Page 113 of Drawing Home
“Angus—”
“It’s just very disappointing.” He looked up at her, and their eyes met. “I need for you to leave.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Bea woke before dawn and wandered the still house like a ghost.
For once, she took no pleasure in the quiet of the early hour. Days after the court hearing, she had never felt more alone. She moved from room to room, staring at the art, trying to find peace of mind standing in front of the relics of her past.
Back in the bedroom, sitting on Henry’s bed, she read and reread the memoir, seeking comfort in the images of their time together but finding even that somehow hollow.
She flipped to the back and checked the due date at the library. It was unthinkable that she would return it to be exiled to that records room. She decided she would make a sizable donation to the library, and certainly after that, they would overlook an unreturned book.
With that settled in her mind, she placed it on top of the pile of belongings she would begin to pack later that day and noticed Penny’s drawing poking out of the book where she’d stuck it.
She picked it up again, but an inconvenient thought suddenly struck her: As much as she wanted to keep the book for herself, she knew there was someone else who should see it. Maybe even someone else who should have it.
She lowered herself to the floor and pushed the bed frame to release the hidden drawer. She took a drawing pencil and a sheet of paper from one of the notepads and began writing.
Dear Emma:
I know I hurt you and your family with my actions and I wanted, in a small way, to try and give something back. I don’t know if you were aware that your father and Henry were friends. I made the connection myself only recently. He is remembered here, in this book by Henry. I thought you and Penny might like to have it.
Sincerely,
Bea
She wedged the note into the front of the book, then paced uncertainly in the room. She wanted to make the gesture, but she didn’t want to let the book go. She ultimately decided that it was more important to make the conciliatory gesture toward Emma than to keep the book. She hoped, desperately, to make things right.
Bea put on a linen pantsuit, her pearls, and a straw hat. It was always easier to face a difficult moment when one was well attired.
Again, she walked down the stairs, this time holding the book. The house was still quiet, but a quick look through the guest wing indicated that Emma had already left the house. Where could she have run off to so early? And then she thought about the flowers and realized she might be in the garden. The woman was always elbows-deep in dirt.
Outside, it was already humid. She swatted away a yellow jacket. All this nature was wearing on her. She spotted another Manhattan transplant over by the water—her former assistant waved at her from the bow of his little boat. She ignored him, but he shouted her name. Oh, for heaven’s sake. She looked around for Emma and, not finding her, figured she might as well see what on earth Kyle wanted.
“I’m not setting foot on that thing, so if you want to talk you’re going to have to get onto dry land,” she said from the dock, and she huffed impatiently while he disembarked.
“You went on the water taxi,” he said. He was tan; his hair was bleached shades lighter from the sun. He looked like a different person than the one who’d driven her out to the house two months ago.
“That man was a professional,” she said.
“Well, so am I.”
“You’re a professional what?”
He nodded toward the boat. “I restored this boat. I’m living on it. Other people in town are hiring me to work on their boats.”
“Well, good for you. So what can I do for you, Kyle? I’m quite busy.”
“You were out here anyway.”
“I’m looking for Emma.”
“I don’t think she wants to talk to you.”
“Don’t you start in on me too. I know it was not my finest hour, but I’ll fix it.”
He bent down to adjust a rope hanging off the dock. “I believe you will, Bea.”
