Drawing Home

by Jamie Brenner

  There was nothing she could do immediately, and while it frustrated her, it forced her to think about what she could fix. For one thing, if they were going to live at Windsong for the foreseeable future, she needed a way to make it feel more like a home. She needed to put her stamp on it, and there was only one way she could think of to do that.

  Outside, she stepped off the stone path leading to the pool and walked around the back lawn. The area was meticulously landscaped, with low-growing perennials and a bunch of blue-rug juniper—probably for deer control—surrounding a few blockish metal sculptures. She would have to carefully consider where a rose garden would fit in; she didn’t want to ruin the balance of Henry’s strong aesthetic. She was concerned, too, about the ground. This close to the beach, the soil would be sandier than what she was used to working with on Mount Misery. Sandy soil would drain before the roots of her roses could get hydrated.

  “Emma?”

  She turned, cupping her hands over her eyes and squinting against the late-morning sun. Kyle stood on the front walk, waving her over. The sight of him made her stomach jump in a funny way—a way she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Was this a good thing? Bad? Maybe best not to overthink it.

  “Hey,” she said, going over to him. “How was your first night on the boat?”

  “Slept like a baby. You?”

  “I was a little restless.”

  They stared at each other for what felt like a long time before he glanced back at the house. “There’s someone for you at the front door.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “A man who seems very businesslike.”

  Who could it be? She wouldn’t be surprised if it was Henry Wyatt’s lawyer telling her there’d been a mistake after all.

  The layout of Windsong made it quicker to reach the front door by walking through the house rather than around it. A quick peek out the window told her it was not Henry Wyatt’s lawyer. She opened the door warily.

  “Are you Emma Mapson?” the man said.

  “Yes. How can I help you?”

  He handed her a manila envelope and walked away. Strange. Closing the door, she examined the package. A stamp in the upper left corner read COUNTY CLERK’S OFFICE, SUFFOLK COUNTY.

  Emma ripped open the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers. At the top of the first page were the words Petition to Modify Custody Order. She leaned against the door, heart pounding, reading as quickly as possible as she tried to absorb the information. It didn’t make sense. She read and reread the words Petitioner: Mark Mapson and Defendant: Emma Mapson. It named the judge who had granted her sole physical custody of Penny thirteen years earlier. And then a paragraph detailing why the best interests of the child(ren) will be served by the court in modifying the order. There was technical wording like material change of circumstances and child endangerment.

  Petitioner requests that the order be changed to provide as follows: Mark Mapson shall have sole legal custody of his minor child, Penelope Bay Mapson.

  She must have let out a scream or a cry because Kyle came running from the other room, asking what was wrong. Shaking, she handed him the first page.

  “Bastard,” he muttered.

  Emma started sobbing.

  “I’m going to call Angus. Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.”

  He put his arm around her and guided her to the living room. The space, with its skylight, a stone fireplace, and an entire wall of glass, usually felt very serene. It had a large Wyatt painting dominating one wall and a white oak floor, and at the foot of the couch there was a shag area rug and a set of floating bookshelves filled with hardcovers. But her anxiety level was so high, she might as well have been sitting in the middle of a four-lane highway.

  “This can’t be happening,” she said. Kyle sat next to her. Mercifully, he didn’t try to talk her out of being upset. He just let her sob quietly. She tried to pull it together but every time she calmed down for a second, the wording of the petition hit her fresh: Material change of circumstance. Nonsupervision. Unstable home environment. Failure to follow the medical advice of mental-health professionals.

  Bea walked into the room.

  “So is this how it is? Everyone’s just sitting around this house all day, living the life of leisure? Must be nice!”

  “Bea, not now,” Kyle said.

  Undeterred, Bea sat in one of the structured chairs next to the asymmetric coffee table.

  “Henry designed much of the furniture in this house,” Bea said. “Not that I expect you to appreciate that.” She got up and walked over to the large green and black painting. “Did you know that this piece, Greene Street, 1972, hung in the Guggenheim for several years?”

  “I don’t care about the art right now!” Emma snapped.

  “Fine. Then let me say we need to discuss some boundaries around here. Your daughter seems to plant herself in whatever room I’m occupying and she’s watching me like a hawk, doodling in that sketch pad of hers. It’s unnerving and, frankly, quite rude.”

  The doorbell sounded.

  “That must be Angus. I’ll get it,” Kyle said, going to the door.

  “You invited that insufferable man to my house?”

  Emma ignored her, wiping her eyes and fighting fresh tears. Angus rushed into the room.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, sitting next to her on the couch and patting her knee. His deep voice carried all the gravity of the situation.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said, breaking down all over again.

  “What on earth is going on here?” Bea said.

  No one answered her, and when it was clear she wasn’t going to take the hint and leave, Kyle finally said, “Her ex-husband is fighting her for custody of Penny.”

  Angus asked to see the petition.

  “You’re nobody until somebody sues you,” Bea said.

  “Bea, honestly. Not helpful,” said Kyle. He turned to Emma. “None of what’s in this petition will hold up.”

  “You don’t know that,” Emma said, shaking her head.

  “It’s just a landgrab,” Angus said. “This is about the house.”

  “I can’t prove that.”

  “He’s been absent for over a decade, and now he’s here a month after Penny inherits a multimillion-dollar estate,” Angus said.

  “A judge won’t care about that. He’s going to read these complaints against me—and they look really bad.”

  Bea sighed. “I’ve been around great wealth all my life. It attracts all sorts of ne’er-do-wells and prospectors. Such a burden.”

  “This house!” Emma put her head in her hands. “It’s a curse. I don’t want it.” She looked at Bea. “You can have the damn house! Okay? Satisfied?”

  “Well, I am sorry for the unfortunate circumstances, Emma. I don’t wish to see anyone this upset,” Bea said. “But I am relieved you’ve finally come to your senses about the house.”

  “It’s not your house to give away, Emma,” Angus said.

  “Always the gatekeeper,” Bea snapped.

  Emma looked back and forth between the two of them and realized Angus was right. She was just the guardian of the house. Guardian of Penny equaled guardian of the house. As Mark was well aware.

  “The bottom line is you need a lawyer,” said Kyle. “Do you know anyone in town?”

  Emma shook her head. “Years ago, I had someone handle my divorce. The mom of one of my high-school friends was a lawyer. She wasn’t even a divorce lawyer—she just helped me because I needed help and had no money. And it wasn’t that complicated because Mark didn’t fight me. Maybe I should call Mark. Try to reason with him—”

  They all interrupted with the unanimous opinion that that was a terrible idea.

  “What’s going on?” Penny said from across the room.

  At the sight of her daughter, Emma broke down again. And then she ran to Penny, swept her into her arms, and held her tight.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Angus was so self-righteous
! Refusing to show her the girl’s collection of Henry’s drawings, putting a damper on Emma’s impulse to return the house to her, its rightful custodian.

  Oh, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what he was. And he was a wolf sitting in the middle of her kitchen.

  “Am I supposed to feed you now? This isn’t an inn,” she said, chopping kale on a cutting board. “All evidence to the contrary.”

  “Of course not. I’m just collecting my thoughts. This is very upsetting, obviously.”

  “I’m not offering counseling services either.”

  Though at that point, she had to admit that she wouldn’t have minded some therapy for herself. She was still grappling with the discovery that the hotel bartender from all those years ago—the man who had dazzled Henry with his talk of fishing and living off the sea—was Emma Mapson’s father. She chose to view this as an insignificant detail. Henry simply would not have left his entire estate to the granddaughter of a man he had befriended briefly forty years ago. The odd thing was that Emma had never mentioned this connection. Was it possible she didn’t know? If so, Bea certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.

  “Please don’t be cross with me,” Angus said. “I’m not trying to antagonize you and I wasn’t trying to last night either. But Emma’s like family and I have to look out for her.”

  Bea wondered what it would be like to have someone that devoted to her. Kyle had been ready to hightail it out of town without so much as a word to her. She didn’t have a spouse, didn’t have family. Not even someone “like” family, as Angus put it. Her sense of being alone in the world suddenly felt as sharp as the knife she was holding.

  And if Angus knew that she had allied herself with the ex-husband—had in fact bankrolled today’s calamity—he would not be speaking to her. She shook away the pang of guilt. She was fighting for the future of her lifelong friend’s artistic legacy. It was not her job to look out for the woman who was taking it away! Still, seeing Angus’s ashen, concerned face made her feel bad.

  “Well, in that case, I suppose you might as well stay for lunch. I’m making a kale salad with red cabbage and mango.”

  Angus shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m a carnivore.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And I’m sure you have the cholesterol levels to prove it.”

  He laughed. “Did you invite me to stay so you can punish me?”

  “Don’t be silly. I would never consider my company a punishment for anyone.”

  She turned her focus back to the counter and mixed the sesame dressing, smiling.

  The adults in her life had officially gone crazy.

  Penny washed her hands in her bathroom—she loved having her own bathroom—and started counting to sixty. But then, midway, she was able to stop herself. The more time she wasted in the bathroom, the less time she had to work on her book. And she really wanted to get another panel drawn before it was time to go to sleep.

  Today’s drama had given her another great scene to add, even though she didn’t entirely understand what it had all been about.

  She’d caught a little of what they were discussing in the living room but not enough to really make sense of it. Her mother was upset, maybe because her father was back in town and trying to be more involved in her life. But why would they have a whole group conversation about that? Whatever the reason, seeing her mother and Angus and Kyle sitting there like some sort of assembly of the Justice League talking to Bea was really bizarre. The Justice League didn’t have joint meetings with its enemies. Wonder Woman didn’t sit down for coffee with Lex Luthor.

  Wasn’t one of the Justice League’s archenemies named Queen Bee?

  Queen Bea. Ha!

  Penny climbed back onto her bed and pulled the drawing board into her lap. She felt bad that her mother was upset, but if her mother wouldn’t tell her what was happening, then Penny couldn’t help. Really, Penny couldn’t do much of anything except (a) try to boss back her OCD, (b) stay out of trouble (easier to do now that she was on crutches), and (c) draw. Someday you will find your own superpower.

  Two summers ago, when she’d first started spending time with Henry, he’d told her that although the world was a place of chaos and disorder, artists could impose order within the confines of their work. He said when he was painting or creating a sculpture, his mind was completely blank.

  “It’s important to be able to find that kind of quiet in your life,” he said.

  “My life is already quiet. Too quiet!”

  “You feel that way now, but someday, you’ll look back at this simple time and miss it terribly.”

  She doubted that.

  “When you’re young, your life, your perspective, has only one direction—forward, toward the future. But when you’re old, you also have the past.”

  “But you don’t move toward the past. The past is over.”

  He pointed at her and waved his finger. “The past is never over. The past informs the present and therefore shapes the future.”

  When they’d decided to create their own graphic novels, he said his story would be about his past. Penny said she didn’t know what to write about, and he advised her to just make something up. She tried, but there was a problem—she was a decent artist, but she wasn’t a great creative writer. That’s why she’d never finished the superhero story. But now, with the real-life drama unfolding this summer, the story was writing itself.

  It was weird; in some ways, the boat accident was the best thing that could have happened to her. Yeah, the cast was annoying, and when she got an itch it was enough to drive her crazy. But given her own physical limitations and the fact that her friends were grounded, she was free of the pressure she usually felt to run around with them and try to fit in. She felt calmer. And with not much else to do, she focused on creating. This made her feel closer to Henry, like, yes, he was gone, but a part of their friendship was still alive. Of course, she wished he were there to see it. Maybe this was what he meant about the past informing the present. For the first time, she was looking back at something. It made her feel sad but also a little more grown up.

  With a few quick strokes of her pencil, she began sketching her mother into the scene with Queen Bea.

  That’s it! Penny thought excitedly, writing out the words. She had the title of her novel.

  She reached for her laptop and opened her browser to a link she’d saved earlier in the week. It was a graphic-novel contest she’d found on an online art journal called ArtHub. Now that her story was really coming together, she was going to enter it.

  It was amazing how things were turning around. Maybe Dr. Wang was right about thinking positively. For the first time all summer, she felt like things were going to be okay.

  Emma paced in her bedroom and lit a cigarette, the first one she’d had since she’d been pregnant with Penny.

  She opened the window and tried to wave the smoke toward it. Then she pulled out her phone and dialed. No one agreed with her on this, but she had to talk to Mark. Hand shaking, she tapped in his number. Her call went straight to voice mail.

  Coward. She’d spent the last two hours Googling New York State child-custody law. She knew she should stop. It was like looking up symptoms on the internet when you felt sick; everything came back as cancer. Still, she couldn’t stop herself.

  Someone knocked on her door.

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.”

  Kyle. “Just a minute.” She flushed her cigarette down the toilet, wiped her tearstained face, and let him in.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey.”

  “You doing okay?”

  “Fine,” she said, closing the door behind him.

  He sat on the edge of her bed. “You smoke?”

  “No,” she said, looking at the floor.

  “Emma, it’s going to be okay.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “The only thing you can do is fight back.”

  She no
dded. “I realize that. I’ve been making calls. Sean referred me to a lawyer he knows in town. I have an appointment the day after tomorrow.” She pressed her fingers to her temples. “I know I keep saying this, but I can’t believe this is happening.”

  Her phone buzzed with a text.

  I told you, I only want what’s best for Penny.

  Heart pounding, she wrote back, Bullshit.

  Have you told her what’s going on?

  No. And I’m not going to. Mark, don’t do this. She watched three dots form as he wrote his response, then they disappeared.

  She paced in front of the bed, glancing at the phone again, knowing it was useless to appeal to Mark’s decency. Kyle was right; the only thing she could do was fight back. She would move money out of her meager savings account. Whatever it cost. She could give up the Mount Misery house and put what she would spend on rent toward this legal battle.

  “Emma, sit for a minute.” Kyle reached for her hand and guided her to the edge of the bed next to him. They sat inches apart, the space between vibrating with a strange energy, a tension she realized had nothing to do with her distress over the custody fight.

  “You’ll feel better after you talk to the lawyer,” Kyle said. “I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.”

  “Why?”

  “I think you know why.”

  His eyes focused on her with an intensity that made her look away. She could get lost in that blue. He squeezed her hand gently.

  “Things are just so complicated right now,” she said. “I’m not sure it’s the best time to—”

  “I get it,” he said, nodding.

  “Friends?” she said. He hugged her, and she thought maybe she was making a mistake. Here it was, the thing she’d longed for. And she was squashing it. She wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe she was saving herself for the battle ahead.

  Nonsupervision. Unstable home environment.

  Or maybe she was punishing herself.