Drawing Home

by Jamie Brenner

  Emma had gained a house but she felt like everything else that mattered to her was slipping away. And she had no idea how to turn things around.

  It had been an expensive day, and despite all her wealth, Bea hated expensive days. First, she’d written a check to that no-good Mark Mapson. Then, after a long negotiation, she’d bought the drawings from the art gallery on Washington Street. That, at least, had been worth every cent. Because now that she had them set out on the glass coffee table in the living room, she noticed something on the back of each one. A number.

  “I knew it!”

  She had been right all along—there was sequential meaning to the sketches. Now she would have to go back to the library and the museums to see if there were numbers on those drawings as well.

  The unmistakable sound of the girl’s crutches against the hardwood floor distracted her. What was she doing wandering around? Shouldn’t she be in her room? There had to be some boundaries in this undesirable situation. The living room and dining areas were her territory.

  More noise.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Bea gathered up the drawings to take them to the privacy of her room. On her way to the stairs, she spotted Penny balancing on one foot, propping her crutches against the breakfast table. One crutch teetered over and then crashed to the ground.

  “You are going to scuff these floors!” Bea said.

  The girl had a book pinned underneath her chin; she’d been trying to carry it without using her hands. She lifted her head, and the book fell onto the table with a thud.

  “Young lady, you must treat this house with more respect. You can’t knock about with no regard for—”

  Bea recognized the book on the table. It was the same cartoonish tome she had found in Henry’s hidden drawer. A coincidence?

  “Did Mr. Wyatt give you that book?”

  “No. I’m the one who told him about graphic novels.” Penny maneuvered herself into a chair.

  “You…told him about graphic novels. In what way?”

  “I read them all the time and I showed him my favorites,” she said, looking up at her. “He got pretty into it.”

  Bea felt her pulse quicken. Standing there, she realized having the little urchin under her roof might be a blessing in disguise. This girl might be the most important link to Henry she could find.

  “Penny, did Mr. Wyatt give you any drawings?”

  “Sure,” she said. “He drew stuff for me all the time.”

  Bea tried to keep her voice measured. “May I see them?”

  “No,” the girl said.

  “What? Why on earth not?”

  “Because you’ll try to take them away from me, just like you’re trying to take away this house.”

  Out of the mouths of babes! “I promise I will not try to take them from you. I just want to see them. Mr. Wyatt was my friend for almost my entire life. More years than you can imagine being on this earth, probably. His work is all I have left of him. Do you understand that?”

  “Of course,” the girl said, her dark eyes steady. “It’s all I have left of him too.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Emma closed the sliding glass door behind her and carried her glass of wine to a chair by the pool. At close to eight at night, the air was cooling. And she had survived day one of Penny’s broken leg.

  She lit a citronella candle and settled in, looking out at the water and trying to calm her nerves by telling herself that at least Penny was sleeping comfortably. She seemed, all things considered, to be in good spirits. Emma wished she could say the same for herself.

  “Hey. Sorry to disturb,” Kyle said, walking down the stone steps and hoisting a duffel bag over his shoulder.

  “Going somewhere?”

  He gestured toward the bay. She wasn’t sure what that meant. An evening swim?

  “How’s Penny doing?” he asked.

  “Um, pretty well,” she said, sitting up straight, zipping her sweatshirt up over her tank top. “She’s getting the hang of the crutches and she doesn’t seem to mind being housebound. At least, not in this house. It’s still a novelty to her.”

  Kyle glanced back at Windsong. “And what about your uninvited guest?”

  “So you admit this is rightfully Penny’s property?” Emma said.

  “I never said it wasn’t.”

  Emma nodded. “That’s true.”

  “I have to say, as far as Bea goes, her bark is probably worse than her bite. She’s not a bad person. I think she’s actually very lonely,” Kyle said. “However, she did kick me out. So I guess she’s not that lonely.”

  “Kicked you out? It’s not even her house!”

  “Clearly, a technicality that has not slowed her down.”

  Emma looked at him. “Kyle, don’t take this the wrong way, but…what are you doing working for her?”

  Kyle put his bag down and ran one hand through his hair. “It’s complicated. I started out fixing things in her apartment, then doing art installations for her parties. And it just sort of…evolved.” He smiled and snapped his fingers. “It’s like your frog-in-boiling-water story.”

  She smiled.

  “Anyway, this whole thing with the house made me realize enough was enough. I quit. Although I guess she just fired me. Either way, it seems I’m moving on.”

  “So where are you going to stay?”

  “My boat.”

  “Is that…safe?”

  He laughed. “That’s right. You don’t have much faith in my restoration abilities.”

  She felt her cheeks color. “Sorry about what I said the other day. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

  “Yes, you did. It’s okay.”

  “I just see a lot of weekend warriors out here. Most don’t go the distance.”

  Her phone rang. Mark. His second call of the day. His last voice mail said they needed to “discuss Penny.” She had a feeling she knew the direction that discussion would go in—namely, putting all the blame on Emma for what happened. It wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have and it wasn’t a conversation that would help anything.

  “Bad news?” Kyle said.

  Was her expression that easy to read? “It’s just my ex calling. Speaking of weekend warriors.”

  Kyle sat on the edge of a chaise. He pulled it closer to hers.

  “Let me ask you something. When you’re not working or taking care of your daughter or dealing with your ex-husband or fighting a Park Avenue socialite over an estate…what do you do for fun, Emma Mapson?”

  What did she do for fun? Emma thought about it, unnerved for a minute that she didn’t have an answer. But then it came to her.

  “I grow roses,” she said, as pleased as if she’d just answered a game-show trivia question.

  “That’s cool. But it sounds kind of solitary. What do you do to get out, let off steam?”

  His focus on her was starting to get embarrassing. It struck her, as he sat in the moonlight, his big blue eyes on her, that he was very attractive. She recalled that that had been her initial impression but somehow, it had gotten lost in all the Bea conflict.

  “Kyle, I don’t know. I’m fine, okay?”

  He leaned back, running his hand through his hair and smiling.

  “When I was a teenager, sometimes we’d run around at night in the summer and go pool-hopping,” he said.

  She smiled. “We did that too. My friends got busted once. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “I always wished my parents had a pool.”

  “Me too. And look—now I have one.”

  “But you’re not using it.” He stood up. “Come on. We’re going swimming.”

  “What? No. I’m tired. It’s late.”

  Kyle ignored her and headed to the pool. He pulled off his T-shirt and jumped in.

  “Isn’t it freezing?”

  “No! It’s perfect. Bea turned the heat on.”

  Maybe as long as Bea was claiming the house, she could also claim the utility bills.

  “What ar
e you waiting for?” he called from the shallow end.

  “I told you, it’s late.”

  “Do I have to come out there and throw you in?”

  “I strongly advise you not to do that,” she said.

  “That sounds like a dare.”

  He pulled himself out of the water and headed for her.

  “Kyle, seriously,” she said, laughing nervously when he reached her chair.

  “Last chance to do this the easy way,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “I’m not going in.”

  “Oh, you’re going in.” He leaned over and scooped her up. Water dripped onto her sweatshirt.

  “Put me down!” she yelled.

  “You’re going to wake up the whole house,” he said. It was true; she imagined Bea dressed in some absurdly lavish nightgown running out to reprimand them.

  “Come on, this isn’t funny,” she said as he held her over the deep end.

  “Then why are you smiling?”

  She didn’t want to admit it, but she did feel the pull of the water, the sudden urge to let go for once. “Fine, maybe it’s a little funny.”

  With that, Kyle dropped her into the water and jumped in after her.

  The water was, as promised, the perfect temperature. It was cooler than the night air but not jarring. As she surfaced, she felt her heart pounding, her muscles contracting. She reached for the ledge and wiped water from her eyes. “Are you happy now?” she said.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  She glanced up and saw that he was being literal. Then she looked up higher, to the stars in the clear night sky. She slipped back under the water and glided to the shallow end. Her entire body groaned with unfamiliar effort, and it felt good. Kyle swam over to her.

  “Race you back.”

  “You’ll lose!”

  He took off and she followed, kicking furiously.

  Yes, she thought, pushing through the water in the moonlight. For the moment, I’m happy.

  All day and into the evening, Bea burned with the news that Penny had Henry’s drawings at her house. She tried to forget about it, tried to tell herself she could work on changing Penny’s mind about sharing them with her. But alone in her bedroom, she knew she wouldn’t sleep. The numbered sketches from the art gallery were set out on the dresser, and she itched to fill in the blanks with the others he had left behind.

  She thought of Angus and then hesitated only a minute before calling him. “Sorry to bother you at this hour, but there’s something I need to discuss.”

  He said it wasn’t a bother and gave her his address. Mount Misery Drive? Who on earth would name a street that?

  Without Kyle in her employ, she was forced to drive herself the twenty minutes to the dilapidated two-story house. It had worn wood siding and a mulch-covered driveway—not even paved. Above the front door, a blue wooden whale hung from small hooks, the only source of color in a rather barren tableau.

  Angus appeared behind the screen door before she rang the bell.

  “I heard the car,” he said by way of greeting. He held open the door and she stepped inside. “Is everything okay at the house?” he asked, concerned.

  “I didn’t mean to alarm you. There’s no problem at all. It’s more that I have an opportunity for you.”

  She walked into the living room and took in the worn couch and the local newspapers scattered on the scuffed wooden chest alongside it. And yet the small, rather dull room was accented with vases filled with remarkably vibrant yellow roses. They drew Bea deeper into the space, and she noticed an array of photos in handmade frames on the fireplace mantel. Some of the frames were made out of seashells; one had been constructed out of Popsicle sticks. Most of the photos were of Penny, but several featured a surprisingly familiar face—the man in Henry’s drawings.

  The bartender.

  Bea picked up the frame and stared at the picture.

  “Angus,” she said slowly. “Why does Emma have a photo of the old American Hotel bartender?”

  “That’s Tom Kirkland. Emma’s father.”

  Bea looked up sharply. What? Was that what this was all about? The damn bartender he’d befriended all those decades ago?

  Her impulse was to ask if the man was still in town, to try to talk to him. But then she recalled that the bartender had died suddenly many years ago. Thinking about it now, she could remember the phone call from a bereft Henry.

  Bea placed the photo back on the mantel, trying to think. So what had happened? Henry made a friend, lost him shortly thereafter, and then, decades later, met his granddaughter and decided to leave her his entire estate? She refused to accept that. It couldn’t be! No, this was just a red herring. She had come for the drawings, and she would not be sidetracked.

  At least she knew she had come to the right place. There were answers to be found in this house.

  “As you know, I’ve been scouring the town for any drawings Henry did in the year leading up to his death. Today I learned that Penny has some here in this house. I need to see them.”

  “She told you where she keeps them?” Angus said.

  “No, not exactly.”

  “Well, I don’t want to take it upon myself to guess. I can call her in the morning and find out. I’m sorry you wasted a trip over here. This will just have to wait until tomorrow.”

  Bea put her hand on his arm. “Penny isn’t being cooperative. But if you can just show me to her bedroom, I’m sure I can find them.”

  He looked at her in a way that was decidedly less congenial than seconds before. “I can’t do that, Bea.”

  “Why on earth not? She’s just a child. This is an adult matter and she’s playing games. I can’t believe you want to be a party to that.”

  “This is Emma’s house, Bea. I can’t let you go rooting around in it.”

  “And Windsong should be my house, but no one seems to care about that!” she said. “Really, Angus. I thought we were…on friendly terms.”

  “We are. And I’ve tried to stay neutral over this matter.”

  “You’re not being neutral. You’re being an obstructionist.” She walked to the hallway and he blocked her path.

  “Bea, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Penny watched Bea with intense focus. She was such a great subject with her big jewelry and even bigger attitude. Penny moved the pencil in long strokes to establish Bea’s body before attempting to sketch her facial features, willing herself not to give in to the voice in her head telling her the outline wasn’t right, that she should start over.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not polite to stare?” Bea said, moving around the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinet doors like she was searching for something.

  “Artists have to observe. Right?” Penny said.

  Bea looked at her. She started to say something, then stopped.

  The idea to try to finish the graphic novel she’d started with Henry last summer came to her in the middle of the night. It was as if Henry himself had sat on the edge of her bed and whispered, Do it! But earlier that morning, when she looked through her old sketches, they’d seemed really childish and not at all what she wanted to say anymore. She didn’t want to write about girls with superpowers. Now she had a real story to tell—the story of Henry, of the house, and of Bea Winstead trying to take it away.

  “Young lady, just because you had the good fortune to meet the greatest artist of the past half century doesn’t make you an artist. You’re a child.”

  Penny switched pencils. “Henry said he started drawing when he was six. He always knew he was an artist.”

  “Indeed.” Bea sniffed.

  Kyle walked in and Penny felt the dark cloud of Bea’s attention shift.

  “Morning, Bea,” he said.

  “What are you still doing here?”

  Penny observed Kyle reaching for the coffee. How old was he? Maybe her mom’s age. Maybe younger? He wore a faded gray and b
lue T-shirt with a fire department logo on it and dark blue shorts. Penny would have to include him in her story too. She just wasn’t sure how, exactly, he fit into it. Kyle had come to town with Bea; he lived with her at the house. But Bea was yelling at him to get out.

  “I slept on the boat last night. Technically, I’m not staying here. But frankly, I need coffee and I probably have about as much of a right to stand in this kitchen as you do.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a lawyer? How dare you tell me what rights I do or don’t have?” She turned to Penny. “And that also goes for you and your mother!”

  Penny looked down at her sketch pad and drew a dialogue bubble. She filled it with And that also goes for you and your mother!

  Yes, Penny had an awesome story to tell.

  She just had no idea how it was going to end.

  Emma was tired. She’d stayed up far too late, but her exhaustion was a small price to pay for such a delightful night.

  The impromptu pool party had lasted well into the early hours of the morning. After she lost the first lap race, Kyle climbed out of the pool and mixed them both whiskey sours at Henry Wyatt’s amply stocked bar.

  They drank standing chest-deep in the pool, talking until Emma realized she’d be useless in the morning if she didn’t get some sleep.

  Yet why couldn’t she let herself be useless for one day? Penny didn’t have any appointments, and there was no job for Emma to get to. Yes, at some point she needed to start looking for one, but she wasn’t ready to let go of her old job. The American Hotel was more than just a paycheck to her, always had been. There had to be a way to regain Jack’s confidence, to prove to him she was still the reliable person he’d hired a dozen years earlier. When she’d told Sean about getting fired, he’d said Jack was loyal but he also got spooked easily. “You have to remember, the hotel always comes first.”