Page 121 of Drawing Home
“Oh, it’s not going to happen, my dear,” said Bea. Then, to Mark: “I’ve already told Emma—and I’ll say it again—I will pay any amount of money to bury you in court. You’ll owe so much to your lawyers if you keep fighting this that you’ll never recover. Unless Diane here is your plan B.” She turned back to Diane. “He already asked me for a large check this summer. I’m sure you’re next if he hasn’t hit you up for funds already.”
Diane nervously patted her hair and looked at Mark. “You said you were out here producing a play.”
“Babe, go inside. This doesn’t concern you.”
“It seems like it does,” Diane said, glancing at Bea.
“Don’t feel bad, my dear. All wealthy women are prey to desperate men. We just have to stick together.” She rested her hand on Diane’s shoulder.
After a long pause, Diane turned to Mark. “You need to leave.”
“Well, it seems we have a consensus,” Emma said. “And since this ismyhouse, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you—get out.”
“That’s your cue, buddy,” said Kyle, grabbing Mark by the arm and pulling him away from the house. “Time to say good-bye to Sag Harbor. The party is over.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Rows and rows of white folding chairs and a podium transformed Windsong’s living room into an event space, but there was no mistaking this had once been the home of an artist. A small crowd had gathered in front ofGreene Street, 1972,and they stood there as unmoving and silent as if they were standing in an exhibit room in the painting’s onetime home, the Guggenheim Museum. Witnessing this, Emma realized that acting as custodian of Henry Wyatt’s art was a tremendous responsibility. His decision with the house had been capricious, and perhaps not altogether rational. She had to concede that some of Bea’s disbelief and outrage had been justified.
Or maybe she was just emotional after the confrontation with Mark.
“I tried to warn you,” Bea said after Kyle had forced Mark from the premises. “That’s why I texted for you to come back to the house. I asked him to leave but I realized it was futile.”
“It wasn’t futile. You and Kyle made quite a team. Thank you.”
Once the crisis was over, Emma’s first thought was of Penny. Had she noticed the commotion? Had she even seen her father?
More guests filed into the room and took their seats. The front two rows were cordoned off, reserved for sponsors of the event. Emma looked around for Penny, hoping for the chance to talk to her before the auction began. She wondered if she had sneaked off to hide in her room, her anxiety triggered by the crowd.
But no. Emma spotted the unmistakable cascade of curls in the back of the room, just beyond the last row of chairs. Penny stood next to Joyce Carrier-Jones, her face tilted toward the older woman in rapt attention. Joyce held papers in front of her and pointed something out to Penny, who looked at it and nodded with a glowing expression on her face. What were they staring at so intently?
“Are you ready?” Cheryl Meister appeared by Emma’s side and pressed a sheet of paper into her hands. “Don’t forget these names. We have to thank the sponsors.”
“I have them all written down,” Emma said, pulling her notes out of her clutch.
“One more thing,” Cheryl said. “Remember to use the worddevastatingwhen talking about the fire. We need to rally these people to bid strong.”
“Okay, okay, I’ve got it.”
Diane strode over, reached out, and squeezed Emma’s forearm, spilling a quarter of her glass of champagne in the process. “The show must go on,” she said, slurring.
“Let’s find our seats,” Cheryl said, taking Diane by the elbow.
Emma stepped up to the lectern on the podium. It was slightly elevated, giving Emma a more complete view of the crowd. Servers made their way up and down the rows, filling and refilling wineglasses. After a few minutes, Emma knew the room had quieted as much as it was going to without her actually speaking.
“Welcome, everyone,” she said, leaning toward the microphone and resisting the temptation to ask,Can you hear me?The room settled into silence. All she heard was the rustling of the auction catalogs, the pop of a champagne cork. “Thank you all for being here in support of a very worthy cause, the rebuilding of our beloved Sag Harbor movie theater on Main Street. Since the…devastatingfire last December, the community has rallied with the creation of the Save the Cinema group. The most urgent goal is to purchase the lot where the cinema was originally built so that a chain store does not move in. Once we have secured the location, rebuilding can begin. The vision is to replicate the original facade, including the iconic Sag Harbor sign.”
She paused to accommodate the light clapping, glanced down at her index cards, then back at the crowd. She spotted Penny in the third row, sitting between Bea and Joyce Carrier-Jones. Her eyes met her daughter’s, and she saw something there she hadn’t seen in a long time: A spark. A happiness.
Emma swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She placed her notes facedown on the lectern. The events of the past few months rushed at her, a kaleidoscope in her mind. The shape of every moment suddenly looked different. It took her breath away.
The audience members watched her expectantly, shifting in their seats. Her pause exceeded any reasonable amount of time.
“Um, I’d like to take a moment to speak of this town’s other loss this year, a far greater one than that of a building, no matter how cherished. This past May, Sag Harbor lost longtime resident and legendary artist Henry Wyatt.”
The crowd stirred with murmurs and nods. She glanced at Bea, who leaned forward in her seat.
“As you know, we are gathered tonight in the house Henry Wyatt designed when he decided to become a full-time resident of this town. Henry, like some of you here tonight, discovered this town as a visitor. But ultimately, he became as much a part of this place as the people who were lucky enough to be born here. I used to see Henry Wyatt every day at The American Hotel, and for a long time I thought of him as a loner. I realize now he was not alone—he was a part of the larger family of Sag Harbor, his adopted town. Henry knew that the people and places you discover along the way in life can be as significant—sometimes more significant—than the family you’re born into.”
