Page 49 of The Deepest Lake
“Then we have to move on.”
Diane raises a hand to get Eva’s attention, which has wandered back to the printouts in her hand. “I just want to thank you, Eva. Not just for this, but for everything. Your books, especially the last one. Your strength and your honesty.” Her voice cracks. A tear slides down her cheek. “That’s why I came. Just to learn from that.”
Pippa, sitting two seats away from Diane, hands her a tissue, then takes one for herself.
Rose feels tears welling behind her eyes, simply because crying is contagious. But she feels something else too—a scratchy lump in her throat, like she’s swallowed a sharp bit of food. She doesn’t understand why they never discussed Diane’s writing. She doesn’t know what to make of any of this—and at the same time, her attention is divided. Half of her is trying to understand how these workshops actually work. The other half needs to settle the issue of whether Jules ever spent significant time here in the first place. The best people to ask are the people their private investigator never bothered talking to.
“Isn’t bravery contagious?” Eva says, looking pleased. “Thank you, everyone.”
While the participants clap, Rose jumps up and trots out of the classroom with her head ducked low and a hand on her stomach—let them think she’s having traveler’s tummy troubles—across the lawn and into the house.
When she gets to the main-floor bathroom, it’s already occupied. Rose waits her turn, looking at her phone and thinking about the scarcity of photos during Jules’s entire Guatemala trip. She scrolls through a few volcano shots that could have been taken anywhere along this shoreline. But there’s one photo that’s more personal, even if it doesn’t show Jules’s face. A girl who is undoubtedly Rose’s daughter poses with an apparently female acquaintance—their kneecaps side by side, their hands splayed as if they’re doing a before-andafter manicure pose. Jules’s hands are tan, her fingernails short and uncared for, matching her scabby right knee. The apparent friend has perfect pale fingers, French polished nails and slim, scratch-free legs.
Rose closes the phone in frustration. Why couldn’t her daughter have taken more selfies—of her face, instead of her hands and knees? Why couldn’t her daughter have used social media the way everyone else does: to show off and make one’s life look perfect, instead of posting an ironic mystery shot?
After her turn in the bathroom, Rose pauses at the doorway of the kitchen, where Barbara stands with her arms over her chest, prohibiting entry.
“Are you lost?”
“I need to talk to the kitchen staff.”
“About?”
“Food allergy.”
“Didn’t you put that on your registration form?”
“I forgot. It’s really important.”
Outside, on the patio near the kitchen’s side doors, an alumna is having trouble with the coffee carafe. She pumps with vigor and spills extra on the table, leaving the sugar bowl open to a circling wasp.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, these people . . .” Barbara says, advancing toward the table, rag in her hand.
Rose grabs the opportunity to slip into the long, narrow kitchen, past Chef Hans, who turns and frowns at her. He’s big and wide, with meaty forearms and massive feet tucked into enormous, ugly Crocs. His head is large too, a shiny bald pate, with a blue and red Buffalo Bills insignia tattoo on the bulgiest part of his skull, and below that, on his neck, a tattoo of a cleaver. His hands are hidden in oven mitts as he tends a glass pan of enchiladas. Rose smiles and keeps moving, as if she knows exactly where she is going.
“Eva wanted me to tell the women in the kitchen that the workshop session is running behind.”
He rolls his eyes. “They won’t understand you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Fine. Concha’s back there.”
Rose focuses on the four Guatemalan women standing around the big butcher block table in the back, peeling scorched peppers and chopping ingredients for pico de gallo.
“Hola,” Rose says, trying her best to sound casual. “Vamos a comer tarde. Según Eva.”
They nod, looking only slightly relieved. Concha, nearest to Rose, has a sweat-speckled brow.
Rose pulls her phone out of her pocket. She only has a moment.
“Conoce a ella?” Do you know her?
Concha shakes her head without pausing the brutal rhythm of her knife. If she glances up at all, it’s to send a warning glance in the direction of the three other cooks, who have slowed their chopping in order to squint in Rose’s direction.
Rose angles the phone toward them, above the brimming bowls of tomatoes, onions and jalapeños. It’s a picture from last summer of a hike in Utah. Jules in tank top and cargo shorts, mouth open, that one incisor slightly twisted.
Two of the women glance toward Concha, shake their heads in unison and resume chopping at full speed.