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  She folded her arms, looking around. “I guess my one consolation is that karma is a bitch—clearly, Cole Hopkins sold you a junker.”

  Kyle laughed. “Looks can be deceiving. This boat’s a beauty. Trust me.”

  “Whatever, Kyle. I really don’t care.”

  “Come check out the galley.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Why not have a look? You can take sadistic pleasure in the job I have ahead of me.”

  She actually was curious about what kind of mess this Manhattan carpetbagger had gotten himself into. It would be good fodder for a few laughs with Sean and Alexis over drinks.

  Emma followed him down a short ladder. She thought of her father, his love of old boats and his treasured long afternoons fishing. Oh, how she’d dreaded the days her father went out on the boat because she knew what would be for dinner that night: Fluke. Or flounder. Or whatever he caught. The appeal of fresh-caught fish was completely lost on her until later in life.

  “She’ll appreciate the food more if she sees how much work goes into it,” her mother had told her father.

  The next week, Emma was out on her dad’s boat. He taught her how to bait a hook, and he stood behind her with his strong arms helping to steady her line. She never forgot the thrill of feeling her first tug on the other end and the excitement of her father reeling in her catch. But when the fish was on board, flopping helplessly on the hook, she burst into tears. Her father promptly removed the hook and threw it back into the water.

  “Will it be okay?” she asked, sobbing. He assured her that it would. And when her father told her something would be okay, she always believed him.

  Kyle’s cabin was in even worse shape than the deck. The wood was largely eroded, wires snaked out of the side boards, and the floor was missing planks. Rolls of paper towels and industrial tape were scattered underfoot.

  “I see that look on your face,” Kyle said. “But you’d be surprised what a little varnish and paint will do.”

  “This is way beyond anything you can accomplish with a paintbrush,” she said. And yet the raw condition of the old boat reminded her of Jack’s stories of the hotel’s state of disrepair when he first took ownership, and his hard work had paid off: The American Hotel was now the gem of Main Street.

  Kyle shook his head. “So little faith. I’m going to redo the galley and the head and put some cabinets in here so it’s fit to live aboard.”

  “Yeah, good luck with all that.” She climbed up the ladder and at the top, she turned around to add, “Just keep the noise down, okay?”

  She was halfway back to the pool when the grinding sound of Kyle’s electric sander started up again.

  Penny stepped out of the pool and wrapped herself in one of Mr. Wyatt’s plush towels. Everything he had was nice. Everything seemed new. It was like being in one of those rich people’s houses on an E! television show.

  Except rich people usually didn’t have a bunch of strangers squatting in their mansion. What was with the old lady and Kyle? That’s how she thought of them: the Old Lady and Kyle. Just two more adults to make things complicated and annoying on top of her mother and Angus. When she told her dad about the Old Lady, he seemed really surprised and asked a lot of questions she didn’t know the answers to, like whether her mother had a lawyer. “No way,” Penny said. “Do you think Mom would ever pay for a lawyer?”

  She wanted her dad to see the house. And she wanted Mindy and Robin to see it too. She still felt bad about how things had gone down that day at the beach and needed a way to get back on track with them.

  Her mother’s tote bag rested next to her abandoned lounge chair. Penny glanced up at the house, then quickly rummaged through the bag to find her mom’s iPhone. She glanced around one more time, and when she was certain she was alone, she snapped photos of the pool and the house and the view of the bay. She grabbed her own beach bag, took out her crappy Motorola (that her mother had never bothered taking away after all), and found Mindy’s and Robin’s numbers. She sent them a series of photos showing off her new house. DNR to this number—not my phone, she warned. Then she erased the threads and put her mom’s phone back.

  She couldn’t understand why her mother was so strict about things like screen time. It was the only way to communicate. It was hard enough to keep up with her friends without being in tech jail.

  Walking back to the pool, she had the thought that maybe she hadn’t put the phone back. So she turned around and went back to check. And she checked again. And again.

  “Penny—what are you doing in my bag?” her mother said.

  Busted! “Looking for sunblock,” Penny said.

  She didn’t know who was a tougher warden, her mother or her own mind.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bea’s lawyer returned her call just as she was settling into a chair at the Salon Xavier on Bay Street for her weekly blowout. What a relief it had been to find a temporary stand-in for her beloved John Barrett Salon.

  She cupped her hand around her phone and said quietly, “Richard, I can’t say too much because I don’t have privacy at the moment. But you got my message?”

  “I did. An interesting development. And to answer your question, yes—this does give you the standing to contest the most recent will. But it doesn’t overturn it, you understand.”

  “I know, I know. Obviously, it’s eighteen years old. But you said as long as I was the beneficiary of a prior will—”

  “Send it to me. I’ll start the paperwork. But Bea, this is a long shot. The current will was executed properly, so we can’t invalidate it on a technicality. That leaves three other avenues: The decedent lacked the mental capacity to make the will. The decedent was unduly influenced to make the will. Or the will was procured by fraud. Any of these grounds are very difficult to prove.”

  “Well, then you have your work cut out for you. Let’s not waste time chitchatting,” she said and ended the call. She smiled into the mirror at the stylist poised behind her. Her phone buzzed again: Kyle. She ignored him and waited until her snow-white hair was as straight as a pin, the edges of her hair just grazing her jawline, before reading the texts that followed.

  Emma Mapson at the house. With daughter. Just FYI. Let’s not have a scene?

  Twenty-four hours ago, this would have been bad news. Now it was more than welcome.

  She canceled her manicure appointment and called for a cab. For a fleeting moment she thought of the water taxi—it had been surprisingly quick the other afternoon—but then decided against it since she’d just had her hair done. Instead, she sat in the cab as it moved slowly through the traffic in town, crossed over the bridge, and took her down the winding, secluded streets to Windsong. It gave her plenty of time to think of what she would say to Emma Mapson.

  Emma sat in the dining room eating from a takeout pint of BuddhaBerry frozen yogurt and watching Penny in the pool. She was still irked by Kyle and the boat, but something about the house had a calming effect on her. She didn’t know if it was all of the natural light or the lack of clutter, but it felt like a big exhale just sitting inside. Her one issue with the house was that some of the rooms felt a little impersonal. She could remedy that with a few well-placed bunches of roses.

  The front door slammed shut.

  “Hello?” Emma called out, standing.

  Bea Winstead swept into the room like she owned the place. She wore a light cashmere cape despite the fact that it was eighty degrees outside. Dropping her keys on the table, she said, “I see you’ve made yourself right at home.”

  She clearly wasn’t surprised to find Emma there; Kyle must have tipped her off. Jerk!

  “Yeah, I actually could say the same to you,” Emma said, sticking her spoon in the plastic container. “This is trespassing. I could call the police and end this right now.”

  “So why don’t you? Why haven’t you?”

  “I didn’t know you’d moved in here until a few hours ago.”

  “Really? Or maybe
it’s because you know that you’re the one who is trespassing.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Not this again. “Ms. Winstead, I don’t want to make a scene. This is a small town. I don’t want to be in the papers any more than I have been already. But more than anything, I want to protect my daughter’s privacy. So I’m willing to ask you, politely, to leave. If you need a few days, we can work something out.”

  “How generous of you,” Bea said. “But if I’m forced to leave, you will be forced to leave.”

  Emma pressed her hands to her temples. “I don’t have the energy to play these games with you.”

  “I assure you, my dear, I am not playing.” Bea set her Hermès purse on the table, opened it, pulled out a sheet of paper, and waved it in Emma’s face.

  “Henry’s original will—naming me the executor of his estate. Expressing his wishes that this house be a museum of his work, not a playground for a hotel manager and her child.”

  Emma reached for the paper but Bea snatched it away. “Henry did everything by design—everything. There’s no way he’d make a random decision to just leave his entire estate to virtual strangers.”

  “Well, he did.”

  “The courts will have to see about that; I’m contesting your inheritance. In case there’s any doubt, please be assured I have the best lawyers money can buy. So don’t get too comfortable. And if you push the issue about who gets to reside here, chances are we’ll both be asked to vacate while things get settled.”

  Emma looked outside to Penny happily splashing around in the pool.

  “Ms. Mapson, do you understand me?”

  Emma nodded, still looking out the window at her daughter.

  There was no way around it. She needed a lawyer. The “free” house was already costing her.

  Her mother didn’t say much during the ride back to their own house. Penny could tell she was in a bad mood and so she didn’t want to push, but she was frustrated they’d left early. The plan had been to have dinner at the house, maybe to sleep over for the first time. But then, the Old Lady.

  Why did her mother always back down? Penny knew her mother tried to do the right thing, but she was so cautious all the time and the result was their boring life. The worst part was that she was trying to make Penny be the same way. And even more frustrating than that, every time Penny tried to be bold and daring, her OCD got in the way.

  “Do you want to go out for dinner?” Emma said as they headed over the bridge.

  “Sure.”

  “LT Burger?”

  Penny nodded. At least her mom was trying to make it up to her. LT Burger, with its waffle fries and milk shakes, was her favorite. Her phone buzzed in her hand—a text from her father.

  “Dad wants to take me to the beach tomorrow,” she said.

  Emma glanced at her. “What happened to helping at the historical society? You made a commitment to Angus, Penny. It’s not right to just bail on him.”

  It struck Penny as funny when her mother used words like bail. It reminded her that her mother had been young once. Maybe she’d bailed on a few things in her time. Maybe she could still remember what that was like.

  “Mom, I said okay to helping out at the historical society because no one wants to hire a fourteen-year-old for a real job.”

  “Did you even try?”

  “Yes! A few places. I really wanted to work at BuddhaBerry. The owner said next summer. And fine, I know you said I can’t sit around the house alone all day. But things changed. Dad is here for now, but who knows how much time I’ll get to have with him? The historical society isn’t going anywhere.”

  Emma pulled into a parking spot. They walked to the burger place in silence.

  Penny’s phone buzzed again, this time with Mindy’s response to the photos she texted of the house.

  That place is sick!

  Penny contemplated what to write back. Thanks seemed weird; I know, obnoxious. Was she overthinking it? God, she hated how hard she tried. But the sting of the other day at the beach was still with her. She just had to move past it.

  Inside, LT Burger was all white subway tile, funky lamps, chalkboard menus, and wire ceiling fans. They sat at a table near the orange-topped wraparound bar. Penny didn’t need a menu. She always ordered the standard burger, waffle fries, and, for dessert, the Death by Oreo milk shake.

  “Penny,” her mother said. “I need you to stop fighting me on everything. Do you think I like always having to be the bad guy? I don’t. But I’m trying to do what’s best for you even when that makes you upset with me. It’s important in life to do the right thing even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Do you understand?”

  Penny nodded. She thought she did. Basically, her mom was as tired of arguing about everything as she was. And, really, she didn’t want to add to her mom’s stress.

  “I’m sorry,” Penny said.

  Emma shook her head. “I’m not complaining. I love you. I just want you to know that I’m not trying to make you miserable. But I’m the adult and I see the big picture in a way that you can’t. You have to trust me and not view every decision as me taking something away from you.”

  “But when you tell me I have to work at the historical society instead of spending the day with my dad, that is taking something away from me.”

  Her mother leaned back and sighed. “You know what? How about a compromise? Work at the historical society for a few hours in the morning and early afternoon, then your dad can pick you up for the beach and dinner.”

  Penny smiled. “Good deal.”

  The waitress took their order. Her mom must have felt better after the talk because she ordered their milk shakes as appetizers instead of dessert.

  And then Penny’s phone buzzed in her lap with a new text from Mindy.

  Party at my place Friday nite.

  Penny glanced at her mother.

  Okay, maybe what her mother didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Penny didn’t need to debate every little thing she wanted to do.

  She just needed to be more careful not to get caught.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bea was heartened by the discovery of the old will, but she knew it wasn’t necessarily a smoking gun. She had no intention of sitting back and waiting for lawyers to get the job done. There were still drawings to be found, and so her destination that afternoon was the whaling museum.

  The Sag Harbor Whaling Museum was a white Greek Revival mansion with a temple-front portico bearing, in gold letters, the words MASONIC TEMPLE. Two enormous whale jawbones framed the doorway.

  The building had double-height ceilings and a magnificent oval staircase. The only blight on an otherwise noble interior was a gift-shop counter. And it was there that she found Angus, ringing up souvenirs for a family with small children.

  “Do you work at every museum in this town?” she said.

  “Ah, Ms. Winstead. We meet again,” he said. There was something very calming about his voice. As rankled as she felt by his association with Emma Mapson, Bea found him to be quite pleasant.

  It was probably time to dispense with the formalities, although she and Mr. Sinclair were both from an era when manners were ingrained. Oh, she’d shed all that like a second skin when she’d moved to Greenwich Village in the sixties. But she found that as she got older, she instinctively reverted back to the habits of her conventional upbringing.

  “Please, call me Bea,” she said.

  “Bea, what brings you here today? Interested in the town’s rich whaling history? I’m happy to give you a tour.”

  She knew he was teasing her. “As fascinating as that might be, I think you know I am here looking for significantly more recent artifacts.”

  “You’re very goal-oriented, aren’t you? Has anyone ever told you to stop and smell the roses every once in a while?”

  “Mr. Sinclair, I am in no mood.”

  “Angus. Since we’re on a first-name basis.” He walked around to the front of the souvenir case. “I’ll show y
ou to the archives room. But you’ll have to humor me if I point out a few treasures along the way.”

  She followed him to a room just to the right of the entrance hall and winding central staircase.

  “Look at this beauty,” he said, pausing in front of a book enclosed in a glass case. “An illustrated limited edition of Moby-Dick. The preface is by Jacques Cousteau and the book is signed by him.”

  Bea peered at the volume, opened to pages somewhere in the middle.

  “Very nice,” she said impatiently.

  “Read the plaque there.”

  She skimmed the information about the display, details of the lithograph illustrations by LeRoy Neiman and some quotes from Jacques Cousteau. And then she read Donated to the Sag Harbor Whaling Museum by Henry Wyatt.

  She looked up at Angus in surprise, and he smiled.

  Oh, Henry. He did love his books. She made a mental note to go through his library more carefully. If she found other books that might be worth contributing to one of the local museums, she would show them to Angus. And then she remembered she had no legal right to do anything with the estate. That’s why she was there. To find a clue, a way to reverse the travesty of the will.

  Passing through several rooms, moving toward the back of the building, Bea took more notice of the crown molding, intricate plaster ceiling, and Corinthian columns than she did of the exhibits. “This was once a private home?” she said to Angus.

  “Indeed. It was built in 1845 as the home of Benjamin Huntting the Second and his family. Huntting made his fortune in the whale-oil business.”

  “Who designed the house? Anyone of note?”

  “A very prominent nineteenth-century architect. Minard Lafever.”

  “I’m familiar. But why the Masonic signage out front?”

  “After Huntting passed in 1867 the house changed hands a few times. It was unoccupied until 1907, when a well-known philanthropist, Mrs. Russell Sage, took ownership. It was her summer cottage until her death in 1918. Two years later, the Freemasons bought the building. Shortly after that, the historical society began exhibiting some artifacts on the ground floor. That was the beginning of the space becoming a museum, although that didn’t happen officially until 1936.”