Page 30 of The Deepest Lake

“Really?”

Her voice sinks down into a gravelly, confessional tone. “It used to be enough to write a good memoir. Now you have to prove to the publisher you have readers clamoring before the book is even published. Not just ‘liking’ your social posts. But locked and loaded, on a private newsletter list, confirmed engagers with good click and conversion rates, prepared to take instructions.”

My college writing classes covered none of this. My favorite professor, Rollo Wright, went so far as to say we should be protecting the sacred time in our lives when we could focus on the art of writing itself, rather than sullying our minds with the dirty details of sales and promotion. Only now does it occur to me that his viewpoint was condescending. Also, impractical. Did he think being ignorant would save us in the long run? In fifteen years, Mr. Wright has published only two novels, by the way.

“The point is, Jules, it’s essential these days to convince readers to preorder books. From the right places, at the right time. Essential for the bestseller lists? I had fifteen thousand dedicated fans who were ready to preorder In a Delicate State before I’d written more than fifty pages.”

“They were following your pregnancy as it unfolded,” I guess, still trying to cover for my embarrassing lack of publishing knowledge.

“Honey, they saw every ultrasound. And they agonized over every attack of heartburn or hemorrhoids. They knew how I slept and whether I had doubts and . . .”

When she trails off, I worry I’ve pressured her to discuss something too sensitive.

“I’m sorry. That must have been—”

“It was intense. The immediate bond with readers, and the way that deepened the pain and the sharing of the pain, the grief and the gratitude. All of it. It was a lesson. Like everything. And maybe I burned out on being quite that connected with my readers for a few years. I’ve been a little more sluggish on the social media front. Jonah and Richard have both warned me I need to keep up.”

“But so . . . this . . . feels right?” I’m still not sure why she’s so happy with my videography, given that she’s been posting and communicating with her public for so long.

“Yes, and it’s about time. I spent years taking selfies and doing shaky videos. That seemed charming when it was all new. But at my age, the close-up selfie shot, ugh . . .”

I’m close enough to see the pale veins on her eyelids, the feathery wrinkles forming above her lip. But her green eyes dazzle and her skin glows. Anyone would be thrilled to look so good in her fifties.

“I’m happy to help.”

“Only happy?” Eva says, crinkling up her eyes. I can’t tell if Eva is teasing me for using bland language or testing me in some other way.

“Ecstatic? Flattered? Grateful?”

I’m watching her face, hoping she interrupts me before I get to a really hard letter.

“I love that. And I see you. Your gratitude is refreshing.”

Eva leans in for another sideways hug and I try to relax into it. Accept love. Show gratitude. And I am grateful, of course. Who wouldn’t be?

10

ROSE

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When Rose wakes after barely two hours of sleep, she knows her first duty is to call Matt. Everything they assumed might be wrong. The drug dealer might have been a nobody paid off to satisfy the Americans that justice had been served, so that Matt wouldn’t return for a second session of searching, giving the tourism industry a black eye with all of his “missing person” flyers and high-tech search and rescue gear. Luka, the German backpacker, really might have spent no more than an innocent few hours in Jules’s company. Focusing on insignificant people could have given them tunnel vision—and maybe someone wanted it that way. There could be more leads out there.

Like the Guatemalan boyfriend. Jules never hinted she was dating someone. If her daughter could conceal something as important as a boyfriend, what else might she have been concealing?

From downstairs, Isobel calls up, “Coming with us to breakfast?”

“You all go. I need to make a call. Wi-Fi is better here than outside.”

Rose descends the ladder in time to see Isobel applying makeup in a mirror over the kitchen sink. Rose watches Lindsay strap on a pair of sandals, notice a blister at her heel, then take the sandals off and start fishing around in her luggage for a pair of canvas flats.

Go. Please go. Can’t you all get out of here and give a woman some privacy?

The moment the last of her three roommates pulls the door shut behind her, Rose video calls Matt. And waits. And waits.

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