Page 1 of Drawing Home
Chapter One
On summer weekends The American Hotel in Sag Harbor felt like the center of the universe. If you lived in town, you were stopping by for a drink, and if you were visiting, you wanted a spot in one of the eight guest rooms.
It was the Friday before Memorial Day, not officially summer but close enough. The Hampton Jitney stopped right in front of the hotel and unloaded a fresh batch of Manhattanites every hour.
Emma Mapson, a Sag Harbor native, had watched the summer crowds grow every year. She’d seen fancier restaurants open and higher-end boutiques decorate Main Street. But one thing that never changed was The American Hotel. The red-brick Colonial building looked and felt exactly as it had when Emma was a young girl, with the same antique wood furniture, nautical paintings, and Tiffany chandeliers. The lobby had the same well-worn couch and the same backgammon table where her father had taught her to play and where she, in turn, had taught her own daughter to play. It all seemed to say to her,Go ahead, live a little. At least, it used to feel that way.
“I have a problem with my room,” a woman said, approaching the front desk.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Emma said, glancing down at the handwritten reservation log and trying to figure out which guest she was talking to. “What’s the problem?”
“Everything!” the woman said. “I can’t find a single outlet for charging my phone. There’s no television, and there’s no closet.”
Emma arranged her face into a practiced, neutral expression. Too empathetic, and it was like she was admitting there was a problem; too quizzical, and the guest felt even more provoked. Best to look simply blank.
“What’s your last name, ma’am?” Emma asked.
“Stoward.” She spelled it slowly, as if Emma were barely familiar with the alphabet. Emma flipped through the reservation ledger and found the woman was booked in the Cooper Room. True, there was no television in that room—or in any of the rooms. And although technically there wasn’t a closet, the room did feature a large antique armoire. She had no idea why the woman couldn’t find the outlets.
“Mrs. Stoward, I’ll—” Emma looked up and caught a glimpse of a familiar mop of curly dark hair across the lobby.
The American Hotel’s front desk provided the best people-watching in town. Emma never knew who might be sitting on the sofa, which offered views of Main Street on one side and the hotel’s always-full bar on the other; she might look up and see the town dockmaster, a tourist from the Midwest, a celebrity chef, or Billy Joel, a local. But she was happiest when the person planted in that coveted spot was the one she saw now, her fourteen-year-old daughter, Penny.
Penny’s thin frame was hunched over her drawing pad, as always. Emma couldn’t see her face because it was hidden by hair. Oh, that hair. When Penny was a toddler, people had stopped Emma in the street to comment on her daughter’s curls. Emma watched her now, willing her to glance up. She could always tell from Penny’s eyes—big and dark and so unlike her own—whether or not she was in a decent mood. Emma didn’t know if it was Penny’s age or just Penny, but the mood roller coaster was something to be reckoned with.
Emma smiled at the hotel guest standing before her. “I’ll be up to your room in a minute to see what I can do,” she said, buying herself some time to find out why Penny had left school so early. When the woman was out of sight, Emma slipped out from behind the desk.
Penny, busy rummaging through her book bag, didn’t notice her.
“Hi, hon,” Emma said. “What are you doing out of school?”
Penny looked up, pushing her curls out of her face.
“It’s a half day. You know, ’cause of the holiday weekend.”
Of course. “Right! I forgot.” She leaned down to wrap her arms around her but Penny wriggled away. Emma straightened up, trying not to feel rejected. “Okay. So what’s your plan?”
“I’m going to hang out with Mr. Wyatt. But I need to buy a book first.” She gave Emma her puppy-dog-eyedI need moneylook.
Emma sighed. “Can’t you borrow it from the library?”
“They don’t have it yet and I really want to show it to Mr. Wyatt today.”
Emma turned to look at the corner of the bar where the old man, a world-renowned artist and her daughter’s unlikely pal, could always be found in the late afternoon. “Don’t bother Mr. Wyatt right now. He’s talking to someone.” She walked Penny to the front desk and handed her a twenty. Her daughter leaned over and gave her a quick kiss.
“I guess now I know the price of a little public affection,” Emma said.
Penny rolled her eyes on her way out the door.
Emma answered the ringing house phone, booked a room reservation, and then walked up the stairs to the second floor to see what she could do to placate the complaining guest.
“Finally,” Mrs. Stoward said when she opened the door. She was not alone in the room. Emma spotted a man—Mr. Stoward?—seated on the edge of one of the twin brass beds. He was busy tapping away at his phone and didn’t bother looking up.
“See what I mean?” Mrs. Stoward waved her arm as if to sayLook at this disaster.
Emma glanced around, taking in the antique full-length mirror, the red-and-gold-striped couch, and a set of Dominy chairs. The room also featured a beautiful armoire that could hold a full wardrobe.
It made her crazy when summer people didn’t fully appreciate the charm of the hotel. The building dated back to 1843 and yet guests expected it to feel like the Four Seasons. And they never had any sense of the village’s history. They didn’t care that it had been a whaling port, a writers’ colony, a historic African-American community, a stop on the Underground Railroad. Did they know that John Steinbeck had called Sag Harbor home? No; all they wanted was restaurant recommendations.
