Drawing Home

by Jamie Brenner

  “Where is Jack? I want to speak to him immediately.”

  It wasn’t uncommon for people who knew Jack from around town or from Palm Beach, where he spent his winters, to ask to speak to him when they wanted something at the hotel. But it was Emma’s job to be a buffer. Jack always told her that if there was someone at the hotel he wanted to hear from, she would know about it in advance. Before she could launch into her scripted response—Jack was away from the premises but Emma would be happy to call the general manager, blah-blah-blah—the man intervened.

  “Bea, I’m sure this woman can direct us to another place to stay.”

  “This is the only suitable hotel in this backwater!”

  Emma bristled at the slight to her hometown. She was used to visitors not fully appreciating its charm and history, but she’d never heard it outright insulted before.

  The man looked at her with an apologetic smile. “If you have any cancellations, will you let me know?” He had dimples.

  “Certainly,” Emma said, taking his phone number.

  And then Emma remembered that a couple who had reserved a room for two nights had found out that Baron’s Cove had a pool and checked out a day early. She leaned over the reservation book to see a faint line in blue ink crossing out the second day of the booking. She should have made a bolder note. She had probably been doing three other things at once.

  “Actually,” she said, “we do have a cancellation. You’re in luck. We have one room available.”

  “Young lady, I need two rooms,” the woman said indignantly, as if Emma’s insufficient solution to the problem were a personal affront.

  Emma smiled. “Honestly, it’s a miracle we have one.”

  “We’ll take it,” said Mr. All-American.

  The woman slid her credit card across the desk.

  Bea had really expected better service from the venerable hotel. The woman at the front desk practically had to be begged to take Bea’s money. Very disappointing. Nonetheless, she followed her up the stairs to the third floor. Kyle followed close behind with their bags.

  The hallways were narrow and lined with heavy wooden furniture, potted plants, and gilt-framed mirrors; the walls were covered in floral-print wallpaper.

  “We call this room the Apartment,” the desk woman said, turning her key in the door.

  The room was a duplex. It had a small living area with an exposed-brick wall and a fireplace, next to which was a heavy antique wooden desk and a large potted plant. Across the room was a large couch covered in brocade cushions. Behind it, a framed painting of a sailboat. The plaid carpeting continued up narrow stairs that led to what Bea supposed was the bedroom.

  “More stairs?” Bea asked, hands on her hips.

  The woman, clearly at the end of her patience, headed out. “My name is Emma. Please call the front desk if you need anything further.” With that, she left, closing the door behind her.

  “That woman is very rude.”

  “No, Bea, she isn’t.”

  Bea looked at him in surprise. This insubordination was not typical and certainly not acceptable. But she would give him the benefit of the doubt and assume it was due to the stress of their present circumstances.

  “You’re just saying that because she’s attractive. Really, Kyle, I expect more from you. At least while you’re on the clock.” Men were all the same; when they saw a pretty face, their brains melted. She eyed the stairs. “Kyle, follow close behind me with my bag. If I take a tumble, I hope you have the presence of mind and physical fortitude to break my fall.”

  She made her way slowly to the upper level of the duplex, holding on to the wooden railing. The wall to her right was lined with books. She felt like she was slipping into a library attic hideaway. It was oddly delightful.

  The room had a queen bed covered in a white duvet and a wooden cabinet by the bed with an old-fashioned phone on top. The wood-beamed ceiling was slanted low on both sides.

  “See, they don’t make rooms like this anymore,” Bea said, turning to make sure Kyle was behind her. He hovered near the steps.

  “So I guess I’ll be sleeping on the couch?”

  “We all have to make sacrifices, Kyle. We’re here for a very important purpose, not a vacation.”

  “I know it’s not a vacation,” Kyle said. “But since I have absolutely nothing to do, I’m heading down to the bar. That’s where you can find me if you need me.”

  Bea had a strict no-cocktails-before-five rule. But she supposed a glass of wine at this juncture couldn’t hurt. “Fine. If you insist. I will join you.”

  The bar was just a few steps beyond the lobby. There was a working fireplace, half a dozen tables for dining, and eclectic odds and ends everywhere. On the mantel, an elephant candelabra, and on one wall, a mounted moose head with…was that a cigarette in its mouth? And everywhere, nautical paintings in gilt frames.

  They found seats in the middle of the bar, which was set with little silver bowls filled with roasted almonds. A row of framed Wine Spectator awards lined one wall, and overhead were the same Tiffany lamps that could be found throughout the hotel.

  Not a thing had changed in the thirty years since Bea had had a drink in that very spot.

  She could still remember, like it was yesterday, the way Henry had looked sitting just about where Kyle was now. He had been in his forties at the time, his thick dark hair just starting to gray. Like all men, he’d grown more distinguished and handsome as the years passed, and like most women, Bea had become less physically alluring. It hardly mattered; she had never been a beauty, and she’d built her life and self-worth around her career. By the time they’d taken the fateful trip to Sag Harbor, all she’d cared about was work. It was her guiding principle in life—focus on success. Work was the one thing that never let her down. That was true to this day.

  “Have you considered,” Kyle said, “that maybe Henry really did simply leave his house to someone else?”

  Case in point—her own assistant was undermining her. “Really, Kyle? Whose side are you on?” Bea ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc, and Kyle asked for a shot of whiskey.

  “Whiskey? Do you think that’s appropriate?” she said.

  He looked around. “We’re sitting at a bar.”

  With a huff, she picked up the happy-hour food menu. Pâté de foie de canard. Free-range-rabbit confit with mustard. Pickerell’s Hog’s Neck oysters. “Young man, I’ll have a shrimp cocktail,” she called to the bartender. “I haven’t had a thing to eat all day. Who could at a time like this?” Bea said, turning to Kyle. “Do you want something?”

  He shook his head.

  Bea noticed she was the only woman in the room. The men around them spoke in groups of three and four. There was talk of golf games and boats, of travel, wives, and children.

  Bea turned to Kyle. “You know, Henry was alone out here. Vulnerable. We have to get to the bottom of this.”

  Their drinks arrived, and Kyle tossed his back and promptly ordered another. Bea felt a twinge of alarm. This was, perhaps, not the best environment for her assistant. He wasn’t acting like himself.

  She sipped her wine, and the thought struck her that Henry had died sitting at that very bar. Of course, she had known this, but she had somehow been able to compartmentalize the detail until that moment. Now it felt like a punch in the gut. Tears filled her eyes. She had never felt more alone. At least she had Kyle.

  The bartender appeared with her shrimp.

  “Bea,” Kyle said. “Listen. I really appreciate the opportunity you’ve given me these past five years. I’ve learned a lot. But I think it’s time that—”

  “I simply cannot eat,” Bea said, slowly easing her way off the bar stool. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to retire to the room. I need to save my energy for the battle ahead.”

  Chapter Seven

  Penny stood at the bathroom sink lathering up the soap, rolling it around and around in her hands until it frothed and bubbled like something breathing.
The tap was running, and she knew she was both wasting water and exceeding Dr. Wang’s thirty-second limit on hand-washing, but she couldn’t stop herself.

  Something was going on, and wondering what it was made her nervous. She’d tried to eavesdrop from the stairs when the man in the tie showed up at the house, but Angus had caught her and sent her back to her room. Angus! And tomorrow she was supposed to spend the day with him helping out at the Sag Harbor Historical Society. She hated that musty old building and there was nothing for her to do. She’d spent entire afternoons there during which only one person showed up to look at the archives.

  Still, she had to admit she needed something to distract her. She missed drawing. She couldn’t even look at a blank sheet of paper. It made her too sad. What was the point anymore?

  People left you. That was the reality. They died, or they just left. Like her dad. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him. Well, she remembered it, but it felt more like a dream than like something that really happened. He’d called her on her birthday two years ago but he’d missed it this year. She hadn’t thought too much about it, but now that everything else was going wrong, why not just throw him into the mix?

  At least she still had the drawings. She’d saved every sketch Henry had made for her since the first one he’d done on a cocktail napkin two years ago. It was of a man fishing. “You draw so fast,” she had said in amazement. His hand seemed to fly across the surface of the napkin, the image forming underneath as if dropped whole and not pieced together line by line.

  Penny eyed the hand towel hanging on the rack but didn’t use it. Germs! Instead, she held her hands up in front of her like a surgeon going into the operating room and trotted down the stairs to get a paper towel from the kitchen. Just as she turned the corner, she heard the back door open.

  “Hey, you,” her mother said, dropping a takeout container from the hotel onto the kitchen table. Another salad. “Did you eat?”

  “Yeah. Angus made burgers.” Penny dried her hands on the paper towel and then tossed it in the garbage, careful not to touch the rim.

  “Penny, sit here for a minute,” her mother said. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat down at the table.

  Penny sat and looked across the table at her mother. Her shiny auburn hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and mascara flaked around her bright green eyes. Her mother was beautiful even when she was tired after a long day. Penny thought for the millionth time how unfair it was that she looked nothing like her.

  Her mother started to speak, then stopped.

  “What?” Penny said.

  “Did Mr. Wyatt ever mention his house to you?”

  Mr. Wyatt? Why was her mom asking about Mr. Wyatt? “No. What about his house?”

  “Did you ever talk to him about money—about feeling like we don’t have enough money or about wishing we lived somewhere else? I won’t be mad at you. I’m just trying to figure something out.”

  “No. We only talked about art.” Mr. Wyatt wasn’t a big talker. She’d liked that about him.

  “Penny, something very strange has happened. I hope you can help me understand it.”

  “Is this about the man coming to the house earlier?” Penny’s heart raced a little. She had a feeling that something big was going to happen; she just didn’t know if it was good big or bad big. Her hand instinctively went through her hair, and she tugged out a few strands. Another nervous habit.

  “Yes. That man was a lawyer. He had been Mr. Wyatt’s lawyer. And he told me that Mr. Wyatt left his house—his very big, expensive house on the water—to you.”

  Penny sat back against her chair. “He what?”

  Her mother repeated what she’d said.

  “Why did he do that?”

  Her mother shook her head, eyes wide. “I have no idea. I was hoping you had some clue.”

  Penny blinked fast, her mind racing. Mr. Wyatt had left them a house! On the water! Their neighborhood was inland, south of town. From the time she was little, she had known she was approaching her street when she started seeing pickup trucks parked roadside and collections of tires on her neighbors’ lawns. If she went too far and passed her house, she hit the railroad tracks. Their house was small and old, and she felt embarrassed to have kids over. But maybe this new house would be nicer than Mindy’s. One day, she could have a party at this house on the water and all the kids would keep checking their phones to see if they were invited. She would finally belong.

  “Will I have a bigger room?” she said.

  Her mother didn’t answer; she was busy responding to a text. Hypocrite. She was the one who was always telling Penny to be more “present.”

  “What? Oh, Penny—I’m not sure this is really happening. This whole thing is crazy. I’m just trying to make sense of it at the moment.”

  Her mother said Penny overthought everything, but the truth was, she thought too much. Like right now. What was there to make sense of? They could move away from Mount Misery and live on the water. A no-brainer. “Can we see it?”

  Her mother looked at her and finally smiled. “I guess we should go see it.” She stood and kissed Penny on the forehead. “Maybe in the morning. I’m going to run out and meet Sean and Alexis for dessert. You go to bed. Have sweet dreams.”

  For the first time in a long time, Penny thought she just might.

  Murf’s Backstreet Tavern, tucked away on Division Street in a building that dated back to 1792, was a down-and-dirty bar; it had a crumbling brick fireplace and cheap beer on tap, and drinks were served in plastic cups. Murf’s also had a jukebox, a dartboard, and one-dollar Jägermeister shots on Tuesdays.

  Emma spotted Sean sitting at the bar; Alexis was playing the ring game. The original owner, Tom Murphy, had hung a small steel ring from the ceiling with a piece of fishing line and the idea was to swing it so it caught the hook protruding from a nearby post. In the spring, the fire department and the sanitation department organized teams and had a regular competition going.

  “There she is! What’re you having?” Sean said.

  “Red Stripe. Hey, I meant to ask you earlier, what’s with the beard?” she said. Sean had sun-bleached hair and bright blue eyes. But his Scottish good looks were being sorely tested by his overgrown hipster facial hair.

  “Don’t start with me. I got an earful from Alexis earlier.”

  Alexis tossed the ring one last time, then bounded over to kiss Emma on the cheek. They climbed onto bar stools and Alexis passed her a Harbor Books bag with a paperback inside. “It’s an advance copy of a novel Penny might like,” she said.

  “That’s so sweet of you!”

  The bartender that night, Katie Cleary, slid Emma’s beer across the bar. Katie, the daughter of Hal Cleary, who owned the hardware store, was barely twenty-one. Emma had been working behind that very bar at her age.

  It was how she’d met Penny’s father.

  One early-summer night, a large, boisterous group had flooded the bar. They took over the table between the hanging moose head and the framed photo of Frank Sinatra. A delegate was dispatched to the bar for drinks.

  He was tall with thick, wavy dark hair and dark brown eyes. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt and was extremely cute. He looked familiar, and she realized she’d seen his picture on posters outside the Bay Street Theater.

  “Hey there,” he said, smiling. “Three pitchers of whatever you have on tap and four gin and tonics.” He slid a credit card across the bar.

  Filling the pitchers, she looked closer at the group and spotted the actress Mercedes Ruehl, who was starring in the Bay Street Theater production of a play called Dinner.

  “Is this some kind of cast party?” Emma asked.

  He nodded. “Informal, but yeah, we’re heading into our opening weekend. We did two preview shows this week.”

  “Very cool.”

  “I’m Mark,” he said.

  “Emma.”

  “You don’t look old enough to be drinking here, let alone wo
rking here.”

  She smiled. “Everyone tells me that.”

  “Ouch. Sorry for being unoriginal.”

  There was something big about him—the way he talked, the way he gestured. Later, she’d see similar qualities in his actor friends, but in the moment, it made him seem special.

  Mark Mapson. Emma remembered how it felt the first time she’d said that name aloud; it crackled like candy in her mouth.

  She learned he was from Maine, that he’d graduated from the University of Pennsylvania, and that now he was dealing with very disapproving parents as he pursued an acting career. He seemed fascinated by the fact that she’d grown up in the village and never left. “Not even for college?” he’d asked, and she had to say no twice. She told him she didn’t have money for school, and besides, she really just wanted to open a flower shop in town someday. “I like that,” he’d said. “So simple…so real.”

  Sometime after midnight, his group dispersed and he asked for her number. She wrote it on a bar napkin. She watched him slip it into his pocket, certain he would never call. To her surprise, he did, and she didn’t even have to wait twenty-four hours. They met for coffee the following day, and by the time he asked for the check, she was in love.

  Six weeks later, she was pregnant. They married at city hall a month before Penny was born. A year after that, he left.

  “Earth to Emma,” Sean said, bringing her back to the present.

  “Sorry. I’m a little distracted.” Should she tell them about the Henry Wyatt house? They were going to find out sooner or later. And why should she feel embarrassed about it? For some reason, she did. Maybe talking it over with Sean and Alexis would normalize it a little. “Something kind of crazy happened today.”

  Before she could get into it, Chris Vincenzi walked in.

  “Chris V. in the house!” Sean called out.

  “You’re off early,” Emma said when he took the stool next to hers.

  “Things got quiet.” He signaled for Katie and ordered a shot of Tito’s. “And I am moving on to job number two.” He waved his key ring in front of them.