“I want to find every drawing that’s out there. I need your help scouring this town.”
Chapter Seventeen
In the early days of motherhood, Emma had wanted nothing more than sleep. Now all she wanted was more time with her daughter.
Emma missed the mornings when Penny was just a little girl and climbed into Emma’s bed before it was light out. Penny would tuck her warm little body against hers, and once she was settled, her breathing would become slow and steady while Emma, fully awake, counted the few hours she had until she had to leave for work.
Now it was impossible to see Penny before work unless Emma woke her, risking her potent adolescent wrath in the process. But today she had to do just that.
If her own mother had been around, she might have warned Emma that the hardest stage of being a working parent wasn’t when your child was small, although it had felt that way at the time. The reality was that at that point, any responsible adult’s supervision would do. For years, knowing that Celia and then, when Celia was gone, Angus was with Penny was enough to give Emma peace of mind and her daughter a sense of security. The tricky part was when a kid hit middle school and high school, and that adult supervision wasn’t needed. Well, it was needed, but not in the same way. Someone had to keep track of Penny’s friends, her moods, the overall temperature of her life. Emma should be that person, and lately, she felt she simply wasn’t doing a great job.
She stood outside Penny’s closed bedroom door, rapped lightly twice, and opened it. “Pen?” she said, coming in and sitting on the edge of the bed. Penny was curled up on her side. When awake, Penny was starting to look like a young woman. But when she was asleep, her profile, the delicate slant of her arched nose, was the same face of her infancy. Emma remembered looking down at the tiny bundle in her arms, just six pounds, six ounces, for the first time. She had a little pink cap on, and her eyes were closed tight. Emma had never seen such perfection.
She touched Penny’s shoulder, then shook it gently. “Pen, come downstairs and have breakfast.”
Penny groaned, pulled the covers over her ears. “I hate working at the historical society. It’s the summer and I’m in a windowless room staring at a computer screen all day. Why can’t I just stay here while you’re at work? I won’t get into any trouble.”
“It’s not that I think you’ll get into trouble, Penny. It’s not good for you to sit around with nothing to do. You know that only makes your anxiety worse.”
“Honestly, Mom—being there feels like a punishment.”
“It’s not a punishment. And Penny, helping out at a nonprofit organization is important. Come on. Remember what I said about trying to stay positive. Find one thing each day to make yourself happy.”
Penny sat up and pulled the comforter over her knees. “Okay, this would make me happy—Robin wants to see the house. So does Mindy.”
The house? Oh. Of course other kids had found out. People talked. She was in the newspaper, for heaven’s sake.
“Well, no one is coming to the house yet.”
Penny crossed her arms. “Why not? It’s our house. My house. Why can’t I show my friends?”
Emma sighed. “Penny, I don’t have time to think about the house right now.”
“You never have time for anything—ever.” Her eyes blazed with defiance.
“You’re right, Penny,” Emma said softly. “I don’t. Least of all myself. But you don’t see me complaining. Now, come on—enough with the attitude.”
“I’m sick of this place!” Penny said. “I don’t know why so many people come here. It’s so boring. How can you live here your whole life?”
Emma, shocked, pulled back like she’d been physically struck. She said the first thing that came into her mind. “I love it here.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Where was this coming from? “You need some perspective, Penny. I want you to do a good job today. When you act better, you’ll feel better. Trust me.”
It was good advice; Emma knew it was. And yet Penny rolled her eyes. She’ll come around, Emma told herself. Maybe she needed to follow her own advice. If she acted like Penny’s outlook was bound to improve, if she believed it to be true, things would take a turn for the better.
At least, she hoped they would. Beyond that, she didn’t know what more she could do.
Chapter Eighteen
Penny stared at the pile of old maps Angus had left for her to log in the computer system. It would take her hours and hours.
She was actually glad there was no window in the office. She didn’t want to be reminded that outside it was a perfect summer day. Regardless of what her mother said about the job not being a punishment, it felt like one, and that’s what mattered.
But today she was not alone in her exile; she had her new copy of the graphic novel Anya’s Ghost in her backpack. It had been published a few years ago but she’d asked Alexis at the bookstore to order it for her. She’d read online that Neil Gaiman had called it “a masterpiece,” so she’d added it to her must-read list. And from the description, it sounded like it definitely belonged in her preferred genre of misfit lit. Although, lately, Penny had to admit she didn’t feel so very much like a misfit.
She dug into her stuffed bag and pulled out her phone. It was ten in the morning. She wondered what Robin was doing, if she was even awake yet. She shot off a quick text and was surprised by the immediate response.
Heading to the beach soon. Wanna come?
What beach?
Coopers.
Coopers Beach was in Southampton, a half-hour drive. It was a really nice beach with a great snack bar.
How are you getting there?
Mateo’s brother’s driving us.
Did she dare?
There was one major obstacle to accepting this invitation: Angus. Penny would have to sneak past him. She knew that once she was out of the building, she would be in the clear because yesterday, after setting her up at the computer, he hadn’t checked on her again, and at one point, flying a little off the white pill, she’d abandoned her post in the office, wandered into the front room, and found Angus asleep in one of the antique rocking chairs.
So as long as she got out without him noticing, he’d never figure out she was gone. Later, around the time he’d start thinking about going to the back of the museum to get her, she’d text him that she’d just left to meet a friend on Main Street for dinner or something. As for her mother, she’d be at work until eight and would never know the difference.
Great! Pick me up in front of BuddhaBerry.
It was close to lunch when Chris ambled over from the bar and called Emma into the hallway.
All morning, she’d been plagued by an unsettled feeling. She tried to chalk it up to the conversation with Penny, but then Chris said, “A woman at the bar is asking a lot of questions about you.”
Her first thought was that Bea Winstead had returned, but Emma would have noticed her. No, this was something else.
“I think she’s a reporter,” Chris said. “And I have to let Jack know.”
She nodded, uncomfortable. Of course he had to. Jack was sensitive about press at the hotel. He took their clientele’s privacy very seriously, and he didn’t like reporters nosing around or taking photographs without his permission. Jack put a lot of effort into making the place feel casual and open, especially for the celebrity clients who wanted to just hang out and be part of the crowd.
Back at the front desk, Emma eyed the customers at the bar, trying to pick out the interloper. It wasn’t difficult; there were only three women, and two were regulars. The stranger appeared to be around her age, and, as if sensing Emma’s gaze, she turned and looked right at her.
Then the woman stood and made her way over to the front desk. “Emma Mapson?” she said.
“Yes, how can I help you?”
“I’m Micki Leder from the Observer,” she said. “I’m writing an article about the battle over Henry Wyatt’s estate.”
> One spoiled, pushy woman complaining wasn’t exactly a battle. Still, every night Emma sifted through the mail, half expecting a legal notice from Bea’s attorneys. So far, nothing had happened. She wondered how long she would have to wait for the other shoe to drop.
But she said none of this, knowing better than to get pulled into trying to tell her side of the story.
“I have no comment,” she said.
The house phone rang.
“Emma, it’s Jack. Come to the office for a minute?”
Emma said nothing further to the reporter; she just slipped out the door behind the front desk.
Chris, a serious look on his face, walked out of Jack’s office.
“You were right,” Emma said.
“Yeah, I know. Apparently, she’s not the only one sniffing around.”
“Really?”
Chris nodded his head toward the back room. “Talk to Jack.”
Inside, Jack was unpacking a crate of the cigars they displayed and sold in the glass case under the front desk.
“Emma, I need you to please set these in the case on your way out,” he said, handing her a box of San Lotano Churchills.
“My way out?”
He nodded, opened a box of Ashton Très Mystiques, and unwrapped one for himself.
“I got reporters at the bar, reporters calling on my cell phone. I can ignore them, but as long as you’re standing in the middle of the lobby, they’re going to show up.”
Her stomach knotted.
“Oh my God. Jack, I’m so sorry. I just don’t understand why people care.”
“I’m hoping this will be old news soon.”
Emma nodded, trying to quell her panic. In over a dozen years of employment, she had never had so much as one sick day. Leaving in the middle of her shift felt like a failure. Losing a workday tomorrow was unthinkable. Paid, unpaid—it didn’t matter. This was just not a good road to go down.
“I understand today, but I really think beyond that would be overkill.”
Jack tapped a pen against his desk. “Cheryl Meister told me she invited you to her fund-raiser committee meeting tomorrow.”
Emma had forgotten all about that.
“You should go, help out. It’s a good cause.”
Emma swallowed hard. Okay, so she guessed that was that. He didn’t want her at the hotel. “Okay,” she said. “But just so you know, I’m not talking to the press, and there’s no story here. It’s going to be fine.”
He looked at her with his direct, sharp blue eyes. “I hope you’re right.”
Chapter Nineteen
Bea and Kyle divided up the town and set out separately on their hunt for Henry’s drawings. Her first stop: the Sag Harbor Historical Society at 174 Main Street.
Bea followed a gravel path, stopping to admire a large metal bell planted near the front of the house. The plaque below it read HISTORIC BELL: UNION FREE SCHOOL, 1871. She reached out and tapped the antique metal.
Then she made her way up the steps to a dark porch. The house, with its wood shingles and peeling paint and layers of dust, seemed to be a building that time forgot. How intriguing!
“Welcome, come on in,” said a booming voice as the front door opened. The ceilings were low, the interior light dim. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust and still more time for her to place the man standing in front of her. He was decidedly familiar. And then she realized: she’d seen him at the house!
“You,” she said, walking deeper into the room. She stood by a fireplace and crossed her arms. “What are you people? Some sort of cabal?”
“Nice to see you again too, Ms. Winstead,” the man said, seeming somehow amused.
“I wish I could say the same. Who are you, exactly?”
“Angus Sinclair. We weren’t properly introduced at the house. At any rate, I’m in charge of day-to-day operations here at the historical society and museum. What brings you here this morning?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she snapped. “I assume, since you were with that woman at my house, that you are a party to this attempted theft?”
He smiled, maddeningly, and shook his head. “I don’t know anything about a theft, Ms. Winstead. But Emma Mapson was kind enough to take me in a few years ago when I became a widower. So, yes, I have been around to witness the events that have recently transpired. If that makes me a party to the situation, then I’m guilty as charged.”
These people had an answer to everything, she thought. She had half a mind to walk right back out the door. But if this man was close with Emma Mapson, he must have known Henry. And if he knew Henry, there was a very good chance there were drawings on the premises.
She walked around, taking in the odd assortment of bric-a-brac. To a casual observer, most of it would look like junk. But she had a trained eye and knew valuable furniture when she saw it.
“Is that a Dominy chair?” she said.
Mr. Sinclair nodded. “That’s correct. And over in that corner is an original Tinker chair. Dating back to 1850.”
“I’m not familiar with Tinker furniture.”
“Really?”
Why did he seem so surprised? “Yes, really. I’m in the art business; I’m not a furniture dealer.”
“Nathan Tinker built the original brick building that today houses The American Hotel. This was back in 1824. He was a wholesale furniture dealer and made his own furniture as well. He lived in the top area of the building, and his workshop and storefront were on the ground floor.”
Bea hated to take the bait, but she loved history. There were many times over the years when she’d felt insecure about not having a college degree, and she seized every opportunity she had to learn something.
“So when, exactly, did he turn it into a hotel?”
Mr. Sinclair moved the Tinker chair across from his rocking chair, invited her to sit, and settled in himself. One of the many upsides to spending time with people her own age, she thought as she sat down, was that they understood the body had its limits.
“In the 1840s, he operated a boardinghouse for men working in the whale trade,” Angus said. “The American Hotel as we know it today didn’t come until later. There was a fire in town around 1877 that destroyed most of the houses, but the Tinker building was left standing because it was brick. By this time, Nathan Tinker had died, and his son had had enough of the building. It was purchased by a man named Addison Youngs and his father-in-law, Captain William Freeman, for the hefty sum of two thousand dollars. They decided to turn it into an inn: The American Hotel.”
She shook her head. “Amazing. For two thousand dollars. Now that gets you, what, a weeklong stay there?”
“Well, they took out a loan of another two thousand dollars from Riverhead Savings and Loan. We have the paperwork here in the archives. Then Youngs and Freeman went about the work of installing gas, electricity, and indoor plumbing in the building.”
“What do you think the hotel would sell for today?” Sitting there, she had the impulse to buy it. Take that, Jack Blake! She could fire Emma Mapson herself.
Mr. Sinclair shook his head. “We’ll never know. Not as long as Jack Blake is alive, anyway. When he bought the place in 1972, it was in total disrepair. Everything you see today—that’s Jack’s vision. It’s his baby.”
Bea cared not one whit about Jack and his baby. She had her own baby to worry about. She stood slowly, stretching her back, and wandered the room.
“I’m looking for any Henry Wyatt drawings. I’ve learned he gifted some of his work around town during the past year, and I’m wondering if your little organization here was the beneficiary of his largesse.”
“As a matter of fact, Henry did donate some of his work to us over the years.”
“Great. I’d love to see them. Please, lead the way.” She tried not to sound impatient but was aware she failed utterly.
“We don’t keep them here.”
“Why on earth not? If he donated them to this museum, as you call it.”
> “We run this place on a volunteer basis and don’t have the security to keep original Henry Wyatts in the on-site archives.”
“So where are they?”
“The library. Just across the street.”
“Very well.” She headed for the door.
“Ms. Winstead? One more thing. We’re a nonprofit, so if you’re ever inclined to consider a donation, it would be appreciated.”
Bea raised her eyebrows.
“This has been a surprisingly painless conversation, Mr. Sinclair. Let’s not push it.”
Emma’s first impulse after being dismissed from work was to run home and hide. If reporters were sniffing around the hotel, they might show up anywhere. But as soon as she walked into the house, she thought, Why not make the best of a bad situation? She had a free afternoon—two free afternoons. She could swing by the historical society and surprise Penny with a trip to the beach.
She packed bathing suits and towels in a bag and picked up sandwiches at the Golden Pear for a picnic lunch. She considered texting Angus that she was coming to get Penny, but she didn’t want to risk him spoiling the surprise. She couldn’t wait to see the look on her daughter’s face!
But Emma’s joy was tempered the minute she rounded the corner of the Annie Cooper Boyd House and spotted Bea Winstead heading out.
The old woman noticed her at the same moment.
Emma squared her shoulders. She wasn’t entirely sorry to be running into Bea.
“Just so you know, you’re not going to intimidate me by planting articles in the newspaper,” Emma said.
“Oh, my dear, it’s not about intimidation. But the court of public opinion does matter.”
“What gossips in New York City think means nothing. The house is in this town, and in this town, no one will take your side. No one believes you.”
“My dear, the small minds of this backwater town do not concern me.”
“If you think that way about this place, then why do you even care about the house? You’re rich—everyone knows who you are. Everyone knows what you have. Why are you bothering with this fight?”
Drawing Home Page 12
