Page 85 of The Deepest Lake
“Every quarter,” Rose repeats. “Is that how frequently Wendy attends the workshops?”
“I doubt anyone comes that often,” Diane says, but her expression has changed. “But maybe. I asked her the same question, and she was vague.”
“But not vague about her donations.”
“No. Completely proud of those!”
Rose remembers something Lindsay said about a “soft rule” that didn’t allow alumni to come back two (or three?) times in a row. But maybe it was “soft” because it all depended on which alum you were and whether you reliably opened your purse every time you were asked.
“Maybe she’s just embarrassed how long it’s taking her to finish her memoir,” Rose says, keeping her eye on Wendy, and equally focused on gluing herself to Diane, at least until she has figured out everything Diane might know about the money that is conveniently routed through Eva’s organization to another one.
“The question,” Diane says, “is really how much the orphanage needs.”
“Well, I plan to find out. I have a site visit scheduled, first thing in the morning.”
Where did Rose get the phrase site visit? Why did she say morning?
“I’ll get us some info, and then we can assemble our little alumni development team and go from there.”
Diane looks around to see if anyone is close enough to eavesdrop. “Good plan. But as much as I like the meeting idea, I don’t think it should be with Astrid. She’s only volunteered at the orphanage for four months, but Eva just told me she isn’t doing a very good job and they plan to replace her soon.”
Rose savors that morsel of gossip. Why would you let someone like Astrid go? It might be to stop her from mismanaging donations. But it might also be to stop her from realizing other people are mismanaging donations.
Follow the money. Her old journalism prof’s dictum.
Don’t trust . . .
Mauricio was trying to tell her.
And then there’s the piece from Scarlett, an insight the sweet girl didn’t even know she was offering. Sometimes when you stop posting, it just means you finally got a fucking grip on what matters in life.
It took Rose less than seventy-two hours to notice that Eva’s orphanage donation scheme might be fishy. Jules may have been enamored with Eva, but Jules wasn’t dumb. In fact, because of her summer internships, she knew more about nonprofits than Rose does.
And if Jules felt the way that Rose does now, that would have put Jules in a place that was . . . . uncomfortable. Which isn’t the first word that came to Rose just now, much as her brain is trying to deny it.
The first word that came to her was: unsafe.
Diane jogs into the house as Lindsay, private session completed, makes her way toward Rose, face lit up with an enigmatic grin. The late afternoon sun is shining on Lindsay’s sharp, bronzed cheekbones, catching the glitter in her makeup. Her hair is even more aggressively spiked. Less Emma Thompson today, more Billy Idol.
“Good session?” Rose asks, gesturing to the stairs so they can walk back to town together.
“Nope!”
It’s only once they’re through the gate and walking down the road that Lindsay turns and pauses, shoving her polished nails hard into the pockets of her pleated pants. “She said I should write a Modern Love essay.”
“Not a good idea?” Rose asks. She’s heard the newspaper column mentioned a dozen times since Antigua, as if it represents the highest goal any writer can hope to reach.
“It’s what Eva tells everyone so she doesn’t have to discuss their memoirs. In my case, I have a complicated story. And an agent. Modern Love only pays a few hundred bucks and they don’t allow pseudonyms. Given my line of work, I need a pseudonym.”
“I’m sorry, I know nothing about publishing,” Rose says, “and to be honest, I don’t read Modern Love.”
“Me neither!” Lindsay hoots. “It’s so weird how preoccupied Eva is with one column! But you knew this place was fucking weird or you wouldn’t have come to see for yourself.”
Rose stops walking. “What?”
“You said you didn’t trust it. Casa Eva. San Felipe. After the opening-night party, you told me you thought there were secrets here.”
“I did?”