Page 13 of The Deepest Lake

“You write in your books. That’s good. You can’t believe how many of the women I teach think they’re not supposed to.”

At a loss for words, I grin vacantly.

Eva grabs a pen from the little table. “So, you’re a writer,” she says, signing the title page with a quick slash. She closes and hands the book back to me.

“I want to be.”

Four words that can’t begin to contain the dreams I’ve built up so dangerously large I’m terrified of being crushed by them.

“Which you didn’t tell me when you first asked for a job.”

I take a deep breath. It didn’t occur to me that Eva Marshall would want to know about my small ideas and overheated ambitions. Even the word “writer” makes me uncomfortable. I haven’t earned it yet.

“Interesting,” she says. “Sometimes what we hide is more important than what we tell.”

I want to think that she’s right—that I might have depths, hidden even to me, and strengths that could be nurtured by the right person in the right situation. Never mind that I feel like an impostor. Everyone feels that way. Right?

Eva leans against the waist-high adobe wall that encloses her second-story patio, an aerie high up in the trees, and gestures to the stacks of paper-clipped pages which must be the work of the women writers on their way to Guatemala soon. “You’ve gotta see these manuscripts. There’s practically no point in reading the first pages. They never admit what the real story is. They hold on to it. You have to wrestle it away from them.”

“I believe that. All my creative writing workshops at Northwestern were the same way.”

Eva doesn’t look impressed. She never went to college. She may even have a grudge against formal writing instruction.

“But I didn’t really learn much there—not about writing,” I say, improvising. “Travel and life have taught me more.” They haven’t. But I’m here. I’m willing. I’ve shown up.

Eva seems to be thinking. Over her shoulder, two hummingbirds dart behind a bush and dance into view again: flash of purple, shimmer of green. Stay focused. Don’t mess this up.

“Julie?”

“Actually, Juliet on my passport, but I’ve always gone by Jules.”

Eva narrows her eyes again, like she’s tasting my name in order to decide whether she likes it. Behind her the lake sparkles. I can’t stop glancing from Eva’s face, framed by her tousled blond bob, to the shimmering blue water, to the cloud-topped volcanoes. It’s more than a view. It’s a combination of things I never even knew I wanted, because I’ve never seen them all in one place: natural beauty, timeless inspiration and the signs of Eva’s success, everywhere. This place represents enchantment, but it’s an earned enchantment. Eva deserves this, I know from following her life story a little too closely. I want to be the kind of person who deserves it, too.

“Let’s start over,” Eva says, big green eyes fixed on me. “I don’t need just admin help, I need help dealing with everyday hospitality issues once the women get here. Stuff happens when people who are used to being comfortable leave their safe bubbles. And I desperately need social media, too. You do that?”

Maybe it’s time for a little truth at this point. “I could learn.”

“Let’s have you learn right now.”

“Okay,” I say, letting the backpack slide down to the floor. I scooch my rear to the hard edge of the stone bench.

“Take out your phone. Make me a video. Tell me what you liked about one of my books.”

“Do I aim the camera at . . . you?”

“Not for this one. Focus on the book cover or the scenery. Just make it casual, and one minute or less. Something I can put on our feeds, which got way too quiet this week, thanks to Simone going AWOL. Can you do that—and sort out all the email, too?”

I turn twenty-three at the end of this week. Maybe this birthday will be special after all. A fragrant white blossom falls from a tree over our heads, into my lap.

“Absolutely.”

5

ROSE

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