Page 73 of The Deepest Lake

“Let me just go see what’s keeping him,” Eva says. “Astrid . . . go ahead.”

“Beginning with the United Fruit Company—” Astrid starts.

Eva interrupts, “Maybe skip to the civil war.”

“Not the US-backed coup, first?”

Eva says, “I’m sure they all know about that.”

Rose looks at the blank faces around her. No, they don’t know about that. And they still won’t, because Astrid has now jumped ahead.

“From 1960 to 1996, for thirty-six bloody years, the government clashed with leftist groups. Among the issues were land distribution and the inequality between mostly white, European-descended landowners and the Indigenous poor.”

Rose wonders if she’s the only one noticing that Astrid is European, that Eva is American, that everything they are hearing would suggest that white people, white companies and white governments haven’t been such a good deal for Guatemala.

But that’s where money comes in, right? This is a fund-raising spiel, she realizes. Does donating offset the fact that they are enjoying this foreigner’s home on a beautiful lakeshore that once belonged to the Mayan locals?

A figure emerges in the kitchen doorway, separated from the open-air classroom by three hundred feet of lawn. As soon as Eva sees him, she spreads her arms wide, like she’s greeting someone at the airport.

“There he is,” Eva interrupts.

Astrid stops her speech midsentence.

To all the women gathered, Eva says, “I mean, you get it, right? This country’s been through hell. And the orphanage needs money. That’s really all that Astrid came to say! Shoes are fine, clothes are fine, but the best thing is cash. They need cash.” Eva puts her arm around Astrid’s shoulders and squeezes. With mock exasperation she adds, “You’ll understand better when you have a real human being to illustrate all the facts and figures Astrid has been telling you. Here he comes, finally.”

The young man advancing slowly toward them has walnut-dark skin and wavy hair. He’s wearing expensive looking loafers and a Western shirt with button-snap pockets. Italian? Texan? No telling. But he’s undeniably handsome, Rose thinks, admiring his full lips and long eyelashes.

Halfway to the classroom, he pushes back his shaggy forelock. The nervous gesture makes him look younger: twenty or even eighteen. A child.

Eva’s entire body is wire tight and quivering, willing him to walk faster, but the young man refuses to hurry, like he’s not eager to be trotted out for public inspection.

Rose notices Lindsay lifting an eyebrow. Interesting. Eva’s boy toy?

“This innocent young man was orphaned by war,” Eva explains.

Suddenly, the young man looks up and catches Rose’s eye and he startles, inhaling audibly. Their gazes lock. He looks scared.

Rose feels her entire face and body flush: Is anyone else seeing this?

It takes less than a second for him to look away again—less than a second for her to distrust her own interpretation of that one intense moment. She’s losing it. She really is. It’s just like Matt and Ulyana tried to tell her. There was no reason to come here. She’s too fragile.

The young man’s gaze stays conspicuously diverted from Rose from that moment on. He climbs the step into the front of the classroom, approaching close enough for Eva to loop an arm around his shoulder and pull him in for an awkward hug before Eva spins him to face the women writers.

“Mauricio, meet my class. Class, meet my son.”

After Mauricio has left the aula and Astrid has taken the names of five writers who are interested in pledging donations, Eva says, “And one more thing before our final activity. Dinner tonight is on your own, in town. Ana Sofía emailed you a list of preferred restaurants. Dress code: modest. The men here don’t see much, do you understand?”

Pippa deadpans, “I’ll put away the backless dress I planned to wear to the pizzeria.”

“That isn’t funny, and I’m not worried about you, Pippa.” Eva turns to face Scarlett, frowning. “You, on the other hand. You remind me of my daughter. Do you have anything less . . . snug?”

Scarlett’s wearing a T-shirt with a surf logo on it. The shirt is form-fitting but high-necked, as all surf shirts are. Above the white collar, her face turns a sort of papaya color, the flush visible despite a thick layer of foundation.

“You don’t need the eye makeup either. You’re already beautiful.”

Scarlett says nothing.

“Good,” Eva says. “That’s settled.”