Drawing Home

by Jamie Brenner

  “Yes, well, I feel that way about all of Henry’s work,” Bea said. “But I imagined you might appreciate those images.”

  Emma’s mind had turned to Henry Wyatt many times over the past few weeks; she was still grappling with the odd but incredible gesture he’d made in gifting the house to Penny. The memoir did little to make sense of any of it. It actually made her more perplexed. She hadn’t known his years in Sag Harbor dated all the way back to her childhood. Why had he never mentioned that he’d spent time with her father? Why didn’t he show her the drawings he’d done of him? Or, if not her, why didn’t he at least show them to Penny? Was talking about his friendship with her father somehow too personal for Henry? It seemed, from the memoir, to have affected him deeply. Maybe Henry dealt with emotions only through his art.

  “Why do you think he never showed me himself?” Emma asked. “Or at least said, ‘Hey, I knew your dad’? Or even told Penny he knew her grandfather?”

  “My dear, I’ve spent this entire summer trying to figure out Henry’s perplexing choices. He didn’t make it easy for me, so why should it be any different for you?”

  She had a point.

  “I’ll admit, the part where he asked you to turn the house into a museum helped me understand why you were confused by his decision to leave it to Penny,” Emma said. Yes, she’d felt some empathy for Bea after reading the book. But that didn’t excuse her behavior.

  “I was confused. But I’m not anymore,” Bea said. “I finally have clarity.”

  Emma wasn’t all that interested in Bea’s “clarity.” She wanted to see her daughter’s book. “I actually came up here for Penny’s graphic novel. She needs the pages back so she can add the ending.”

  “Ah, yes. The ending is missing,” Bea said, a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “I didn’t know she’d asked you for help with her work. She just told me about the contest.”

  Bea smiled. “She asked me to pick out a few drawings. I have to say, it was difficult to choose just a few. She’s very talented.”

  Emma shifted her feet uncomfortably. It was difficult not to feel cynical about any goodwill gesture from Bea after the stunt she had pulled with Mark. But Emma knew that whatever had transpired between Bea and Penny was genuine.

  “Well, thank you for helping her,” Emma said. “I appreciate it. I know she misses having Henry around to talk about art and it seems you stepped in.” As she said it, a strange thought came into her mind—Bea’s insistence that Henry did everything for a reason. She shook it away.

  “Emma,” Bea said. “There’s something you should know. I hesitated to bring this to your attention because I understand you’ve been cross with me. But I showed a copy of Penny’s graphic novel to a friend of mine. She’s the dean of admissions of the best fine-arts high school in Manhattan. She loved Penny’s work and has asked me if Penny would be interested in a spot in their incoming freshman class.”

  Had she heard her right? “Bea, that’s impossible. I can’t pick up and move to New York City.”

  Bea pushed the pile of silk and chiffon aside and gestured for Emma to have a seat. She perched uncomfortably on the very edge of the bed.

  “I had a feeling you might say that,” Bea said. “So I’m offering to take her back with me.”

  Now Emma knew that Bea was not just eccentric; she was truly out of her mind.

  “Bea, I appreciate the interest you’ve taken in her. I do. But our life is here.”

  “Your life is here. Penny might have a different future in mind.”

  “I’m sorry, this is crazy talk.” Emma tried not to think of her daughter’s restlessness, of all the times Penny had expressed her desire to leave town. She tried not to think of Katie Cleary working at Murf’s just as Emma had. As Emma hoped Penny would not. “She needs her mother. And she has a school here. And she’s in therapy…that’s very important.” See? Bea’s suggestion was impossible.

  “Well, my dear, there isn’t exactly a scarcity of therapists in New York City. I’d venture to say it’s the psychiatry capital of the world. And before you say no again, I just want to add one more thing: I said a few moments ago that I’m not confused anymore. I came out here certain Henry would have wanted me to have his estate. I now see that he wanted me to spend time here, to get to know Penny. I think he knew I needed someone in my life. He didn’t want me to be alone in the world. But I also think he knew Penny needed me too.”

  Emma stood up, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Really, this woman had some nerve. “I’d like my daughter’s artwork, please.”

  Bea sighed and pushed herself up from the bed by bracing herself on the nightstand. She stood slowly, her hands on her lower back.

  “You’re going to have to help me out here. My sciatica is acting up. Press the lower part of the bed frame. A drawer will open. See—the seams in the wood?”

  Emma bent down, found the spot Bea had described, and touched it gingerly. Nothing happened.

  “Press quickly and firmly,” Bea directed. Sure enough, a drawer slid out. Inside was a pile of drawings. Emma retrieved them, straightened up, and held the manuscript tightly against her chest.

  “Thank you,” she said briskly, and she started to leave the room.

  “Emma,” Bea called out. Emma paused but didn’t turn around. “Won’t you at least consider it?”

  She kept walking.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Emma sat on the edge of Penny’s bed, zipping her into her dress, a petal-pink georgette sundress with a flared skirt that fell just above her knees.

  At the store a few days earlier, Penny had balked at the color. She wanted something black. But Emma convinced her to try it on, and then she’d stood behind her at the store’s full-length mirror outside the dressing room. The soft pastel against her dark hair and eyes was so breathtaking, Penny couldn’t resist smiling at her reflection.

  “You were right,” she’d said. Could a mother ask for any more than those three little words?

  Emma’s dress was a white silk sheath that she’d splurged on at Calypso. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable with her role as hostess for the evening but she had to get comfortable with it—fast. In an hour, one hundred and fifty guests were arriving for the auction via Cole Hopkins’s yacht.

  She was thankful she’d agreed to let Bea stay the extra week. With her cantankerous but super-organized housemate running the show, Emma didn’t have to worry about the caterers, the tent constructed on the back lawn for the post-auction cocktail hour, the valet parkers for guests arriving by car, or the auctioneer and his staff. The only person she would be directly overseeing for the night was Chris, who’d agreed to work the pop-up martini bar. It had been Emma’s idea.

  “We’re raising money to rebuild a Sag Harbor institution. I want the party to have the flavor of another town institution. The American Hotel martini bar will remind everyone what’s at stake if we don’t preserve the spirit of Main Street,” she’d told Jack when she pitched him the idea.

  She’d summoned the nerve to approach him after the Fourth of July, when he’d invited her into the hotel for a drink—a peace offering. And once Jack got involved, he was a great addition to the project. But midway through a logistics meeting that included Bea, Chris pulled Emma aside and said, “I cannot deal with that woman.” She’d promised that if he would work the party, he wouldn’t have to take orders from Bea.

  Aside from making sure Chris was set up and had everything he needed, all Emma really had to worry about was her speech opening the evening. When was the last time she’d spoken in public? Maybe high school. She vaguely recalled a presentation in social studies class and the jitters she’d had beforehand followed by the thought that it was a waste of time—she’d never have to do this in real life. Now there she was.

  She opened her small evening bag and slipped the notes for her speech inside. “Okay, I think it’s almost showtime. Are you ready?” she said to Penny, who had closed herself
in the bathroom with the water running. Emma sighed and knocked on the door. “Are you washing your hands?”

  “No,” Penny said, the water still running.

  “Penny, open up.”

  The water was turned off and Penny cracked the door open. Emma glanced down at her wet hands.

  “Why are you nervous?” Emma said.

  Penny shrugged. “Who am I going to talk to all night? I’m bad at parties.”

  “Penny, don’t overthink, okay? Just try to have fun. And I’m going to do the same.”

  The air felt different in the hour just before the start of a party. There was a frisson, a tension. It was as if the molecules themselves changed.

  Bea felt truly in her element for the first time all summer. She couldn’t remember when she had gone this long without playing hostess for something. She’d almost forgotten the particular thrill of anticipation that drove her from room to room, checking every last detail.

  Everything was coming together beautifully, except—

  “Not this again!” Stemless wineglasses. Clearly, the new scourge of civilized society.

  She complained to the catering director, who not only seemed unmoved by her distress but was clearly not inclined to replace hundreds of glasses as guests were arriving.

  “I just don’t understand why it’s so difficult for things to be done the proper way,” Bea huffed to an audience of no one.

  The doorbell rang, and since the committee member who had been tasked to act as official greeter for people arriving by car had not yet arrived, Bea took it upon herself to answer the bell.

  “Bea! It’s a miracle I made it on time. The traffic from the city was a nightmare. I should have stayed over last night.” Joyce Carrier-Jones swept in wearing an amethyst-colored, embroidered kimono-inspired dress, her wrists decorated with bright bangles.

  “Well, you’re not just on time, you’re early. Come in. Have a glass of wine.”

  She flagged down a server in the living room and took two glasses of champagne from a tray that was headed outside. Most of the guests would be arriving by boat, a plan that proved to be more trouble than it was probably worth. Cole Hopkins’s dinner yacht was too large to pull up to the existing dock, so Kyle and Sean had rigged a floating dock to connect to the boat’s gangway. Bea tried not to envision the entire thing collapsing, the bay filled with women and men swimming to shore in their cocktail dresses and dinner jackets.

  “Bea, forgive me,” Joyce said, “but I have to ask again about the girl. I can’t stop thinking about her work. Any luck talking to the mother?”

  “Unfortunately, she isn’t interested.” Bea looked around the room. “Not another word because her mother is right over there. Come, I’ll introduce you.”

  Emma looked beautiful, her auburn hair swept into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, her trim figure accentuated by the lines of her chic little dress. Really, it was a shame Emma’s generation didn’t take the time to dress more during the day.

  “Oh, Bea. I was looking for you. I’m going to head to the dock to make sure Sean and Kyle have everything under control.”

  “My dear, why don’t you just text Kyle instead of traipsing all the way down there?” Bea knew why; she no doubt wanted an excuse to see him before the party started. Did Emma think their budding romance had gone unnoticed?

  “I tried but he didn’t answer. It’s fine. I have plenty of time before the guests make their way up to the house.”

  “Emma, this is Joyce Carrier-Jones of the Franklin School of Fine Arts.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Emma said, glancing at Bea.

  “Your daughter is quite a talent,” said Joyce. “Is she here?”

  “She’s around somewhere,” Emma said.

  The doorbell sounded again.

  “Emma, perhaps show Joyce to the living room on your way out? I’ll see you in a bit,” Bea said.

  She could see the wariness in Emma’s expression, as if she thought Bea was somehow trying to manipulate the two of them into getting to know each other. Really, when would that woman stop thinking the worst of her?

  Bea headed to the front hall to welcome the new arrivals, and in an instant Emma’s feelings about Joyce Carrier-Jones became the least of her concerns.

  “Diane,” Bea said, frozen in the doorway. Diane was not alone.

  Diane was with Mark Mapson.

  “Bea!” Diane said, air-kissing her on each cheek. “Can you believe the big night is finally here?”

  “I believe it,” Bea said, glaring at Mark. Diane attempted to make an introduction, but Bea cut her off and asked her to check on the tables in the tent. “I told the caterers they were too close together but I haven’t seen the rearrangement.”

  Bea grabbed Mark by the arm before he could walk off with Diane. “Not so fast,” she whispered.

  “Bea,” he said. “Do you really want to make a scene at your own party?”

  “I’m not making a scene. But I would like to know what you’re doing here.”

  “Obviously, I’m a guest of Diane’s,” he said smugly. “And I’d like to see my daughter.”

  “Don’t play the father card with me,” Bea said. “That’s a bit tired, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mark yanked his arm free of her grip and walked away.

  Oh, this was not good. She had to warn Emma. And Emma might need backup. She sent off a text to Kyle.

  The tented lawn was festooned with paper lanterns and aglow with hundreds of votive candles. Inside the entrance, Chris’s martini bar was ready for service. Jack Blake sat at the end with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. He waved for Emma to join him. “There she is! The woman of the hour. Great job, Emma. This evening came together beautifully.”

  “The usual?” Chris asked Emma, tossing ice into a shaker.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said. “I have to introduce the auction soon, and public speaking isn’t exactly my thing.” But she could already taste the brine of her dirty martini. “Okay—but make it weak.” She’d have just a few sips.

  “A weak martini? Blasphemy,” Chris said. “This high-class living is making you soft.”

  “Yeah, right.” She slid onto the stool next to Jack, looking around at the catering staff setting up the food stations. “Excuse me one minute.”

  She checked in with the woman directing the food service to make certain she knew that the guests wouldn’t be arriving at the tent until the auction was finished. She didn’t want the warm appetizers heated up or the cold ones set out too early.

  When she returned to the bar, Jack said, “This new life seems to suit you.”

  “What new life?”

  “This house. This party. Cheryl said the whole thing looks like it’ll go off without a hitch…it’s like you’ve planned a million fund-raisers.”

  “I can’t take that much credit,” Emma said. “Bea Winstead did a lot.”

  “Don’t be modest.”

  His praise emboldened her. “Jack, the truth is, this whole scene isn’t me. Of course, the house is spectacular. And I’m glad the night is turning out okay. I hope it raises a lot of money for the theater. But if I had my way, instead of spending this past month debating whether or not we need lanterns and candles or the merit of crab cakes over shot glasses of lobster bisque for the passed hors d’oeuvres, I would rather have spent it behind your front desk.”

  “Emma…”

  “I loved my job. It was my home away from home. I know I dropped the ball. I let the messiness of my personal life interfere with the hotel. And you had to put the hotel first. I get it. But I just wanted to let you know, all that’s behind me now. I’m really in control—”

  Her phone buzzed with a text from Bea. Come back to the house. I need to talk to you.

  “I’m sorry—I need to excuse myself,” Emma said, fishing the olive out of her drink and popping it into her mouth. She set her glass on the bar. “I’ll see you up there.”

  Sunset was turning to dusk. Th
e grounds hummed with crickets. She breathed deeply, wondering if she’d pushed too hard back there with Jack. She hadn’t planned to get into all that tonight, but the moment had presented itself, so she’d seized it. It was a relief to say what she’d been thinking for weeks.

  “Emma.”

  She looked sharply to the side, searching the shadowed path to the lawn, thinking she couldn’t have heard who she thought she’d heard. Her eyes, adjusting to the waning light, confirmed the worst. Mark.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m here for the art auction. Just like everyone else.”

  “The hell you are. I want you to leave,” she said.

  “Well, that’s not going to happen.”

  “Why are you still in town? You certainly haven’t made an effort to see Penny.”

  “An effort to see Penny? I think you know I’m making an effort to be seeing a lot more of Penny.”

  “Oh, give it up, Mark! You’re pathetic.”

  She brushed past him and hurried up to the house, her mind racing. He followed her and she stopped outside the sliding glass door leading to the kitchen. She didn’t want to cause a scene inside.

  “I’m pathetic?” he said. “If you weren’t such a lousy mother I never would have had the grounds to take you to court in the first place.”

  Standing underneath the porch light, moths fluttering overhead, she told herself to stay calm, not to let him get to her. In her heart, she knew she always put Penny’s needs first. Her efforts didn’t always fix everything, but she tried her best every day, month after month, year after year. What more could anyone do? “I don’t do everything perfectly, Mark. No mother does. No parent does. You would know this if you’d spent one day of the past decade being a real parent. But you haven’t. You’re incapable of it. On your best day, you’d be lucky to be the parent I am on my worst day.”