
    “Yes, better than lire. I have more faith in their economy.”
    “But I changed money into lire too. Around town, can I use lire or…?”
    “Lire are fine, but secretly everyone prefers euros.”
    “Good to know,” she said, and counted out the bills slowlyon the dining room table. When she was through, Mr. Çelik counted them again quickly before stacking them. He was clearly a man accustomed to dealing with cash.
    “Next time I see you I’ll bring you a receipt.”
    “When will that be?” Yvonne said, hoping she didn’t sound desperate. It was only now, upon his imminent departure, that she fully comprehended the solitary existence that lay before her. When she had been in Burlington, surrounded by people who paid too much attention to her social schedule, or the paucity of it, isolation had seemed the perfect antidote. But now, only the morning after her arrival in Datça, she was beginning to have her