Page 46 of The Deepest Lake
PART
II
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15
ROSE
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“Finally.” Eva beams. “After much travel, after much sacrifice, you’re all here.”
They’ve gathered in the open-air classroom, to one side of the lawn. Last night’s dinner party was only a hint of what’s to come. It’s here they’ll truly get to know one another’s stories. It’s here that lives will change.
Eva glances from face to face, pausing to smile, scrunch her nose, raise an eyebrow, make a connection. When it comes to Rose’s turn, she feels it, too: the kindness of that unhurried, attentive gaze, like they are continuing an unspoken conversation. It helps her let go of everything else: her exhaustion from the crazy night of broken sleep, meeting Dennis on the beach, reading Eva’s second memoir, seeing the wildfires. What she must do—what she wants to do—is be here, now.
Direct questions have provided Rose with only one new possibility: that Jules may have had a Guatemalan boyfriend. That matters, but it’s not everything, because if it was, Jules wouldn’t have sent all those texts and emails about Eva and the women, about how she felt honored and excited to be helping them—until, suddenly, she wasn’t. A fling can’t be the whole story. Something happened.
The thatch-covered classroom or aula where they meet nestles against a vine-covered rock wall. The open side faces the lake. Across the blue water, the volcanoes form a permanent and bewitching backdrop, today made softer by haze. The scenery, fused with buttery light, could be a photograph, especially with the water so dreamy and still. The day is holding its breath.
A series of benches with pillows—casual seating for a half dozen—are on two closed sides. Most of the writers have already staked out their places in the other chairs, of which there are several kinds: director’s chairs with canvas seats, slouchier camp chairs, a few stiff plastic chairs with attached desks. A whiteboard and stool are at the front of the class, where Eva stands, arms as busy as an orchestra conductor’s.
“I hope you’re comfortable,” Eva says, gesturing to the open-air space with its mixed seating—a far cry from the typical boring college classroom. “Comfort is important. As is good food. You’re going to be asked to do difficult things here, but in between those difficult moments, we hope to make you feel fabulous. That’s why I encourage you to sign up for massages, to swim, to take breaks whenever you need them. I’ll be working around the clock. You don’t have to. My concern for your comfort is also why I gave you the shawls, since the winds pick up at midday, and here in the shade, it can be breezy. But it’s a good breeze. You’ll see here that even the weather knows what you need. It gives you quiet when you need quiet. It gets stirred up when you need stirring.”
A few people laugh, but Eva isn’t joking. She waits for complete silence before continuing.
“When I’ve had a problem, Lake Atitlán—this magical, ancient place between volcanoes—has solved it. I mean that, literally. Fight this place, and it will fight you back. Listen to it, learn from it, and you will not simply improve as writers. You will be transformed.”
She takes another moment, closing her eyes to breathe deeply, prompting nearly everyone to copy her, until the whole aula is breathing as one.
“Good. That’s right,” she says, eyes opening again. “I don’t use the word ‘transformation’ lightly. You might be surprised, but a few participants have changed their names after coming here. That’s how much they feel like different people when they leave.”
Rose shifts in her seat. She’s always been resistant to motivational speaking, but this particular speech had been going mostly fine until that last part. Changing your name after a writing workshop? But then she remembers: Eva was once Patricia Myron. Rose has to admit: Eva Marshall has a better ring.
Eva scans the room again, reestablishing eye contact with each of them. “This place will touch your spirit. But the people here matter just as much. My staff and I are experienced. Trust us. We created Casa Eva for you.”
When she stands and begins to pace, Rose notices her outfit. Eva is wearing a tight white tank that shows off a surprisingly perky bust—at least a size B or larger, not the pancake-flat chest described in her personal essay about breasts. Some surgeon did a good job. Her wide-legged linen pants have big clay-red buttons at the sides. She’s wearing white sandals, her tan feet visible between the thin leather straps, with manicured, cornflower-blue toenails the same color as the cardigan she’s thrown over the back of a chair.
Colorful, Rose thinks. Creative. Confident. Like a woman who hasn’t given up. That’s what Jules had wanted for her own mother.
Eva says, “Let’s begin with a sampling from the manuscripts.”
Pippa interrupts from the front, hands rustling through a folder in her lap. “Do we get out the notes we made—the comments we made on people’s manuscripts?”
Eva takes a slow, yoga-style breath. “You don’t need notes, Pippa. You don’t need paper. We’re not even workshopping yet.”
Pippa calls out in her delightful British accent, “Soooo sorry!”
“Pippa,” Eva says. “Everyone. Focus. I want you to listen—not speak. All right?”