Drawing Home

by Jamie Brenner

  “Emma, come in! Don’t be shy.” Cheryl made the introductions and Emma tried to remember everyone’s name but all the women looked the same. They were uniformly attractive, with light tans and tight bodies in Lululemon pants and tops, as if they were all on their way to the same yoga class. The only real variation in their style was that some wore gold jewelry while others had trendy Buddhist trinkets around their necks and wrists.

  The women all knew one another. Most lived in Manhattan full-time, reserving their Hampton homes for summers and weekends. They spoke of restaurants Emma had never been to; they commiserated over the politics of their kids’ private schools; they expressed their irritation at the increasing number of social events all the way out in Brooklyn.

  Emma checked her phone and realized it was dead. How quickly could she make her exit and get back to the house? This situation with Penny was deeply upsetting, and she realized the day off from work was a godsend. She had to find a way to get more quality time with her daughter.

  “Diane is here!” Cheryl announced as a tall, slightly horse-faced brunette swept into the kitchen. She looked to be about half a decade older than the rest of the group. Her dark hair was cut in a sharp chin-length bob, and she wore a putty-colored linen suit and a large statement necklace.

  The chatter slowed just enough for polite greetings.

  Cheryl took Emma’s hand as if they were girlhood friends. “Emma, this is Diane Knight. She’s the director of the Sag Harbor Cinema fund-raiser.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Emma said. The woman smiled vacantly until Cheryl prompted her with “Emma is the new owner of the Henry Wyatt house.”

  Diane Knight’s eyes sharpened with sudden interest.

  “How fortunate we are that you’ve joined us,” she said. “We would love to have a Henry Wyatt piece for the auction.”

  Emma, put on the spot, stammered out some reason why that wasn’t possible at the moment. Before Diane could press further, the caterers called everyone to the back patio for lunch.

  They filed outdoors to a long table overlooking the teardrop-shaped swimming pool. The water was the most vivid aquamarine Emma had ever seen. And she heard Alexis’s voice from the night at Murf’s: You’ll get a taste of how the other half lives.

  The table was set with name cards. Emma took her seat, and servers poured glasses of iced tea, white wine, and hard lemonade.

  “Iced tea, please,” Emma said when she was asked. A salad was slipped in front of her, arugula and frisée with walnuts and cranberries.

  “Bread?” a server asked, holding a tray of thick, crusty sliced sourdough.

  “Yes, thanks,” Emma said, noting she was the only taker.

  Cheryl stood at the head of the table next to where Diane was seated and tapped her glass with a spoon to get people’s attention.

  “Thank you, everyone, for taking time out of your busy schedules to be here. I know everyone has a million things to do, so let’s get started. First, I want to remind you that any auction items accepted after next week won’t make it into the printed catalog. The online version is already live—thank you, Kellianne and Susan, that was a lot of work.”

  Everyone clapped politely.

  “I’ve locked down the auctioneer. He’s fabulous. I’ve attended a few of his events in the city and he really knows how to excite the audience and drive up the bidding. So the real items of business today are setting the ticket price for the auction and finding a venue. On that note, I’m going to turn the floor over to Diane.”

  More clapping. Diane stood from her seat.

  “So, as you know, the majority of the fund-raiser events will take place under the tent on Long Wharf. I had hoped to find a way to include the art auction at this location, but for insurance purposes, we cannot have it on the water.”

  The guests all murmured their disappointment.

  “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m sure this group can come up with an exciting alternative. And in the meantime, to incorporate our beautiful bay into the evening, I’d like to suggest chartering a yacht to transport guests to our venue, if that’s feasible. Ideally, we will find a property right on the water.”

  Was Emma imagining things or had Diane directed that last comment at her? Maybe she was supposed to jump in and offer to do something constructive.

  “I can talk to someone at the marina about getting a boat for the event,” Emma said.

  “Excellent,” Diane said. “But again, before we can commit to that, we really need to nail down the venue.”

  The table erupted in conversation. Various restaurants and museums were floated as possibilities. Diane and Cheryl dismissed them one by one: Unavailable. Too small. Boring.

  And then: “I have the perfect place!” Cheryl said, clapping her hands. “Where better to hold an art auction than at the home of Sag Harbor’s most famous artist?”

  This time, Emma knew she wasn’t imagining it; the comment was directed at her. Everyone turned toward her. She was sure there was a deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face. “Oh, I don’t know…”

  “Brilliant idea!” said Diane. And from the way she and Cheryl looked at each other, Emma could see that this had been discussed—and no doubt decided on—before she had even walked in the door. “Emma, I know it’s a lot of work,” Diane continued, “but Cheryl and I are here to do the heavy lifting. It would be a huge draw and bring in that much more for this cause.”

  Emma’s gut response, given her cautious, protective nature, was to say no. But then she thought about Penny wanting to spend more time at the house, and she thought about Bea Winstead laying claim to it. It was time for Emma to stop being so hesitant, so apologetic, about the good fortune that had come their way. She had to just step up and own it. Maybe Penny would want to help out with the auction—it could be something for the two of them to bond over.

  “Okay,” Emma said. “I’m in.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  As soon as Bea saw the town library, a stately Classical Revival building just steps from Main Street, she felt heartened. If the John Jermain Memorial Library did, in fact, house some of Henry’s drawings—as Angus had suggested yesterday—at least they had a distinguished home.

  At the circulation desk, Bea found a young woman with cascading strawberry-blond hair and thick bangs.

  “Excuse me,” Bea said. “It’s my understanding that this library is holding some original Henry Wyatt drawings.”

  “Drawings?” the young woman repeated.

  “Yes,” said Bea. “Are you the librarian?”

  “I’m the assistant librarian.” She tapped something into her computer. “I’m not sure about the drawings. Let’s check the archives room. It’s upstairs.”

  Bea followed her up a winding marble staircase to a third-floor rotunda, an impressive space with a sixty-foot-high domed ceiling of herringbone brick and stained glass. The room had wall-to-wall red carpeting, arched pediments, Tiffany lamps, and carved wood furniture. It was tranquil and elegant, and Bea decided that some things in that town weren’t half bad.

  The librarian led her across the expanse of red carpet, past the tables and desks, and through an opening framed by pillars. A stained-glass window dominated the room, which had little furniture, just some wooden shelves filled with books and several oversize editions stacked in piles. In the far corner stood a floor-to-ceiling metal filing cabinet. The librarian unlocked it and, after a few minutes of searching, pulled out papers protected by plastic sleeves.

  “These are filed under Henry Wyatt,” the woman said, passing them to her. “Is this what you’re looking for?”

  Bea’s hands shook as she took them.

  “You can only view them up here in the reading room. They cannot be checked out,” the librarian said.

  Bea bristled at being told what she could or could not do with Henry’s work. But he had indeed left them in the stewardship of this town, so what choice did she have?

  She waited until t
he woman retreated down the stairs before carefully reaching inside the plastic. Holding the new drawings was different than simply spotting them on the wall. It felt intimate, like a final communication between them.

  The first drawing was a self-portrait of Henry playing the guitar. He appeared to be roughly in his thirties in the sketch, and the sight of the young Henry at the height of his career gave her a pang. With her forefinger, she traced the arc of his cheekbone, the stretch of his refined neck. Somehow, his drawings were more immediate and intimate than photographs. The mark of a great artist was the ability to make something more visceral and real than reality.

  How, oh, how could he be gone?

  After a long while, she flipped to the next sheet of paper to find her own face etched in lines of black and gray. She was young in the drawing, and Henry had been kind. It was the best version of her, almost pretty. And yet her expression was tense, her posture defensive. A memory began to take shape.

  If there was any doubt in Bea’s mind about the context of the first two drawings, the next sketch erased it. It was an old barn. These pictures all stemmed from the same night, one of the more uncomfortable moments in their long friendship. She’d all but forgotten about it, and she’d thought Henry had as well—until he named his house Windsong. Even then, she’d told herself it was a coincidence, that there was no subtext. Now she wasn’t so sure.

  What are you doing, Henry?

  He was speaking to her from the grave. Of that she was certain. But what was he trying to say?

  Think, think. She closed her eyes, trying to put herself back into that long-ago night.

  By the mid-1970s, Bea was so busy with her roster of artists and the Spring Street gallery that she rarely had time to scout for new talent. Henry, increasingly bored with painting and tired of the competitive scene in New York, was frequently away. He sought out the company of artists who worked in other media and who lived in other places. “There’s a purity to their work that is impossible to maintain here,” he’d told her. “This city is all about money.”

  And what was wrong with money?

  With space between herself and Henry, she filled her time with her other clients. There was no shortage of people begging for her eye, her opinion, her validation. She was also in demand socially, and she had recently started dating a banker named Shelby York.

  Bea liked dating men outside of the art scene. They found her exotic and thought her world was glamorous, and this fed her ego. In return, she brought some excitement into their conventional lives. (Nothing like the appearance of Andy Warhol to spice up a dinner party.)

  When Henry suggested a road trip to visit an unknown sculptor’s Pennsylvania farmhouse, she didn’t, as she so often had in the past, jump at the chance to travel with him. She was too busy and she didn’t want to deal with his moods.

  “This guy is talented,” Henry insisted. “You’ll kick yourself if someone else snatches him up. Trust me.”

  She could tell from his urgency that Henry had already promised the artist a visit.

  “You owe me one,” she said.

  It was a four-hour drive, and by the time they reached the Pennsylvania Turnpike, Bea had all but forgotten the appointments she’d had to cancel and the theater tickets Shelby had bought. Henry seemed lighthearted, more like his old self, and they fell into an easy rhythm of gossiping about everyone in their circle, about whose star was on the rise and whose had fallen, about who was sleeping with whom. They both wondered why the entire scene felt suddenly bloodless.

  “Everyone’s playing it safe,” Henry said.

  “You’re just cynical.”

  “I’m serious, Bea. That whole world has lost its luster for me.”

  She didn’t take this seriously. He was having a midlife crisis. If he’d been married, he would’ve been looking to have an affair. “You’re an artist, Henry. You can criticize the Manhattan art scene all you want, but it’s where we both belong. And it’s rewarded us greatly. What’s this really about? Are you frustrated creatively?”

  “Not at all. I feel incredibly inspired, in fact. Just in a different way.” He told her he’d been learning to play the guitar. “I brought it with me,” he said. “I think you’ll be impressed with my repertoire.”

  “I’d be impressed with a little more painting from you,” she replied.

  It was dusk when they reached the farmhouse of Jed Rellner. Jed, tall and ruddy with prematurely white hair, was clearly nervous in her presence. It was agreed that she would look at his work in the morning, in natural light. Jed’s wife served dinner outdoors. It was warm for October, and the foursome ate and drank bottle after bottle of red wine under the stars at a picnic table.

  When Jed finally showed them to a single guest room, a loft above the barn, he said, “I know the room is probably more rustic than you’re used to…”

  “Don’t be silly. It’s absolutely charming,” Bea said. And she meant it.

  The room had two twin beds dressed with patchwork quilts, a bureau in unfinished wood, and that was about it. The bathroom was outside.

  “A far cry from your accommodations when you’re traveling with Mr. Finance, I would imagine,” Henry said. “What do you see in him?”

  She sat on one of the small beds and gave him a look. “Shelby’s a very nice person, which you would know if you spent any time with him. Besides, it’s nothing serious.”

  “You’re never serious about anyone,” he said. “Ever think that might be a problem?”

  “You’re never serious about anyone either.”

  “I’m open to it. I’m looking for something outside of work. I know there’s more to life.”

  “Let’s not start with this again,” she said.

  He opened his guitar case, took out the guitar, then sat beside her. “Case in point—my new hobby.”

  He began strumming but she didn’t recognize the song.

  “It’s the new John Denver,” he told her. “‘Windsong.’” Henry loved John Denver, even though all their friends were into the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. He’d made her listen to the album Poems, Prayers, and Promises about a hundred times. “I don’t know all the words yet. Just the music.”

  She listened and watched his hands manipulate the guitar strings, amazed at his obvious ease with the instrument she’d had no idea he could play.

  “Henry, you’re quite good! I admit it—I’m impressed.”

  “It’s saving my sanity to have an outlet outside of art.”

  “What happened to art saving your sanity?”

  “It became business. It became work. Seriously, Bea, I worry about you. You need to broaden your horizons.”

  “I’m very happy with my narrow horizons, thank you.”

  He switched to a different melody. Another John Denver song, this time one she recognized.

  “‘Let me give my life to you,’” Henry sang. “‘Let me die in your arms…’”

  He trailed off, strumming without singing for a few seconds before putting down the guitar.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  And there, sitting in that barn loft, he did something he hadn’t done since the night of that first party a decade earlier—he leaned forward and kissed her.

  Bea pulled away with a swift, emphatic movement. “Henry, I’m sorry. We can’t.”

  The rejection should not have been a surprise to him. And yet he looked stricken.

  “Henry,” she said in the darkness. “I’m glad this happened. Let’s get this out in the open so it loses its power. We need to move forward and be best friends and business partners. Our creative relationship is something few people ever experience. We can’t risk messing that up.”

  He shook his head. “You see things all wrong, Bea. You think this is going to get in the way of the important thing, work. I think you’re letting work get in the way of the important thing.”

  She allowed him to embrace her, and she held him tight, telling herself he was wrong.

 
; All these years later, she still believed she’d done the only rational thing given the situation. But Henry was just as stubborn as she was, and now, considering all that had happened, she had to wonder if he’d denied her the house and his art as some kind of punishment, a final rebuke. No; she refused to believe it. It was too cruel. If that had been his reasoning, it meant he’d never truly cared for her in the first place. She could not accept that.

  She would keep digging.

  Emma didn’t recognize the Jeep parked in front of her house. In fact, she almost didn’t recognize her house. It looked so…run-down after her lunch at Cheryl Meister’s. And her time at Windsong probably didn’t help either.

  She couldn’t let this stuff mess with her head.

  She pulled her car into the driveway, second-guessing the promise she’d just made to the auction committee. Somehow, in addition to allowing them to use Windsong for the auction venue, she’d been talked into hosting the next meeting there. The way she saw it, this project was going to be either a lot of fun or a complete disaster. There was no middle ground.

  Once she was inside the house, she heard voices in the living room. She followed them.

  “Hello?” she called out, then she stopped short, blinking to make sure she was really seeing what she thought she was seeing. It couldn’t be.

  “Mark? What are you doing here?”

  Her ex-husband jumped up from the couch while her daughter beamed at her from across the room.

  “Mom! Look who’s here!”

  Yeah, I see.

  How long had it been? At least two years since he’d visited. And, aside from his sporadic and paltry child-support payments, she hadn’t had any contact with him in nearly as long. As far as she knew, neither had their daughter. Why on earth was he in her house?

  She felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “I’ve been calling you,” Angus said quietly.

  “My phone died.” She turned back to Mark. “Can we talk outside?” she said.