Chapter Thirty-Seven
Dr. Wang smiled at Penny. “Well, I’m glad you’re drawing again. It’s important to have an outlet. But your mother told me about the pills. My concern isn’t just that you’re using dangerous drugs recreationally but also that perhaps you are self-medicating in an attempt to control your ruminations.”
Her mother looked at her expectantly from across the room. Penny swallowed hard.
“I mean, yeah, when I took that stuff, it helped keep my thoughts from getting caught in loops. But I know that was a really bad thing to do and I’m done with that.” She turned to her mother. “Really. I swear.”
Dr. Wang leaned back in her chair and adjusted the scarf around her neck. “I want to work on the way you view things, Penny. Think of your negative perceptions as glasses you can take off if you choose to see things a different way. As an exercise to start retraining your thinking, I want you to create a positivity board in your bedroom. Every day, I want you to post three good things that happened. It could be a compliment someone gave you or something you accomplished…”
A compliment someone gave her? Did her therapist think that actually happened? Dr. Wang probably walked down the street and got compliments every day, so, yeah.
“And Mom,” Dr. Wang said to Emma, “when Penny says something negative, I want you to challenge it with something positive.”
Penny waited for her mom to respond, but she looked completely zoned out. WTF? “Mom?” Penny said.
Emma seemed startled, like she’d forgotten she was in the room with them. “I’m sorry,” she said. “What was that?”
“I was just saying that when Penny veers to the negative, I need you to be the counterpoint. To show her that there is always a positive side.”
And then, unbelievably, her mother burst into tears.
The law office of Andrew Port was located in a shingled two-story building on tree-lined Noyac Road. Emma barely made it to the appointment on time after the debacle at Dr. Wang’s. How could she have lost control like that in the middle of Penny’s therapy session? And it just added another ten minutes to the session, as the doctor had to address Emma’s outburst and bring things back into calm focus on Penny.
Kyle had been waiting for her in the building’s narrow entrance hall.
A paralegal sat them in a sunlit conference room, offered them coffee, and then asked Emma for information she knew she’d already given the lawyer over the phone. She patiently repeated the information, understanding this was just the beginning of what would be a long and stressful process.
By the time Andrew Port joined Emma and Kyle, Emma’s stomach was in knots. She knew she wasn’t thinking clearly, and she was thankful Kyle had followed through on his offer to come along with her.
“Ms. Mapson. A pleasure to meet you,” Andrew Port said.
“Please, call me Emma. And this is my friend Kyle Dunlap.”
Andrew Port was younger than she’d expected, with hair that was just starting to go gray at the temples. He was tan and wore a navy blue blazer over a white shirt and dark jeans.
He sat at the table and leafed through a pile of papers for a minute. When he looked up at Emma and Kyle, his expression was serious. “So I want to give you a sense of what to expect in this process. In a few weeks we’ll have a court date. The judge will give you and your ex the chance to work out an amicable compromise. I will be talking to the opposing attorney to help facilitate that. If we cannot come to an agreement on that date, the court will most likely order a psychological evaluation of Penny to assess her needs. That costs a few thousand dollars and is usually paid by the petitioner. We have an adjournment for a few months while any court-ordered evaluations take place. Then we’ll get a trial date.”
“And if it goes to trial, then the judge just…decides? Then and there? He or she could just take my daughter away from me?”
“Emma, I’m going to do everything I can to prevent that from happening.”
“Okay,” she said, fighting tears. Kyle reached over and patted her leg.
“I reviewed your original divorce stip. Penny’s father was granted a standard visitation schedule—every other weekend, alternating holidays, et cetera. But you said he rarely sees her?”
Emma nodded. “That’s right.” She told him that Mark had visited Penny fairly frequently in the early days of their divorce, but then his appearances slowed steadily, and eventually they stopped altogether.
“And his child-support payments?”
“Erratic. He’ll pay it, and then four months will go by before he pays again. He usually catches up. It’s just not regular.”
“And you never considered going to court over this?”
“It would cost me more to go to court, so I just wait for him to catch up.”
Andrew nodded and wrote something on a legal pad. “So when did he reestablish contact with your daughter?”
“At the beginning of this summer.”
“And prior to that, he hadn’t seen her in over a year?”
She nodded.
“Emma, I think you should tell him that Mark didn’t even call you. He just showed up,” Kyle said.
“Oh, that’s a good point.” She explained about Mark turning up at the house unannounced, expecting to take Penny to the beach. Again, Andrew Port wrote on his pad. “Like I said on the phone,” Emma added, “Mark’s appearance coincided with Penny inheriting the Henry Wyatt estate. He claims he didn’t know about it, that it has nothing to do with him suddenly wanting to be more involved in Penny’s life. But I don’t believe it.”
“Either way, that doesn’t change the grounds of his petition. A judge won’t care why he came back if it appears he’s acting in the best interests of his child. If this goes to trial, we’ll have to answer to his claims that she’s unsupervised and that this lack of supervision resulted in injury. There’s also the question of whether or not her psychological health is being adequately taken care of, but that will be in part decided by the psych eval if this goes that far.”
“My God,” Emma said. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I know this is very upsetting,” Andrew said in the understatement of the year. Emma looked at Kyle.
“I’m wondering,” Kyle said, “does Emma have to allow her ex to see Penny during all of this?”
“That’s a good question, and the answer is yes; you can’t act punitively toward your ex because he filed this motion. Remember, he’s saying he’s acting in the best interests of the child. This isn’t a personal attack against you.”
“Of course it is!”
Andrew nodded. “I know it is. And I certainly know it feels that way. But it’s important that you not act defensively or punitively. If you want to deny him extra time that he requests, that’s fine. But his visitation weekends stand.”
“Doesn’t the fact that he’s been absent for so long count against him in any way?” Kyle said.
“You mean if this goes to trial?” Andrew said.
“I mean now. Why does he even have visitation rights still?”
Emma was touched to see Kyle so worked up on her behalf. She looked at Andrew expectantly.
“Again, everything in family court comes down to the best interests of the child. A child benefits from having a relationship with both parents unless one parent is proven to be a danger or unfit. Mark Mapson’s absence might not be ideal, but in cases like this the father usually says he was traveling for work, he had financial hardship, that sort of thing.”
“It sounds like Mark gets the endless benefit of the doubt while Emma is being vilified,” Kyle said.
“I’m just playing the devil’s advocate here. I want you to have a realistic understanding of what we’re dealing with.”
Emma nodded. “I get it.”
Andrew ran through a few more things, then said, “And how long have you two been together? I only ask because sometimes the issue of a significant other comes into play.”
�
��We’re just friends,” Emma said quickly, nervously adding, “I don’t have time to date. I haven’t had a…significant other in years. Certainly no one who has had anything to do with Penny.” For once, her pathetic personal life felt like a bonus.
When the meeting was almost over, Andrew asked if she had any other questions.
“Yes,” she said. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Just live your life as normally as possible. I’ll let you know when we have a hearing date. And in the meantime, try not to worry. Think positive.”
The second time that day she’d heard that advice. She realized, as her daughter had long been telling her, it wasn’t so easy.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Bea was not usually swayed by the weather, but the morning was so flawless that it demanded at least some time outdoors. Still, the girl insisted on spending hour after hour at the dining-room table bent over her sketch pad.
“What is it you’re working on so diligently?” Bea asked on her way to the pool.
“My graphic novel,” Penny said, not bothering to look up.
“You’re writing one?”
She nodded.
Bea peeked over Penny’s shoulder and was surprised to see a very fine sketch of Emma, her brows knit together in anguish. Bea felt the visceral, pulse-racing response she always felt when she spotted talent. Okay, Henry—so she can draw. But did you have to give her the house?
“Penny,” Bea said, pulling out the chair next to her and sitting. “It’s wonderful that you get up every morning and draw. Henry was the same way. He created every day of his life—”
“I miss being able to show him my drawings,” Penny said, turning to her, biting her lower lip, her eyes filled with emotion. Bea experienced a pang; how odd, how unlikely, that she and this girl should share even a sliver of the same grief.
“Well,” Bea said slowly. “I suppose you could show me your work. Henry always did, you know.” At least, he had for a time.
Penny wrinkled her nose as if Bea had suggested she drink sewage.
Very well, then—back to business. “As I was saying, Henry created every day of his life. But then he moved out here and something changed. It was difficult for me when this happened because his work and my work were so intertwined for many, many years. We had an art gallery together. Did he ever mention it?”
“No,” Penny said.
“It was in SoHo, a very exciting neighborhood at the time. Unfortunately, it has now been reduced to an outdoor mall. Have you ever been to New York City?”
Penny shook her head. “I really want to go. Maybe even live there someday. I guess then I could see your gallery.”
“Oh, the gallery is long gone. Shortly after Henry retired, I closed it down. Sold the building.” It had been a practical but painful decision, one that sent her into a sort of mourning.
Shortly thereafter, Henry had suffered a loss of his own. He called her, his voice breaking, late one day nearly two years after his move to tell her that his good friend Tom, the bartender from the hotel, had died suddenly. This time, Bea did not hesitate to make the trip to Sag Harbor. How silly it seemed then to view the house as a threat, a rebuke. Life was too short. Her friend needed her.
“I’ll stay for as long as you need me,” she told him. The gesture was not altogether selfless; she wanted to reconnect with him, wanted for them to find their way back to what they’d once shared.
But a few weeks into her visit, she realized there was no going back. She was dealing with a different Henry Wyatt. Instead of talking about the latest issue of Artforum or gallery gossip, he went on and on about crab fishing. Instead of spending hours in his studio, the air filled with the smell of turpentine, he spent all afternoon prepping hearty meals, stews and roasts made from venison caught by a local hunter he had befriended down at the marina.
The last night of Bea’s stay, Henry made a campfire and they huddled under blankets while finishing bottles of wine.
“So this is your life now,” she said.
“Not bad, right?”
“It’s not New York,” she said.
“I never enjoyed the rat race as much as you did, Bea. I don’t have your competitive spirit. But I always admired it.”
“And I always admired your creative spirit. You know, when you built this place, I read all those articles speculating that the next phase of your career would be architecture. But I never believed it. I think your heart is still in painting.”
“I’m done with painting but I’m also done with architecture. This place was a onetime burst of inspiration,” he said.
The house had been built in his frenzy to escape the city, to create a new life for himself. Bea knew how it felt to be fueled by such passion. She’d built both of their careers on it. And she wasn’t ready to give up.
“So come back to Manhattan. You’re not done yet. I’m not done yet. We can create something bigger and better than the Winstead-Wyatt Gallery.”
He shook his head. “Bea, don’t you see there’s another way to live? I’m happy out here. I wish you could find the kind of peace I’ve found.”
“I don’t need peace! I need work. I need a reason to get up in the morning. And there was a time when you needed that too. I’ll never understand why you walked away.”
“And I’ll never understand why you can’t slow down. Experience something in life other than work.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a key, and pressed it into her hand. “I hope you’ll spend more time out here. You have an open invitation.”
“I appreciate that, Henry. But I have a very busy life in the city.”
“You could be busy out here,” he said.
“Doing what?”
“Someday I want to turn this place into a museum. A permanent installation of my work.”
A museum in a small harbor town? That was his legacy? How could their visions be so different?
It wasn’t until months later, alone in her Park Avenue apartment, that she’d warmed up to the idea of the Henry Wyatt Museum of Sag Harbor or whatever it would be called. It wasn’t an eponymous gallery in SoHo, but it was better than nothing.
She’d called Henry and said, “Okay. I’m in.” But he’d never followed up with her.
Bea looked at Penny, who was huddled over her work, humming softly to herself. “Penny,” Bea said. “I’ve been looking at a lot of drawings that Henry left around town. I wonder if they are intended to be pieced together, sort of a treasure hunt of art. That’s why I wanted to take a look at the drawings he gave you, to see if they help make sense of things. To see if maybe, when they’re all put together, they tell a story.”
“Like his graphic novel?”
Bea’s heart started to pound. “What graphic novel?”
“The one he wrote last summer. I was supposed to finish one too. But I just didn’t have a story to tell.”
“Henry wrote a graphic novel,” Bea said slowly.
“Yes.”
“What was it about?”
“I don’t know for sure. I saw only a few pages of it here and there, never the whole thing. He said it was for adults.”
Bea put her hand on Penny’s shoulder. “Penny, where is the book?”
Penny looked at her and shrugged. “I have no idea.”
It all made more sense now. Penny had shared her love of graphic novels, and it had inspired him, the way hanging around sculptors inspired him to sculpt and meeting fishermen inspired him to fish.
So where the hell was it? She’d already searched the house, the museums, the library. Where could the book be?
Henry, I still don’t understand. But I’m getting closer!
At one in the afternoon, Emma knelt in the back lawn digging up soil when Penny hobbled out and called to her from the steps, “Some lady is here to see you.”
“Who is it?” She scrambled to her feet, her stomach tightening. At that point, she felt that any news was bad news. Following Penny back into the house, she s
teeled herself for whatever and whoever awaited her on the front doorstep.
“Cheryl?”
“I’m a little early,” Cheryl Meister said brightly, marching into the house and unabashedly examining every corner. “But I was just dying to take a peek in here.”
Early? What was she talking about? And then it hit her: the auction committee meeting.
Minutes later, the doorbell rang again. Diane Knight brushed past Emma, looking for a place to plug in her MacBook and asking for an iced tea.
What was she going to do? She was completely unprepared to host a dozen people for lunch. There was no food in the house except what she needed to make Penny’s grilled cheese—that was about it. She didn’t have so much as a bottle of sparkling water to offer the members of the group as they descended on Windsong wearing their Lululemon best and chattering about last night’s dinner party.
“I’ll be right back,” Emma said, ushering everyone into the living room while she retreated into the kitchen to catch her breath.
She opened and closed the refrigerator as if that would make a tray of crudités and tea sandwiches magically appear. Did anyone deliver all the way out on Actors Colony Road? She did a quick search on her phone for options and came up with only pizza. That would not fly with the art-auction ladies.
“What, pray tell, is going on in the living room? It looks like the cast of Real Housewives of God Knows Where just invaded,” Bea said, sweeping into the room wearing a crisp blouse and pale blue linen pants. Her straw hat sported a navy-blue ribbon with ducks on it.
Because Emma didn’t have enough to deal with. “That’s an auction committee. For the cinema fund-raiser? I don’t know if you’ve heard about that. But they’re having an art auction and—”
“Oh, yes. I spoke to Cheryl Meister on the phone about making a donation.”
“You did?”
“I’ll go introduce myself since you somehow failed to mention to me that we were hosting a meeting this afternoon.”
We?
And then, for the first time since Bea had waltzed up to the front desk and demanded a room, Emma was thankful for her existence. “Bea, this is the thing—I totally forgot they were coming today. I have nothing here—no food, nothing to drink. I haven’t given one thought to this auction since I left Cheryl’s house after the last meeting.”
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