Page 21 of Drawing Home
“Oh, save it! A shock? You expect me—you expect anyone—to believe you weren’t a party to this? That you didn’t actively scheme to get Henry Wyatt’s estate?”
The woman shook her head. “I understand you’re upset. You’ve suffered a loss. But I had nothing to do with this house situation.”
“I don’t believe you. Not for one minute. And I’m not leaving town until I get to the bottom of this. Just so you know, I’ve gone through all the art that is in this house. If any of it goes missing, I will see you in court.”
It took some effort to stand up without shaking. She was more upset than she had realized, and it required all the strength she could muster just to maintain the illusion of calm and control as she walked away.
Now if she could just find Kyle.
Chapter Nine
Penny hadn’t wanted to leave Henry’s house. It was beyond beautiful, perfect in all the ways she’d expect a house that Henry had lived in would be. She saw him everywhere in the smooth pale wood and the stone and the massive windows. So much natural light! Henry was all about good light.
The best part was the pool. It was so narrow and smooth, it looked like a sliver of sky. It seemed like something designed for people to admire, not swim in. But she wanted to swim in it. And Henry must have wanted her to swim in it, because for some amazing reason he’d left the house to her. Finally, finally, something in her life was good. Something was special.
But then the old lady in the tweed jacket and giant pearls showed up.
Penny didn’t know what the old lady said to upset her mother but as soon as the two of them were done talking, her mother made Penny get back in the car and they left Henry’s house.
“Who was that?” she’d asked her mom in the car.
“She said she was an old friend of Henry’s.”
“Is she angry that he left us the house?”
“That appears to be the case.”
End of conversation. Now, alone in her bedroom, Penny opened the hutch under her desk, pulled out her drawing board and paper, and carried the supplies to her bed. She rested the drawing board on her lap, ran her hand over the surface. For the first time since hearing about Henry’s death, she had the urge to draw.
The board was one of the first art supplies Henry had given her. He’d gotten it for her after he’d found her sitting on the hotel-lobby couch and sketching on a piece of paper resting on her crossed legs.
“We create the lights and darks in drawing by varying the pressure applied to the pencil, right?” he’d said, looming over her. “So we need an even, hard surface underneath the paper.”
The next day, her mother came home from work with the drawing board. “A little something from your art fairy godfather,” she said with a smile. A week later, her mother came back with graphite pencils in 4H, HB, and 4B. She’d made Penny write a thank-you note.
“I don’t have his address,” Penny said.
“Just hand it to him the next time you see him.”
Penny dutifully wrote the note and sealed it in an envelope. A few days later, when she was sitting in the lobby doing her homework, he ambled in and took his usual spot at the end of the bar. She felt awkward going up to him, but he’d seen her—acknowledged her with a little wave—so there was no avoiding it.
“Thank you so much for the pencils. I love them,” she said, handing him the note.
“What’s this?” he said.
“A thank-you note.”
“But you just thanked me.”
Penny felt herself turn red.
Henry placed the envelope on the bar. “I considered adding an eight B to your collection—the eight B creates wonderful darks. But I suspect you won’t keep up with the sharpening maintenance.”
A few months ago, he had presented her with a pack of 8Bs.
Penny bit her lip, fighting tears. Dr. Wang had told her she needed to learn the difference between things to really be upset about and things that were just getting caught in a loop in her mind. Was this one of those things? She didn’t know.
She’d told Henry once about what Dr. Wang said, that she shouldn’t think about what was bothering her over and over and over again, that she needed to let such worries float away. Henry didn’t look up from his drawing but said after a minute or so, “Do you know what happens when an irritant works its way into an oyster? As a defense mechanism, the oyster coats it with fluid, layer after layer. Over and over and over again. And in the end, a beautiful pearl is formed.”
