Although it’s close to lunchtime, staff in white uniforms are still serving breakfast. A wooden pergola is wound with trailing plants and flowers, a large sail-shaped awning above, protecting it from the sun. Small festoon lights are strung from pillar to pillar. Acid-bright planters housing large cacti circle the terrace.
From this angle Hana can see the rope swing: the most Instagram-worthy spot at the retreat. A guest is swinging from one of the ropes, feet ruffling the surface of the water.
As they turn, walk the other way, starting to skirt the perimeter of the yoga pavilion, Hana’s eyes pick out the villas dotted below, blending into lush foliage.
“It’s a bit of a walk to ours,” Jo says, following her gaze.
“How far? I—” But she stops, suddenly hit by the sight of the rock above her.
Hana was expecting the shape to be less dramatic close up, but if anything, it’s more pronounced—a side profile of the reaper. She takes in what could be interpreted as the dipped curve of the hood, an arm extended, and the scythe.
It’s this that her eyes fixate on—the slight hook to the stone blade.
She looks away, catching Seth’s eye. He glances up at the rock and then at her, a smile playing on his lips.
Despite the sun warming her bare shoulders, Hana shivers.
8
The guide said the caves are about ten minutes from here.” Jo’s voice bounces off the water, magnified, as she turns from the front seat of the double kayak. “Apparently you can paddle right through, come out a hundred yards or so down.” As she digs the paddle into the water, every muscle in her upper back and arms is perfectly defined by a slick layer of sunscreen.
Maya, in a single kayak a few feet away, pulls an expression of mock horror. “Having fun?” she mouths.
Hana smiles, but it’s forced. Although it’s not hard work—the kayak steadily powering through the calm water—she feels queasy and can still taste the acidity of the fruit juice they’d had on arrival. She shouldn’t have drunk it, not before exercising. The heat doesn’t help, she thinks, feeling sweat prick the back of her rash guard.
In truth, Hana would prefer to be back in the villa, feet suspended in the turquoise square of their plunge pool, a glass of ice water beside her. It was every bit as beautiful as the photographs—white walls; honeyed limestone floor; leafy, tropical plants in the corners. A holiday hacienda vibe—rattan furniture, large terra-cotta vases, woven patterned rugs. Artworks in fierce rust reds, pinks, and blues.
Why did they have to rush out? Why can’t Jo just enjoy the moment?
Bea wouldn’t have done that, she thinks, irritated. She, like Hana, would have lingered, analyzed the little touches together—the tiny abstract artwork composed of pieces of bleached driftwood attached to the walls, the surreal clusters of cacti.
Hana had tried to hang back, make her excuses, but her pleas had been ignored. It’s where Bea would have been useful. She’s one of the few people who puts Jo in her place.
“Hey, you three. Enough chat. We need to up the pace if you want to make it back for lunch,” Seth calls.
He and Caleb are up ahead, also in a double kayak. The two make an unlikely pairing—Seth’s broad, tanned back a sharp contrast to Caleb’s narrow build, clad in a shiny blue rash guard. It looks like Seth’s doing most of the work—Caleb’s strokes are messy, his paddle skimming the surface of the water rather than slicing through.
The island curves around toward the villas, and with it, the water turns a darker, inkier blue, huge ropes of seaweed standing upright from the bottom. Hana shudders, feeling the resistance as they wrap around her blade.
As they paddle past the last of the villas, the gentle landscape gives way to something wilder: the enormous walls of trees that she’d glimpsed when they arrived. Pines meld with conifers, oaks, brambly shrubs. A few yards on, the cliffs slope sharply inward, forming a small cove. It’s deserted—no people or paddleboards.
Jo steers them closer. Raising her blade, she points. “Pretty sure this is it. I recognize it from the photos of the entrance. It loops around once you’re inside.”
Hana looks uneasily at the small archway of limestone, barely wide enough to allow the kayak through.
“It’s pretty narrow.” Caleb rests his paddle horizontally across his lap. “You’re sure this is the right spot?”
“It’ll be wider inside. Other people have done it . . . we’ll go first, won’t we, Han? Show you guys the way.”
Hana can hear the challenge in Jo’s voice. Still tasting the acid in the back of her throat, she swallows it away and nods. “Of course.”