Page 119 of Drawing Home
“Nice to meet you,” Emma said, glancing at Bea.
“Your daughter is quite a talent,” said Joyce. “Is she here?”
“She’s around somewhere,” Emma said.
The doorbell sounded again.
“Emma, perhaps show Joyce to the living room on your way out? I’ll see you in a bit,” Bea said.
She could see the wariness in Emma’s expression, as if she thought Bea was somehow trying to manipulate the two of them into getting to know each other. Really, when would that woman stop thinking the worst of her?
Bea headed to the front hall to welcome the new arrivals, and in an instant Emma’s feelings about Joyce Carrier-Jones became the least of her concerns.
“Diane,” Bea said, frozen in the doorway. Diane was not alone.
Diane was with Mark Mapson.
“Bea!” Diane said, air-kissing her on each cheek. “Can you believe the big night is finally here?”
“I believe it,” Bea said, glaring at Mark. Diane attempted to make an introduction, but Bea cut her off and asked her to check on the tables in the tent. “I told the caterers they were too close together but I haven’t seen the rearrangement.”
Bea grabbed Mark by the arm before he could walk off with Diane. “Not so fast,” she whispered.
“Bea,” he said. “Do you really want to make a scene at your own party?”
“I’m not making a scene. But I would like to know what you’re doing here.”
“Obviously, I’m a guest of Diane’s,” he said smugly. “And I’d like to see my daughter.”
“Don’t play the father card with me,” Bea said. “That’s a bit tired, wouldn’t you agree?”
Mark yanked his arm free of her grip and walked away.
Oh, this was not good. She had to warn Emma. And Emma might need backup. She sent off a text to Kyle.
The tented lawn was festooned with paper lanterns and aglow with hundreds of votive candles. Inside the entrance, Chris’s martini bar was ready for service. Jack Blake sat at the end with a drink in one hand and a cigar in the other. He waved for Emma to join him. “There she is! The woman of the hour. Great job, Emma. This evening came together beautifully.”
“The usual?” Chris asked Emma, tossing ice into a shaker.
“I shouldn’t,” she said. “I have to introduce the auction soon, and public speaking isn’t exactly my thing.” But she could already taste the brine of her dirty martini. “Okay—but make it weak.” She’d have just a few sips.
“A weak martini? Blasphemy,” Chris said. “This high-class living is making you soft.”
“Yeah, right.” She slid onto the stool next to Jack, looking around at the catering staff setting up the food stations. “Excuse me one minute.”
She checked in with the woman directing the food service to make certain she knew that the guests wouldn’t be arriving at the tent until the auction was finished. She didn’t want the warm appetizers heated up or the cold ones set out too early.
When she returned to the bar, Jack said, “This new life seems to suit you.”
“What new life?”
“This house. This party. Cheryl said the whole thing looks like it’ll go off without a hitch…it’s like you’ve planned a million fund-raisers.”
“I can’t take that much credit,” Emma said. “Bea Winstead did a lot.”
“Don’t be modest.”
His praise emboldened her. “Jack, the truth is, this whole scene isn’t me. Of course, the house is spectacular. And I’m glad the night is turning out okay. I hope it raises a lot of money for the theater. But if I had my way, instead of spending this past month debating whether or not we need lanternsandcandles or the merit of crab cakes over shot glasses of lobster bisque for the passed hors d’oeuvres, I would rather have spent it behind your front desk.”
