Page 25 of The Deepest Lake
“Hey.”
Approaching from behind, she mistook him at first for an older woman, due to the thin, gray braid down his back. Rose studies the glowing orange faces, lit up by the fire. Except for this man, they all look to be in their twenties, light haired and light skinned. A scrawny white guy with dreadlocks is pounding the biggest bongo drum. He’s got big, spiral-shaped horn earrings in his stretched-out earlobes.
Rose moves her chin with the rhythm, inventing a story in her head. She can pretend she’s a solo backpacker. Gray Braid here, he doesn’t need sleep; why should she? She loves drumming, tribal tattoos and ear gauges. Loves mixing with strangers and inhaling their patchouli. God, has nothing changed since she was in college, with a roommate who bathed in the stuff?
“Have some?” Gray Braid passes her a joint.
“Okay. Sure.”
He sways, bumping hips with her. Shit, he thinks she approached him on purpose. They’re the only ones over forty here. His eyes are closed and he’s whipping his thin braid, the end woven with a bead and a black feather. Several times, the bead strikes her lower back.
Mom, you’re uptight.
Yes, I am, Jules. Just a little.
She’s startled when one of the younger men opposite her lifts his arms, screeches and sprints for the water’s edge.
Heads swivel. One of the drummers loses the rhythm, finds it again, repairing the beat.
Then a girl breaks the circle. She dashes to the edge of the lake, chatters like a monkey, flings her bikini top in the air and dives into the water. Others follow, shedding clothes as they race.
“Well, damn,” Gray Braid says.
Rose, ever the mother and field trip volunteer, counts them as they go: one-two-three-four-five-six. With the first two, that makes eight in the water.
Which of these young people is smart enough to be traveling with a friend? Who will be missed in the morning, if they don’t show up at breakfast? Be safe. Come back to shore. Think of the people who will miss you.
There, a flicker of white and another squeal before she sees gray outlines rising from the shallows, walking back to dry land. The water is cold. The moon is not yet full, its most enticing phase. Half of the group is returning but there will always be one who, in search of solitude or some kind of thrill, wants to see just how far she can go.
Back at the fire circle, a guy and a girl plop down on the pebbles and fall onto their backs, intertwining their closest legs. One young man lifts a can of beer to his lips and stares into the bonfire, eyes so big and round that Rose can see his dilated pupils even at this distance. He’s clean cut, wearing a pale yellow oxford shirt, rolled at the elbows, jeans and the kind of white-bottomed deck shoes that Rose associates with sailing. He drops his empty can, steps closer to the fire, passing both palms over the leaping flame.
Rose keeps watching, wondering if he can feel the heat, wondering what drug he’s on—wondering, also, how many of the people swimming in the dark are tipsy, stoned or just bad at swimming.
Accidents happen.
Especially in places like this: beaches. The dark. Drugs and alcohol. It’s a simple story. Why must Rose make it needlessly complex?
The sky is beginning to lighten when Rose sits down on the gravelly beach next to Gray Braid, whose real name is Dennis. It doesn’t take long to get his story. He lives in San Felipe nearly year-round.
“Retired?” she asks.
“More or less. Studio guitarist. You?”
“Writer,” Rose says, trying the lie on for size.
“Fiction? Nonfiction?”
Rose panics, needing to choose. “Fiction. Nothing highbrow. Just your basic paperback thriller.”
Dennis asks, “Would I know anything you wrote?”
“Probably not. I mean, you can’t blame a midlist author given this whole stupid blockbuster culture.” Rose is channeling Jules, repeating one of her rants almost verbatim.
“Hey,” Rose says, as if the segue makes sense and glad that it doesn’t have to. Dennis is stoned. She’s possibly still half-drunk. “Can I show you a photo?”
She swipes to a photo of Jules, from home. It shows her face in full, well-lit focus. “Do you recognize this girl?”
He pushes a long piece of hair out of his eyes. “Oh, yeah.”