Page 20 of Drawing Home
“I do not swim.”
“Well, now that we live here, you’ll have to learn.”
Emma smiled. And then she heard a noise from upstairs.
She was probably imagining it, or maybe the house was settling in a way she wasn’t used to. The house on Mount Misery made all sorts of creaks and groans that she hardly noticed anymore. A few strange noises were the least of what she’d have to get used to in this sprawling home.
Could she live in this kind of luxury? She didn’t know. Why not try? Maybe life didn’t always have to be a slog. Maybe sometimes good things did just happen.
Bea stood at the top of the stairs, her heart pounding.
Could the interlopers be moving in already? She supposed if they were con artists—and, really, what else could they be?—they were well prepared for their scheme to come to fruition. Well, they hadn’t factored one thing into their plan: her.
“We’re going to confront them,” she whispered to Kyle.
“Absolutely not. We’re not even supposed to be here.”
“What kind of attitude is that?” Bea descended the stairs slowly, holding the railing. She moved briskly through the central living space, following the sound of voices. There, in the dining room, she found three people standing side by side staring out at the pool.
“Excuse me,” Bea said, her voice gratifyingly steady.
The trio looked around, startled. Then it was Bea’s turn to be surprised. She knew that woman from somewhere. Her brain struggled to piece together discordant information, and finally the outrageous reality hit her: The American Hotel’s desk manager.“You?”she said. Bea turned to look at Kyle. He shook his head and walked out of the room. When the front door slammed shut, she barely registered the sound.
“I’m sorry. We didn’t expect anyone to be here today,” the woman said. A young girl with wild curls stood by her side, and next to her was a gray-haired, African-American man dressed in khaki pants, a collared shirt, and a lightweight sweater-vest. What connection could this odd bunch have to Henry?
“You’re staying at the hotel. Ms. Winstead, right?” the woman said.
The hotel, yes—now it made sense. Henry had spent a great deal of time in his final years sitting at that bar. He had drunk too much. He had said too much. This woman had wormed her way into Henry’s life just to take everything upon his death. Had he slept with her? At his age?
So. The situation was so simple, it was practically a cliché.
“Who are you?” Bea said.
“I’m Emma Mapson. This is my daughter, Penny, and—”
“What are youdoinghere?” Bea said, moving to lean against the table. She’d barely slept. She was exhausted. The stress of it all.
“I could ask the same of you, Ms. Winstead.”
The nerve! “This house belonged to my very dear, recently deceased friend Henry Wyatt.That’swhat I’m doing here. Now, since I knew Mr. Wyatt for fifty years and he never mentioned your name, I’d love to hear your excuse.”
“First, I’m sorry for your loss. Mr. Wyatt was a very nice man. My daughter here had come to know him pretty well the past year or so. He gave her drawing lessons.”
“Drawing lessons,” Bea said, spitting the words.
“Yes. And he was a regular at the bar.”
“None of that explains your presence in this house.”
The woman turned to her daughter and suggested she sit out on the deck with the older man who was with them. Bea looked around for Kyle. Where on earth had he run off to?
Emma Mapson suggested they sit; she pulled out a chair from the dining-room table and offered it to Bea. Bea wanted to refuse, to say she preferred to stand, but her hip was bothering her. It was the damn stairs at the hotel. She had enough pride, however, to choose her own seat.
Emma sat across from her. “The truth is, Ms. Winstead, I just learned yesterday that my daughter has inherited this house.”
“Inherited this house. An astonishing turn of fortune, wouldn’t you say?” Bea leaned forward, bracing herself with her elbows on the table.
“It’s come as a shock, yes.”
