Page 118 of Drawing Home
“You were right,” she’d said. Could a mother ask for any more than those three little words?
Emma’s dress was a white silk sheath that she’d splurged on at Calypso. She still wasn’t entirely comfortable with her role as hostess for the evening but she had to get comfortable with it—fast. In an hour, one hundred and fifty guests were arriving for the auction via Cole Hopkins’s yacht.
She was thankful she’d agreed to let Bea stay the extra week. With her cantankerous but super-organized housemate running the show, Emma didn’t have to worry about the caterers, the tent constructed on the back lawn for the post-auction cocktail hour, the valet parkers for guests arriving by car, or the auctioneer and his staff. The only person she would be directly overseeing for the night was Chris, who’d agreed to work the pop-up martini bar. It had been Emma’s idea.
“We’re raising money to rebuild a Sag Harbor institution. I want the party to have the flavor of another town institution. The American Hotel martini bar will remind everyone what’s at stake if we don’t preserve the spirit of Main Street,” she’d told Jack when she pitched him the idea.
She’d summoned the nerve to approach him after the Fourth of July, when he’d invited her into the hotel for a drink—a peace offering. And once Jack got involved, he was a great addition to the project. But midway through a logistics meeting that included Bea, Chris pulled Emma aside and said, “I cannot deal with that woman.” She’d promised that if he would work the party, he wouldn’t have to take orders from Bea.
Aside from making sure Chris was set up and had everything he needed, all Emma really had to worry about was her speech opening the evening. When was the last time she’d spoken in public? Maybe high school. She vaguely recalled a presentation in social studies class and the jitters she’d had beforehand followed by the thought that it was a waste of time—she’d never have to do this in real life. Now there she was.
She opened her small evening bag and slipped the notes for her speech inside. “Okay, I think it’s almost showtime. Are you ready?” she said to Penny, who had closed herself in the bathroom with the water running. Emma sighed and knocked on the door. “Are you washing your hands?”
“No,” Penny said, the water still running.
“Penny, open up.”
The water was turned off and Penny cracked the door open. Emma glanced down at her wet hands.
“Why are you nervous?” Emma said.
Penny shrugged. “Who am I going to talk to all night? I’m bad at parties.”
“Penny, don’t overthink, okay? Just try to have fun. And I’m going to do the same.”
The air felt different in the hour just before the start of a party. There was a frisson, a tension. It was as if the molecules themselves changed.
Bea felt truly in her element for the first time all summer. She couldn’t remember when she had gone this long without playing hostess forsomething.She’d almost forgotten the particular thrill of anticipation that drove her from room to room, checking every last detail.
Everything was coming together beautifully, except—
“Not this again!” Stemless wineglasses. Clearly, the new scourge of civilized society.
She complained to the catering director, who not only seemed unmoved by her distress but was clearly not inclined to replace hundreds of glasses as guests were arriving.
“I just don’t understand why it’s so difficult for things to be done the proper way,” Bea huffed to an audience of no one.
The doorbell rang, and since the committee member who had been tasked to act as official greeter for people arriving by car had not yet arrived, Bea took it upon herself to answer the bell.
“Bea! It’s a miracle I made it on time. The traffic from the city was a nightmare. I should have stayed over last night.” Joyce Carrier-Jones swept in wearing an amethyst-colored, embroidered kimono-inspired dress, her wrists decorated with bright bangles.
“Well, you’re not just on time, you’re early. Come in. Have a glass of wine.”
She flagged down a server in the living room and took two glasses of champagne from a tray that was headed outside. Most of the guests would be arriving by boat, a plan that proved to be more trouble than it was probably worth. Cole Hopkins’s dinner yacht was too large to pull up to the existing dock, so Kyle and Sean had rigged a floating dock to connect to the boat’s gangway. Bea tried not to envision the entire thing collapsing, the bay filled with women and men swimming to shore in their cocktail dresses and dinner jackets.
“Bea, forgive me,” Joyce said, “but I have to ask again about the girl. I can’t stop thinking about her work. Any luck talking to the mother?”
“Unfortunately, she isn’t interested.” Bea looked around the room. “Not another word because her mother is right over there. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
Emma looked beautiful, her auburn hair swept into a loose knot at the nape of her neck, her trim figure accentuated by the lines of her chic little dress. Really, it was a shame Emma’s generation didn’t take the time to dress more during the day.
“Oh, Bea. I was looking for you. I’m going to head to the dock to make sure Sean and Kyle have everything under control.”
“My dear, why don’t you just text Kyle instead of traipsing all the way down there?” Bea knew why; she no doubt wanted an excuse to see him before the party started. Did Emma think their budding romance had gone unnoticed?
“I tried but he didn’t answer. It’s fine. I have plenty of time before the guests make their way up to the house.”
“Emma, this is Joyce Carrier-Jones of the Franklin School of Fine Arts.”
