Page 44 of The Deepest Lake

She waits, inviting me to fill in the blank.

“Different?”

“I am a writer. And you are, too. You said you finally got something started.”

“It’s not done.”

“Nothing is ever done. Even books. You just give up and finally hand them over to someone else—same as you do with kids.”

“Okay,” I say, booting up my tiny, battered Mac, a process that takes about five years. “I know how busy you are. You really don’t have to do this right now.”

“Honey,” she says. “I want to. Quit stalling.”

Eva takes a seat on the bench next to me, pulls the computer onto her lap, and moves her face back and forth in a strange motion that reminds me of a hypnotized snake until I realize she’s just having a hard time reading the screen.

I reach over and magnify the text.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s see.”

Watching someone else read your prose for the first time is difficult. Watching Eva Marshall read—chin tucked, brow furrowed, eyes squinting—is excruciating.

She searches for the scroll button, gets through page one and into page two—thank goodness there’s little more—and then softly, quietly, almost tenderly closes the lid.

“Well,” she says, turning to me.

We’re seated so close that our thighs are touching. Her face is just inches from my own.

“Tell me about this essay,” Eva says.

Not your essay, but this essay, as if it is a distasteful thing that can be held between pinched fingers.

“It’s not my typical writing style,” I say quickly. “I wrote it fast. Because you gave me that deadline. I’m not even done.” I stop myself. “But those are excuses, and I don’t want to be someone who makes excuses anymore.”

“Relax,” she says. “Now try again. Tell me about this essay.”

“I thought I’d write about my father’s second marriage to a woman who is only ten years older than me, and even though I like her—love her even—how uncomfortable the whole situation was at first . . .”

“Those aren’t very high stakes.”

“I was finding my way into it. I was trying to figure out my own feelings. You know how the word ‘essay’ comes from the French ‘essai,’ to attempt? I was—”

Eva shivers with disgust, as if I’ve just blown my nose into a Kleenex and then pulled it open to show her the contents.

“Don’t use foreign words or quote that kind of academic mumbo-jumbo to me. Know exactly what you’re writing, before you write it.”

I’m thinking of all the advice I’ve ever read from Anne Lamott, John Steinbeck and Stephen King about how it’s okay to write fast and imperfectly, and revise later. But Eva nods her sharp chin, decision already made. “You can do better. You’re going to send me a new essay tonight. I’ll read it before bed. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“But the women are coming tomorrow. The opening party—”

“The girls and the gardeners and Hans will be busy. I won’t be.”

I don’t have a clue what to write about and I can’t fall behind on my other tasks, but of course I say yes. Why? Because I’m an Agreeable. It’s better than the other choices. At least by agreeing, I’ve got to learn something.

I turn toward the French doors, about to leave.

“One more thing,” Eva says. “Your name. Who calls you Jules?”

“My mom. Well, everyone. But she started it.”