Drawing Home Page 4

  Victor glanced at Kyle, then back at her. “Can we speak alone for a moment?”

  Bea sighed impatiently but reminded herself that dealing with Victor was just a temporary annoyance and soon she’d officially take the reins.

  “My assistant can hear whatever you have to say. He’s helping me catalog the estate. He’s more helpful than you at this point, Victor.”

  “There’s nothing for you to catalog, Bea. You have no claim to Henry’s estate. He left it to another party.”

  “Excuse me?” she said, although she had heard him perfectly well. She needed to stall, needed a moment to process the unthinkable. He repeated the noxious statement and she reached for the wall to steady herself. “That’s not possible!” Bea said. “There must be some mistake.”

  “The probate process has been very thorough. I have it all here in black-and-white. You need to vacate the premises immediately.”

  Emma had set the morning aside for pruning her rose garden.

  She knew some people saw the annual task as a chore, but for her, any excuse to be down in the soil was welcome.

  Her hybrid teas and floribundas had fared well over the winter; luckily, it had been mild enough not to test their hardiness too severely. Still, on close inspection, she saw that some of the canes were brown and shriveled. She pulled on her gloves, picked up her lopper, and set to work paring back the branches to reveal the fresh, white inside.

  The usual peacefulness settled over her as she worked, although she still had the nagging feeling that she should have insisted Penny come outside and, if not help her, at least get some fresh air. An hour earlier, she’d found Penny in her room with a bunch of Henry Wyatt drawings spread out on her bed.

  “Hon, you can’t just stare at Mr. Wyatt’s drawings all the time. It’s upsetting you.”

  “The drawings aren’t upsetting me. His death upsets me. I didn’t even get to say good-bye. Why does life have to suck all the time?”

  “Penny, life doesn’t suck all the time. I wish you didn’t feel that way. Sometimes good things happen.”

  “When’s the last time something good happened?”

  Emma had reached out to ruffle her hair. “Hmm. Well, maybe the day you were born. That was a good day.”

  “Fourteen years ago? That’s sad, Mom. Really pathetic.”

  Emma hated to hear Penny being so negative, so fatalistic. It reminded her of her own mother, someone whom Emma certainly didn’t want Penny to end up like.

  Her mother, Vivian, was the one who taught her to garden. It was one of the few things that had brought her joy in life after they’d lost Emma’s father suddenly when he was in his early forties.

  “Life offers so little beauty,” her mother had said. “The least we can do is try to grow our own.”

  Vivian was more ambitious with her roses than Emma. She didn’t shy away from the finicky varieties and had a real focus on the most fragrant blooms, which were generally the darker and more heavily petaled flowers.

  Every Saturday morning, her mother made blueberry pancakes, and then the two of them would work in the garden for hours. By her mother’s side, Emma learned everything about soil and planting, how to harden off the roses in preparation for the winter, how to protect them from pests in the summer, and, her favorite part, how to cut the flowers. Her mother was a master at artfully arranging the blooms in vases all over the house.

  But gradually, in the years following her husband’s death, Vivian Kirkland became less and less functional. Growing up, Emma accepted her mother’s constant headaches and days spent in a dark room as normal. Vivian lost nearly every job she managed to get except for one, and that was because she’d quit before they could fire her. At least, that’s what she told Emma.

  When Emma was in high school, the last of her father’s life-insurance money ran out. Vivian seemed to lose her already tenuous hold on normal thinking and behavior. She became very accident-prone—fender benders, slips on ice in the winter. Emma began to suspect that these “accidents” were deliberate, sources of lawsuits and, therefore, money. They also had the side benefit of getting doctors to prescribe painkillers, to which her mother had developed a nasty addiction.

  By the time Emma was a senior in high school, her mother gave up on the garden. Emma took over, tending to the roses until the day the bank foreclosed on the house.

  Vivian suffered a fatal overdose when Emma was three months pregnant. But when Emma was in the garden, her mother was still with her. To this day, the smell of roses, even in someone’s perfume, brought back Vivian Kirkland.

  “Mom?” Penny leaned against the back door and called to Emma in the garden. She was dressed in cutoff jeans and a Bleachers T-shirt, and Emma observed, not for the first time, that Penny’s face was changing; she was starting to look like a young woman, not a child. With her height, her curly dark hair, and her dark eyes, she also looked strikingly like her father. It was a cosmic test, surely, to make the daughter she loved so much look like the man who’d hurt her so badly.

  “Some guy is at the front door,” Penny said.

  “Some guy?”

  “An old dude wearing a tie.”

  “He must have the wrong address. I’m coming.”

  Emma pulled off her gloves and wiped her moist hands on her jeans. Penny trailed her into the house and stood by the stairs.

  Emma looked out the dining-room window and saw a short older man, silver-haired and wearing horn-rims. He carried a black leather briefcase. Strange.

  The man rang the bell yet again and Emma opened the door warily. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Emma Mapson.”

  “That’s me. And you are?”

  He extended his hand. “I’m Victor Bonivent, attorney with Smythe, Bonivent, Worth.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “May I come in?”

  “I’m on my way to work, so if you can just tell me what this is about.”

  “Mrs. Mapson, trust me, this is worth a few minutes of your time.”

  Emma stepped aside and let the man walk into the house. Only then did she remember Penny lingering behind her. “Penny, go to your room for a few minutes.”

  Penny sighed dramatically and retreated up the stairs.

  Emma asked the man to follow her to the kitchen, but she found Angus at the table reading the paper, so she turned around and led Mr. Bonivent back to the living room. The small house suddenly felt much smaller.

  Emma sat in Angus’s armchair and the lawyer sat on the couch and set his briefcase on the scarred wooden trunk that served as a coffee table. He opened it and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I only had this address. No e-mail, no phone number. You’re the parent and legal guardian of Penelope Mapson?”

  Emma squared her shoulders. “What exactly is this about, Mr. Bonivent?”

  “My client was a man named Henry Wyatt. Did you know Mr. Wyatt?”

  Emma leaned forward. “He was a regular at the hotel where I work.”

  The lawyer glanced down at the papers, then up at Emma. “Are you aware that Mr. Wyatt died recently?”

  Emma nodded. “I am. I was at the hotel when it happened. A shame.”

  “Indeed.” The man adjusted his glasses and handed the papers to Emma. “This is a copy of Mr. Wyatt’s last will and testament. When you read it, you will see that he left his house on Actors Colony Road to your minor child, Penelope Mapson.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” Emma didn’t bother looking at the papers.

  Actors Colony Road was a private stretch of homes on the waterfront. She remembered reading in the paper last summer that the actor Richard Gere had sold his home there for thirty-six million dollars.

  The lawyer repeated the bit about the house, and Emma knew that no matter how many times the man said the words, they still wouldn’t make sense.

  “There’s been a mistake,” Emma said. “I mean, he gave her art lessons and they h
ad a nice little friendship, but this is…this is crazy!”

  The lawyer, clearly unmoved by Emma’s declaration, nodded toward the paperwork. “It’s all spelled out in the documents.”

  Emma shook her head. “This doesn’t make any sense. Do I need a lawyer?”

  “You do not need a lawyer to take possession of the house.”

  “Do I pay taxes on this? I can’t afford it. I can’t even afford the utilities on a house like that.”

  “You don’t pay taxes on the house unless you sell it. But the house is not yours to sell. As the child’s legal guardian, you will hold the property until she reaches the age of majority. At that time, she can decide to sell it.”

  Emma’s mind raced. Maybe Penny had mentioned to the old man that they had money problems? But no, she was grasping at straws here. There was no way that this made sense.

  “Like I said, I can’t afford the upkeep of the house.”

  “Money has been set aside for the care of the house and property. Just come to me when you need funds to manage lawn care, pool maintenance, that sort of thing. Mr. Wyatt also left your daughter the contents of the house.”

  “You mean the furniture?”

  “The furniture, the books, his wine collection. But, most significant, his artwork. Aside from a few paintings he bequeathed to a museum in Texas.” Mr. Bonivent flipped through his copy of the paperwork he’d handed her. “Again, the works of art in the house cannot be sold until the beneficiary reaches majority, and even then, there are some stipulations.”

  Emma nervously pulled her hair into a ponytail and then released it. She would have to talk to someone about this. Were any of the happy-hour regulars at the bar attorneys?

  “Look, I’m sure Mr. Wyatt’s family will contest this.” But even as Emma said it, she realized that Henry Wyatt had never spoken of family. He’d never even spoken of friends. The guy was a loner.

  “There is no family.” Mr. Bonivent handed Emma a document and his business card. “This spells out the handling of his artwork. I’ll need your signature in a few places. I’d be happy to answer any questions that arise.”

  “Wait—I’ve never even seen this house. This is just…you’re kind of throwing me for a loop here.”

  The lawyer looked around the room, and Emma saw it through his eyes. For the first time in a long while, she mentally kicked herself for not doing more with the place. She spent her free time out back in the garden. When she was inside, she barely saw the cracks in the paint, the water damage on her bedroom ceiling that she hadn’t gotten around to fixing. The area rugs were worn out, but they were functional. Why throw money away?

  Mr. Bonivent handed her a set of keys. “We’ll be in touch,” he said.

  Walking him to the door, she knew there was something she should say or ask but for the life of her, she couldn’t think of what that would be.

  Chapter Six

  Bea knew she had crossed a line in grabbing the ceramic plate from Kyle and throwing it at Victor. In her defense, it had missed him by a good foot.

  Kyle knelt on the floor and swept the shards into a dustpan. She paced a safe distance away, contemplating her next move. There was only one place to go.

  “When you’re finished with that, I need you to make a reservation.”

  “Where?”

  “The American Hotel, the only civilized place in town. No—forget calling. We’ll just pack and go there straightaway.”

  He looked up at her. “Bea, I can’t stay out here any longer. I have a life back in New York.”

  She knew this was not true. His life was managing her life.

  It had started out simple; Kyle had framed paintings, put together art installations, done the odd touch-up job on her floors. He oversaw her kitchen remodeling.

  Bea started to rely on him more. She taught Kyle how to manage the catering for parties. For a time, there was art business in the Hamptons or Connecticut, and Kyle would be dispatched to handle issues if Bea did not feel like making the trip. And she never felt like making the trip. Kyle was spending so much time at 720 Park Avenue, she offered him a room in the guest wing when he worked late, which saved him the hour-long subway ride back to Brooklyn. After a while it seemed like a waste of money for him to keep paying the rent on his twenty-five-hundred-dollar-a-month studio, so he let it go.

  Bea did occasionally wonder why a young, attractive, capable young man like Kyle was so willing to let his life be swept up in her own. She’d asked him once, only half joking, if he was hiding from something.

  “Am I going to flip through the television channels and see you on America’s Most Wanted one night?” she said.

  “I’m not hiding from anything, Bea. The truth is, I lost the one thing I wanted to do with my life, and I haven’t figured out a good alternative. I guess until I do, working for you is a pretty interesting distraction.”

  So the job she had handed him and for which she paid him so handsomely had served as a useful distraction, but now that she needed something, he was balking. People were so selfish! “Kyle, the whole reason we work so well together is that you are happy to let my life be your life. So stop with this nonsense. Have the car out front in twenty minutes.”

  She marched back to her room, her pulse racing from the exertion and from her deep indignation at what was taking place. In the hallway, a splash of blue caught her eye and she stopped to look at the painting. Henry’s work always spoke to Bea, and this was true even in her current state. Untitled Blue, oil on canvas, 1960. It was the first painting Henry had ever shown her.

  She hesitated only a second before removing it from the wall and marching it out to her car.

  Emma could barely focus on the staff meeting.

  Jack Blake had assembled everyone in the piano room. The staff pulled chairs around the Steinway, and Jack sat on the bench where a musician performed six nights a week all summer long.

  Over and over, Emma mentally replayed the conversation with the lawyer, certain there had to be some mistake. How could Henry Wyatt have left his house to Penny?

  “This will take only a few minutes,” said Jack. He wore a mint-green polo shirt, khaki pants, and one of the baseball hats emblazoned with the Sag Harbor zip code that they sold at the hotel. Jack was not very tall but he was distinguished-looking, with a year-round tan, deep-set blue eyes, and a thick head of white hair.

  Jack Blake had bought the hotel in 1972 when he was just twenty-four years old. The Youngs family had owned the property and operated the hotel for ninety-four years. By the time Jack bought the place, it had been on the market for two years. No one but Jack had a vision of what the hotel could become.

  In those early days, Jack didn’t have a chef for the restaurant. He did all the cooking—fish and chips and burgers—himself. He did a lot of the repair work himself too, and what he couldn’t do, he hired local plumbers and electricians to take care of. He’d spend days at wallpaper places looking for high-quality reams he could buy in bulk. He scoured antique stores for furniture. He was so consumed with his vision for the hotel, his young wife left him. Jack forged on, hiring a staff of people he wanted to surround himself with day in and day out. One of those first hires was Emma’s father, Tom, also twenty-four and tasked to run the new bar.

  Now, as Jack sat at the piano, he told the staff, “I wanted to make sure you all know about the fund-raiser to rebuild the movie theater. This is a cause close to my heart, since I’d say that, second only to live music, a good movie is vital to the soul—the soul of a person and the soul of a town. I think we all miss walking down the street and meeting our friends and family to watch a movie together. And I want that back.”

  Emma discreetly checked her phone. The visit from the lawyer was so unbelievable, she half expected someone to text her with Just kidding!

  “So we’re going to have a food table at the fund-raiser and we need volunteers for that. And if you can get on any other committee to make the night a success, let me know and I’ll jig
ger your schedule here accordingly. Thanks, all.”

  The staff members all filed slowly back to their posts. Emma thought that even more than the movie theater, she missed SagTown Coffee and a few of the other shops in the adjacent building that had also been destroyed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen a movie—or done anything else for fun, really. But she’d picked up chocolate chip cookies from SagTown a few times a week. She could go for one right now.

  Back behind the front desk, she took a call from a guest who needed a blow-dryer. Apparently, room 8 was missing one. Emma called housekeeping to bring one up and then she checked the ledger to see who had checked out yesterday. People walked away with the strangest things.

  “Miss, I need your assistance.”

  Emma looked up. The woman had asked for help politely, but there was a shrillness to her voice that told Emma she had about four seconds to respond before things got ugly. “What can I do for you?” Emma asked with a smile.

  “I’m Bea Winstead,” the woman said, as if that should mean something to Emma. She had coiffed white hair and wore gumball-size pearl earrings and a matching necklace. Her white blouse was embroidered with small green frogs, and one arm was laden with enamel Hermès bracelets. Her mouth had the telltale creases of a smoker or a former smoker. “I need two rooms for the next thirty days.”

  Was this a joke? Emma glanced down at the full reservation book, columns and columns of her own handwriting.

  The woman in front of her mused aloud that maybe she actually needed three rooms, one for their luggage and other “operational needs.”

  Emma braced herself. “I’m afraid we are fully booked at the moment.”

  “How is that possible?” The woman pressed her hand to her chest and turned to look at a man who was standing next to her holding luggage. Her son? Tough to say. He appeared to be around Emma’s age and she couldn’t help but notice his all-American good looks. Hopefully, he would be the voice of reason.

  “Well, we have only eight rooms. And we get quite busy this time of year. If you’d like, I can give you the names of some—”