Drawing Home Page 9

  Jack held up one hand. “You don’t owe me any explanations. I just wanted to know if this would affect your work schedule in any way. Obviously, this is a dramatic change in your circumstances. I don’t want any last-minute surprises with the summer season starting. I need all hands on deck.”

  “Oh, nothing will change, Jack. I will be here, ready to work.”

  He smiled. “Well, I’m happy to hear that, Emma.”

  She couldn’t imagine quitting her job. Aside from the financial necessity of working here, the hotel was really Emma’s touchstone. She treasured the fact that she worked at the same place where her father had worked until the day he died. Every day she looked at the same bar he’d tended, the same couch they’d sat on together, the same backgammon set they’d played. No, she could inherit a dozen houses, and she wouldn’t change a thing about her work.

  Back at the front desk, she e-mailed the reservation confirmations and made a note for the head of housekeeping that the L’Occitane bath products needed to be restocked upstairs.

  “Are you Emma?” a blond, fit, forty-something woman sitting on the couch called out. She wore a white blouse knotted at her waist and black yoga pants.

  “Yes, I am,” Emma said.

  The woman waved her over. Emma reluctantly left the desk. She always felt better with a barrier between herself and a person who might be about to start aggressively complaining. But this woman looked pleasant enough.

  “I’m Cheryl Meister,” she said, holding out her hand to shake Emma’s. “I’m heading up the art-auction committee for the Sag Harbor Cinema fund-raiser.”

  “Oh, yes. Nice to meet you. You have a large party with us for lunch today, correct?”

  “Yes, it’s the committee. Do you have a moment to sit?”

  Emma eyed the desk. “Sure. Just for a minute.”

  The woman moved over, making space for Emma on the couch. Across the room, Chris gave her a look, and she shrugged.

  “Emma, I don’t mean to intrude, but I heard all about your extraordinary circumstances of late,” Cheryl said. “I know it’s asking a lot, but I also know you are a town native and surely you care as much about restoring Main Street as any of us on the fund-raising committee, maybe more. If there is any way you can donate a piece of work from the Henry Wyatt estate, it would mean the world. Henry was such a beloved figure here and I imagine he would want to contribute to the effort.”

  Emma didn’t know how to respond. The truth was that the art wasn’t hers to give away—it belonged to her daughter. But that wasn’t the point, and it wasn’t this woman’s business.

  “You’re right,” she said slowly. “Mr. Wyatt would want to support the rebuilding of the theater. And, of course, I want to also. But it’s too soon for me to make decisions about specific pieces of art. I hope you can understand.”

  Cheryl nodded, placing a manicured and bejeweled hand on Emma’s arm. “I do. Absolutely. But as you sort it all out, please keep us in mind.”

  Then, as if struck by something obvious, she added, “You and your daughter should come to my house sometime. I have twelve-year-old twins.”

  “Oh, that’s very generous of you. I’d like that.” Emma couldn’t think of anything that would be more awkward.

  “And while you’re figuring out the art situation, there are definitely other ways you can help. The committee meets Tuesdays at my house. I’ll give you my address before I leave.” She stood, smiled, and said with a wink, “I’m going to have one of Chris’s famous martinis before the other ladies get here.”

  Emma watched her walk to the bar, feeling momentarily disconnected from her life. One minute she was logging a bulk order of bath products, the next she was being invited to lunch with a wealthy weekender.

  So much for her promise to Jack that nothing would change.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bea’s seat at The American Hotel bar gave her an unfortunate view of Emma Mapson manning the front desk. Bea tried not to look in her direction, but she couldn’t help sneaking curious glances. The woman was very pretty, and not in the brash, obvious way that was usual these days. She had a throwback kind of daintiness, a sweet Audrey Hepburn quality. Clearly, looks could be deceiving. The woman was a snake.

  Kyle, sitting next to her, said, “Are you sure this is the best place to talk?”

  “I will not be driven to substandard accommodations because of that woman,” Bea replied, sipping her iced tea. “Besides, she won’t be here for much longer. I already have a call in to Jack, the owner. I’m sure he won’t be too happy to hear he’s employing a con artist who’s preying on his customers.”

  Kyle sighed. “Bea, that’s what I wanted to discuss with you. I ran into Emma’s daughter and ended up talking to her for a few minutes. She seemed to know and genuinely care about Henry Wyatt.”

  “I’m sure a lot of people in this town knew and cared about Henry. But few are as attractive as that Emma Mapson. I shudder to think of how she leveraged that. Can you imagine?” She glanced over at the beautiful young woman, her heart suddenly beating fast.

  “Bea, I think this whole thing might be legit.”

  “You’re taking their side? That’s disappointing, to say the least.” She waved for the bartender.

  “No, I’m on your side. That’s why I’m warning you that this situation might not be what you think it is. When we lose something, when things go badly, we want to blame someone, but it’s not always that person’s fault.”

  “What do you know about loss? The only things you seem to lose are the phone numbers of the women you date.”

  Kyle shook his head.

  “I haven’t had much time for dating, Bea. Let’s leave my personal life out of this.”

  “Fine. Then spare me the condescending advice.”

  “Bea, do you think I grew up thinking, God, I hope someday I can spend my life running around doing the bidding for a demanding old lady? That I thought, If only I could figure out how to achieve that dream job!” The bartender appeared. “Shot of whiskey, please.”

  So now everything was her fault? “I was unaware you had a problem with this job, Kyle. At least, not until you left me in the lurch.”

  “I never had a problem with this job. I’ve always been grateful for this job and grateful to you for showing up in my life at a time when I was pretty lost. Remember when you asked me if I was an aspiring actor and I told you no, I was happy to be a handyman?”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. After all these years, he was going to confess his dreams of being a star. Had it taken all this time for him to get up the nerve to ask her to pull some strings for him?

  “I make art careers, Kyle. Not acting careers.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t want to be an actor.”

  Bea sighed impatiently. “So what, then?”

  “Ever hear of the condition osteochondritis dissecans?”

  “No. But now you’re making me nervous. Are you trying to tell me you are ill? Truly, I cannot take any more drama!”

  “I’m not ill. This is something I dealt with years ago. Osteochondritis dissecans is a condition where the bone just under the cartilage of a joint starts to die. In my case, it was the left knee. Ruined my soccer career.”

  “You were a professional soccer player?”

  “No, I never got that far. I was forced to stop playing halfway through college. Lost my scholarship. Dropped out and had no idea what to do. I didn’t have a degree, had no interest in anything. I went from a life of competition and world travel to, well, something far from that. I worked as a handyman. And then you offered me a job. I took it, and not just for the money. Like you said the other day at the house, my life became running your life. It was a welcome distraction for a time.”

  “And suddenly it’s not anymore? Do you understand how incredibly selfish of you that is? I would like to know, just out of curiosity, why you would choose this moment to quit. I think you owe me that after all these years.”

  The b
artender arrived with the whiskey. Kyle fidgeted with the shot glass, turning it around a few times.

  “Sneaking around with all of this house stuff made me realize I need to move on. I’ve been avoiding dealing with my own life long enough. If this is what you want to do, I can’t stop you. But I don’t want to be a part of it.”

  “Then why are you sitting here right now?”

  He shook his head. “Talking to that girl earlier…I know this is not going to end well for you, Bea. And I don’t want to ditch you when you need someone. You were there when I needed someone even though you didn’t realize it.” He downed his drink.

  “I don’t want your pity, Kyle.” Unbelievable. This conversation was going to drive her to afternoon whiskey.

  “It’s not pity. I know how much doing things the right way means to you. I didn’t handle leaving this job in the right way, so I came back to apologize and offer two weeks’ notice. I’ll help you wrap things up around here.”

  She barely heard him. There, behind the bar, were a series of framed drawings she hadn’t noticed before. Could they be…she eased her way off the chair and walked around the edge of the bar to the wall. On closer inspection, she saw that the sketches had been done on…cocktail napkins? Men fishing off the wharf. A piano player. A close-up of the backgammon table from the lobby, a male hand rolling dice.

  “I’ll be damned,” she said.

  “Bea, did you hear what I said?”

  She turned to him, pointing at the drawings. “These are Henry’s! Like the ones at the house. And I saw others like them in a gallery on Washington Street. He spent the last year or so, I don’t know how long, giving his work away. Just giving it away!”

  “I’m concerned about you, Bea,” said Kyle.

  “Be concerned about yourself,” she snapped. “You’re the one who is unemployed.” She grabbed her phone and began taking photos of the sketches.

  She wanted to tell Kyle to go to hell—she didn’t need his charity. And then Emma Mapson walked by leading a group to one of the tables near the fireplace. Bea quickly looked away, her eyes falling again on Henry’s framed drawings.

  What, what, what was going on? Could Kyle be right? That this terrible turn of events was somehow legitimate?

  She’d never felt more alone.

  “Fine,” she said to Kyle. “I’ll take you up on the two weeks. Frankly, it’s the least you can do.”

  Kyle ordered another whiskey.

  The painted sign out front was white with blue lettering and read MUSEUM: SAG HARBOR HISTORICAL SOCIETY. THE 1796 HOME OF ANNIE COOPER BOYD.

  Penny followed Angus up the gravel path to the old house. Someone had stuck little American flags in the grass over Memorial Day weekend and they were still there. Penny knew they would remain there until the wind uprooted them and carried them away in the winter. Once something made an appearance at the historical society, it stayed at the historical society. On the front porch, exhibit A: An ancient carriage or sled of some sort that seemed to be made of wood and bones. It looked like it had been dropped there by Father Time himself.

  Nothing ever changed at that place. It was a museum, so she supposed that was the point. But it wasn’t like a museum that was shiny and new with all the old stuff in glass cabinets or framed on the walls. Everything was old. It had low, wood-beamed ceilings and a fireplace, above which hung a big portrait of a guy who looked like Abraham Lincoln but was some local doctor from the 1800s named Edgar Miles.

  Random Christmas decorations hung year-round. One table in front of a window featured antique medicine bowls and pharmacy equipment; the window ledge was filled with antique glass bottles. These were from the exhibit called Pills, Plants, and Poultices, about the pioneering doctor who brought herbal medicine to the town in the mid- to late 1800s.

  A framed illustrated guide to the history of the village whalers hung next to a strange but informative collage of images and trivia with the label Dr. E. Miles headache or stomach pills. Below, it posed a question: What was in those pills? And then a bunch of cards with various plants and flowers.

  “When are you putting together a new exhibition?” Penny asked Angus. She hoped he could find something more interesting for her to look at every day. Maybe a costume show? Surely there had been someone in town who embroidered dresses or made hats or something.

  “Maybe at the end of the summer,” Angus said, turning on the lights and walking to the back room. He called for her to follow him.

  “So, if you’re not changing the exhibition, what am I going to do here every day?”

  “Very good question! Come this way and I’ll show you.”

  Angus seemed way too excited. Penny followed him to the small back office tucked behind a wooden door hung with a colorful wreath. One shelf was filled with copies of a thick hardcover book called Sag Harbor: The Story of an American Beauty, by Dorothy Ingersoll Zaykowski. Penny’s mom had a copy in her bedroom.

  “Elizabeth invested in a new computer system,” he said, booting up a laptop.

  “Who’s Elizabeth?”

  “Elizabeth Tripp Gregory, head of the board of directors. She’s a relative of Joan Bates Tripp.” Penny knew that name. It was on a plaque outside the front door; she’d founded the museum in 1985. “Now, my eyesight isn’t what it used to be and I can’t be staring at this screen all day. But I know you kids just love your screens, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  Penny felt a surge of hope. A computer! Suddenly, the entire spectrum of her day changed. She had six blissful hours of YouTube videos ahead of her.

  “Now, what we have to do is get the museum archives logged in the system. The new program will make everything searchable by name and subject matter. Amazing, right?” he said, mistaking her smile as enthusiasm for the task at hand.

  He sat in the desk chair and pulled up a screen that was filled with fields for data. He explained that there were different sections for different types of artifacts; books and diaries were logged in one section, postcards and other documents in another section. There was one whole section for maps, one for furniture, another for portraits. “I don’t expect you to get this all done in one week or even one month,” he said. “But every day, just chip away at it. That’s how something gets accomplished.”

  Angus set a box of books and papers on the desk and left her to get to work.

  She waited a minute, checked to make sure he was gone, and then scurried over to the computer and found the internet browser. She clicked on it. No connection. She went to settings and searched for Wi-Fi networks, but there was nothing except locked accounts from nearby businesses. No way. It couldn’t be; even the whaling museum had Wi-Fi!

  “Oh my God.” The stretch of hours ahead of her seemed like a lifetime. She felt like the walls of the small office were moving even closer together.

  Fighting a sense of panic, her anxiety rising like a fever, she considered running to the hotel to beg her mom to just let her sit in the lobby until she got off work. But she hadn’t been to the hotel since Henry died. The sight of their usual spot at the couch would be too awful.

  Her heart began to pound. She felt trapped—trapped in that museum, trapped in that town. Trapped in her life.

  Palms sweating, she walked back to the main room of the house, where Angus was busy talking to visitors, a young family asking questions about an old map. Penny stood unnoticed in the corner, wondering what to do. There was no way to sneak past them.

  She looked up at the portrait of Dr. Edgar Miles. He seemed so stately, so tough. Like an army general, not like someone who spent all day turning plants into medicine. What was in those pills?

  And then she thought of one way to feel better. She slunk out of the room, hoping not to be noticed, then pulled her phone out of her pocket and texted Mindy: Do you have any more of those pills?

  Mindy texted back, You are bad!

  Penny responded, Is that a yes?

  Come over tonight, Mindy texted.

 
I can’t wait until tonight. Can you meet me at BuddhaBerry at noon? I will owe you big time, I know!

  Mindy wrote back that yes, she would meet her, and yes, Penny totally owed her. She used some emoticon that Penny’s outdated phone couldn’t translate.

  Penny typed back Thanks while an alarm bell sounded somewhere inside of her, just faint enough to ignore.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Across the hotel lobby, in Emma’s direct line of sight, a couple sat entwined on the couch. The man had a thick head of silver hair, a deep tan, and horn-rim glasses that made him look even more handsome and distinguished. The younger woman next to him, in a Tory Burch shift dress and strappy sandals, wore her blond hair in a high ponytail. She rested her head on the man’s shoulder. He reached for her hand, and the gesture almost made Emma gasp.

  She was starting to feel like she would never have a man in her life. It wasn’t something she thought about every day or every week. It wasn’t even something she was sure she wanted. There were just certain moments when it hit her, the same way thoughts about mortality or about paying for Penny’s college or about any of life’s other heavy and undeniable realities did.

  In the years since her divorce, there had been boyfriends. Like Eric McSweeney, who worked at the fire station. Eric was a good guy, a sweet guy. But he had a hard time dealing with Penny, who had been nine then and really a handful with her OCD. Eric was married now, to a woman who worked at the health-food shop on Bay Street. They had twins. Then there had been the banker from Manhattan who was only out on weekends and, Emma came to suspect, possibly married. There had been the occasional one-night stands, men she met at the hotel. She thought of those episodes as her weaker moments, and they always left her feeling depressed the next day. And really, it wasn’t the sex she missed. It was having a partner.

  When was the last time something good happened? Penny had asked her the other day. Well, it had been a while. But now, the house.