Page 106 of The Deepest Lake

The alum that Diane pointed out, the one who donates to the orphanage every quarter. Rose planned to speak to her, to collect more evidence. But after the orphanage visit, Rose had all the evidence she needed to convince herself that Eva or her staff weren’t forwarding all that money after all—and yet she also decided it wasn’t safe to tell Chief Molina. What was the point in more anecdotes if there was no one to tell?

Still, Wendy was a longtimer. The longtimer. She might know if Eva is the ringleader of the money scheme, an apathetic colluder or even a completely unwitting accomplice.

“You’re walking to town?” Rose asks Wendy.

“I was supposed to have my private session with Eva, but I think she forgot, because she told me just now that she had to run an errand.”

“She doesn’t have other people to do that for her?”

Wendy ignores the question. “I asked her if she could give me a lift to town, but she said she was going the other way.”

“What’s the other way?”

“Not much,” Wendy says, squinting at Rose. “Maybe her other properties.”

“And you don’t mind that she’s skipping your private session?”

“Well,” Wendy looks around, as if someone might hear. “Eva’s been that way lately. Distracted.”

Distracted, Rose notes. So maybe Eva doesn’t know the money is going astray. Maybe someone else—Barbara or Hans—is benefitting from Eva’s obliviousness.

“It’s hard work, doing everything she’s doing,” Rose says, watching Wendy’s body language, the way she started pulling back when Rose sounded too critical. “I imagine it gets tiring after a while. I heard you’ve been studying with her a long time?”

“Seven years,” Wendy says.

Rose steps closer. “That is amazing.”

“Some people would say it’s too long.”

Rose touches Wendy’s shoulder. “Absolutely not. What should you be doing instead, playing golf?” Rose laughs, waiting for Wendy to join. “Why do people think it’s okay to spend time and money on things that don’t matter—cars, fancy clothes—and when we try to improve ourselves—to learn something—they judge?”

When Wendy surrenders a smile, Rose asks, “So, you come every year?”

“More often than that. Sometimes a few sessions per year. Sometimes four!”

“Four sessions.” Rose nods, reminding herself to keep nodding, look thoughtful, not desperate. “That’s great.”

Wendy was here.

Rose adds, “I have so many questions about memoir and this whole workshopping thing. You could teach me a ton. I’m just sorry I didn’t introduce myself to you sooner. I hope I didn’t come across as unfriendly.”

“No, no, I’m to blame,” Wendy says. “I socialized more the first few years, but once you’ve been here a lot, it changes. And I move slowly. I usually don’t try to hike out, but I needed this today. If you want to go ahead . . .”

“No, no. The slow pace feels good. I find it hard to breathe sometimes.”

“Precisely.”

Rose can feel Wendy wanting to say more, but if Rose hurries her, she’ll balk. She won’t want to say anything bad about Eva, or Casa Eva’s staff, or anything she’s experienced in this place that has become practically a second home.

“This spring,” Wendy says after a moment, “I really thought I was about done with my book. Even my critique group back home loved it. But Eva said I should come back. She tells me, ‘Don’t rush it.’ I remind her, ‘Rush it any less and I’ll be dead before this damn book is finished!’”

“Eva is so patient. I love that about her,” Rose says.

“But this may be my last time.”

“Oh?”

Wendy lifts her walking stick to point at a small pink flower growing in a crack between two flat stone steps.

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