Page 19 of The Deepest Lake
As the dozen or so women all inch forward, they murmur appreciatively about the landscaping: dense, flowering bushes and tiny statues—a small golden frog, an alabaster maiden—tucked into rocky niches.
“Hold on,” says the woman ahead of Rose, reaching down to take off her shoes. “That’s better.”
Is there really no easier way in? There must be a separate gate, a driveway for deliveries.
Rose remembers Lindsay’s comment, predicting that Eva will make a grand entrance. In fact, what Eva has done is arrange for the participants’ own grand entrances: single file, one at a time, as they leave behind the rutted road and enter Eva’s lush, magical realm. Even the smells here are different. Back at their cabins, along the road and the lakeshore, everything is dry and mostly scentless, except for a faint chalky smell along the beach. Town itself is clean—a bit of woodsmoke, but mostly nondescript, without the strong smell of overripe fruit and garbage Rose associates with touristy tropical towns. Only on this vegetated path does Rose realize what she’s been missing: the smell of rich damp earth. Plants and flowers. Sensuous nectar.
Around a final switchback, the path spills out onto a jewel-green, close-cropped lawn.
And there she is: Eva. At last. Waiting at the bottom, gazing upward with a beatific smile, dressed in diaphanous, floaty layers of blue and green.
She’s gorgeous, mom. Fifty-six years old but she looks forty.
Rose registers a mix of envy and admiration, opening herself to the undeniable fact of Eva’s beauty. Even the best author photo hasn’t caught the freshness of Eva’s bronzed face and ash-blond hair, the way a single, longer wavy lock moves every time she turns. Photos certainly don’t do justice to her smile. It looks not just authentic, but reborn with intention each moment, as if Eva really is blessing them with wellness and creativity, making room for every one of them in her heart.
Eva greets each woman and whispers something in her ear. To some, a quick word. To others, something longer. Rose watches as Isobel gets a brief greeting. Scarlett, the young cyclist, bows her head and listens intently while Eva leans into her neck, murmuring. Watching Eva’s lips at each woman’s ear reminds Rose of how she felt reading Eva’s memoir, as if it were just the two of them, author and reader, huddled together, sharing something urgent and intimate. The thought gives Rose a quick chill.
Before each woman moves on, Eva takes a shawl from the arms of an unsmiling Guatemalan girl next to her and drapes the wrap over the writer’s shoulders. Scarlett receives an ivory shawl. Lindsay, about five women ahead of Rose, gets a red one.
They are being categorized somehow. Rose suppresses a nervous giggle, thinking of the sorting hat from Harry Potter.
Rose wants red, but she knows she isn’t red—or innocent white, either. She isn’t Lindsay, able to resist giving false praise. She isn’t Scarlett, so pure of heart she believed she could bike across the country practically without money, depending on the kindness of strangers.
Rose’s heart thrums within her tight chest. She feels queasy. It must be the altitude, all the travel, the anticipation. She’s surprised by her own nerves.
Then it’s her turn. She shuffles forward, preparing to greet Eva calmly and pleasantly. But Rose can’t help it. She lets the bubble of excitement well up inside of her. Beginning to grin, she notices how odd her cheeks feel. She hasn’t managed a wide, spontaneous smile for months.
“Welcome,” Eva says. “And you are . . . ?”
Eva’s eyes are green, the eyelids at the corners slightly heavy. Her forehead, close up, is finely lined. These minor imperfections only make her look more natural, more approachable.
“Rose. From Chicago.”
Eva’s smile vanishes, a lightning-quick shift that makes Rose hold her breath. Does Eva know who she is?
Rose banishes the thought. There’s no way for Eva to know; since she refused to schedule a call, she’s never heard Rose’s voice. If Eva suspected, she wouldn’t have let her register. Matt was right—Eva knows that death is bad for business. Eva helped the police, but they never had reason to step onto her property.
Eva’s expression has softened, but she’s still studying Rose. She leans forward, taking both of her hands, lips close to her ear. “You needed to be here, and we needed you.”
Rose freezes, still feeling Eva’s breath on her neck as she continues: “You have a long way to go. But that’s all right. The journey starts today.”
Rose closes her eyes.
You needed to be here.
We needed you.
The words are a rope lowered down a deep well.
Rose feels the warmth of the shawl being draped over her shoulders. Then Eva does something she hasn’t done to anyone else in the line. She clasps Rose in a full embrace. When Rose opens her eyes again, Eva smiles and winks. “You need more hugs, honey. Now go grab a glass of wine.”
Rose nods, dumbstruck, then steps forward, getting her bearings. The wide lawn is situated on a low bluff overlooking the lake, with a stone-walled two-story house to one side. The entire property is lit up like a wedding. Strings of fairy lights glimmer between the trees. Candles in hurricane lanterns flicker on linen-covered tables, next to vase after vase of birds-of-paradise and stalks of wild ginger.
At the back of the yard, Guatemalan cooks with wooden paddles tend artisanal pizzas baking in two enormous stone ovens. Young local women circle with large trays of appetizers, including prosciutto-wrapped melon and the biggest, reddest prawns that Rose has ever seen. They look like small lobsters.
Everything smells divine. Rose realizes that aside from a bite of breadstick, she hasn’t eaten since breakfast. She hasn’t wanted to eat for as long as she can remember. Suddenly, she’s famished.
In the distance, the volcanoes are dim gray silhouettes against a royal blue sky. The black lake glimmers, reflecting the evening’s first stars and the blaze of lights from Eva’s lawn. Just over the bluff, a pier juts into the lake, nearly obscured by the bluff’s shadow, with one lone rowboat tied alongside.