Page 3 of The Deepest Lake

“You’ve been quiet. Savoring every moment, are we?”

“Oh—yes.”

“Smart girl. Treat every day as if it could be your last.”

“I do,” Rose says.

Stepping off the San Felipe docks, the women move slowly despite Ana Sofía’s attempt to rouse them with cheer. “Someone else will get the bags. You’re almost there, I promise. We’ll gather in the reception area first. It’s just up this little path and then into a garden.”

Past a stony beach is a low wall around some sort of compound, with several trees and lots of vines and big-leafed tropical plants.

A woman behind Rose says, “I hope they hand out those fragrant little washcloths. I’ve been sweating all day.”

When Rose turns, Isobel smiles at her. She’s a heavyset woman with olive skin, big dimples and jaw-length black hair with a purplish sheen. At the first group dinner in Antigua, Isobel helped steer the group in their drink selections and told everyone about the memoir she’s writing, chronicling her family’s fourth-generation Mexican-German-American vineyard in Sonoma. Rose enjoyed the ten-page sample she read on the plane, one of a half dozen manuscripts forwarded to them for advance study.

“Whoa, here they come,” Isobel says, as their group is encircled by a group of pre-adolescent boys. They reach for the legs of Rose’s white capri pants, calling out Zoos, Zoos and Cassava!

Rose doesn’t understand why they associate her boat’s arrival with zoo animals. And she doesn’t know whether cassava is grown in Guatemala.

“Hola,” she says to them. “Hola, hola,” keeping a firm grip on her purse and her laptop bag.

The biggest and boldest of the boys, eyes half-hidden under messy black bangs, jabs a finger at her tote bag. “Zoos?”

“Lo siento,” Rose says. I’m sorry.

“Cassava? Zoos?”

Rose stops and looks at him squarely. “Cómo te llamas?”

“Diego,” he says, hand out, palm up.

She reaches into the side pocket of her laptop bag for a bright orange pencil with a sports car eraser, one of a dozen she brought for moments like these. He takes it without any change of expression, slides it into his back jeans pocket, then jabs at the tote bag again. “Zoos?”

Ana Sofía herds the group of visiting women through the garrulous children, up the beach and through a gate. “He thinks you have shoes. Eva collects and distributes hundreds of pairs. If you did bring clothing donations, just remember to bring them tonight, when we gather for the party at Casa Eva.”

Casa Eva. Cass-eva. Cassava.

The clothing donation notes were in the thirty pages of instructions all the participants received, a torrent of emails that arrived within three hours of Rose submitting her short writing sample, the lame partial essay about several years of estrangement from her sister, which—god only knew why—evidently passed muster. The emails never came directly from Eva, though they always contained her best wishes and firmly worded advice.

Bring sufficient quetzales in small denominations, for tips.

Bring US dollars as well, for Guatemala City and Antigua but not for San Felipe.

Don’t wear skimpy clothes.

Don’t wear jeans (they don’t dry quickly enough).

Consider leaving your makeup at home; we are an all-women group; try something new and go natural!

This is a big adventure but it will be wonderful and you’re going to have a life-changing experience and most important, you’re all going to be okay. The countdown is almost over!

Rose remembers Jules’s first text about the new job. I just got the most amazing opportunity with the most amazing person.

With a peculiar sense of apprehension, Rose sees it more clearly now. This is what Jules was doing, holding the hands of some dozen or more skittish visitors. First by email, later in person.

Tell me! What are you doing?

Everything. You didn’t ask who the person is!