Page 7 of The Deepest Lake

Isobel comes back with a plastic cup of agua de jamaica for Rose.

“Ana Sofía is still trying to sort out the room assignments,” Isobel says. “And who are all these women? I thought we had ten or twelve people. But there’s like twenty women waiting for their room keys.”

“Eva’s alumni groupies,” Lindsay answers, nodding toward another group of women, talking and laughing in their own circle. “Most of them don’t mix with us, except at tonight’s opening party and on the field trip, midweek. Some of them return to Casa Eva every chance they get. At breakfast in Antigua, I talked to one woman who has been coming for seven years.”

Regulars.

“Did you catch her name?” Rose asks.

“No, but she has a memoir that’s almost finished. That’s why she keeps coming back.”

“Do you remember what it was about?”

“Incest? Death of a spouse? Recovery from a rare disease? Maybe all three. That would be the winning ticket.”

“You’re terrible,” Isobel says to Lindsay.

“Do you think she comes for every session?” Rose asks.

“I doubt it.” Lindsay cocks her head. “I think there’s some soft rule against coming twice in a row—or is it three times in a row? I guess there have to be some limits on regulars or they’d outnumber the new writers. Why?”

Rose pivots. “I’ve just always been curious how much work it takes to finish a memoir.”

“More than a writer can ever bear to think at first,” Isobel says. “It’s like childbirth. If you knew what it was really like, you might just skip it. Or so I’ve heard! Am I the only childless-by-choice woman here?” Lindsay lifts a pointer finger. Rose looks down at her leg and gives it a slap, then proceeds to scratch furiously. No one seems to notice she’s evaded the question.

Isobel nudges a duffel with her toe. “By the way, I’ve got good wine in there.”

“Your vineyard’s?” Rose asks.

“No, I loaded up in Guatemala City. They tell you not to stop anywhere in zone thirteen but I knew pickings would be slim in San Felipe. The minute we get into those cabins, I’m opening a bottle—and please, please join me.”

Rose ventures her next question carefully, not wanting to alert anyone that she’d dare criticize any aspect of the workshop. “Can you believe we haven’t met Eva yet? I thought she would come to Antigua, or at least meet our boat.”

“I’m not surprised,” Lindsay says. “She’s smart enough to stay out of the fray until we’re all settled and somewhat happy. Timing matters. And territory. We go to her, she doesn’t come to us.”

Rose reconsiders her description of Lindsay. Emma Thompson with a touch of David Bowie. It’s the white pants and vest, the sharp cheekbones and the prominent collarbones and the stance, but it’s more than that. A certain fuck-y’all look, Jules would have called it.

“Wow,” said Isobel. “Here’s our human behavior expert.”

“You’ll see at tonight’s party. I predict a grand entrance.”

Rose asks delicately, “You think Eva Marshall’s being phony in some way?”

“Not at all,” Lindsay says. “She’s a performer. I wouldn’t have paid to meet her if she wasn’t. We all come wanting the magic, and she’ll help us feel it. You can’t have an experience like this without a strong leader.”

“Amen,” Isobel says. “I’ve been working on my manuscript forever. If I learn just one new thing that helps me finish it, this week will be worth it.”

Lindsay looks at her watch. She steps away and returns a moment later, shaking a key on a long wooden dowel. “C’mon, roomies.”

“We’re in the same cabin?” Isobel squeals.

“We are now.”

Isobel grabs her duffel. “You’re the best. Come on, Rose.”

“Me, too?”

She’s lucked into one of the cool crowds without knowing how it happened, but she’s grateful.