Page 59 of The Deepest Lake

“Jules never actually applied,” Matt says.

Rose closes her eyes to screen out the voices on the patio.

“The admin people must be confused.”

“At both programs?” He shifts into a lower register. “I don’t think so, Rose.”

“So you’re saying Jules lied to us.”

“Yes. Or she omitted some facts.”

“Just like she omitted the boyfriend. Who you believe in, now.”

Matt sighs. “Maybe.”

“Maybe.”

The silence extends long enough that Rose is about to pull the phone away from her ear, to see if the call was dropped.

Matt asks, “How are you doing, overall?”

He hasn’t asked her that in ages. It doesn’t matter that she can’t articulate what’s she’s been through. She’s glad to be asked, just the same.

“Good, considering.”

He murmurs something—that vague sound of assent, half-military, half-professorial, that used to punctuate many of their phone calls, back when life was boring, safe and good enough.

“So, what do you make of this Eva character so far?”

How does she explain? “Bossy but bright? I think she knows what she’s talking about, but I don’t know. Mean? Impulsive? Sometimes weird, sometimes wrong, sometimes brilliant?”

Matt laughs—but it isn’t a kind laugh. “Careful there, you sound a little like Jules. Those girl crushes are powerful things.”

The gratitude she felt toward Matt moments ago vaporizes. “Of course I don’t have a girl crush. Were you even listening?”

“Just—be careful. You’re in an emotional place. And when emotions are running high, it’s even more important to stick to the facts.”

There’s a noise at the door, as Lindsay, Isobel or K-Tap struggle with the sticky latch. Rose heads for the ladder, so she can be halfway up to the loft before they see her weepy red eyes. It would be easy to make up an unhappy conversation with someone back home. Her roomies love a good story about family conflict, one that can be nailed down in black and white. But she can’t stand the questions. Correction. She can’t stand the questions without answers.

“Rose, the main thing I believe, now, is that we didn’t know Jules the way we thought we did.”

“I don’t believe that, Matt.”

“You don’t, or you can’t?”

18

JULES

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The opening party is scheduled to start before dusk, five hours after we’ve returned from our spa day, but those hours are busy with preparations—the stringing of fairy lights, the folding of freshly laundered napkins, the arrangement of flowers and lighting of candles. I might have succumbed to the enchantment if the surrogacy offer weren’t still spinning in my brain. I’m grateful there’s no time for Eva and me to share more than fleeting glances as the whole team dances around the kitchen and yard.

An hour before guests are expected, we’re all dispatched to our cabins to change into clean clothes and “nap if we’d like.” Even if I had more time, napping would be impossible. I’m too nerve-jangled.