Page 28 of Drawing Home
“So, I just wanted to discuss the elephant in the room, so to speak,” Jack said.
She looked at him, confused. “Okay,” she said nervously.
“The house,” he prompted.
The house? “Oh, yes.The house. I guess Chris mentioned it to you?”
He looked at her strangely. “Emma, it’s in theSag Harbor Express.”
She was surprised, but then she realized she shouldn’t be. It was enough of a local-interest story, she supposed. And real estate was always covered in the town papers. After all, that’s how she’d learned about the sale of Richard Gere’s house last summer. Amazing how the topic that used to be fun to gossip about was suddenly not so fun. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. This all just happened so suddenly. I’m still processing it.”
Jack held up one hand. “You don’t owe me any explanations. I just wanted to know if this would affect your work schedule in any way. Obviously, this is a dramatic change in your circumstances. I don’t want any last-minute surprises with the summer season starting. I need all hands on deck.”
“Oh, nothing will change, Jack. I will be here, ready to work.”
He smiled. “Well, I’m happy to hear that, Emma.”
She couldn’t imagine quitting her job. Aside from the financial necessity of working here, the hotel was really Emma’s touchstone. She treasured the fact that she worked at the same place where her father had worked until the day he died. Every day she looked at the same bar he’d tended, the same couch they’d sat on together, the same backgammon set they’d played. No, she could inherit a dozen houses, and she wouldn’t change a thing about her work.
Back at the front desk, she e-mailed the reservation confirmations and made a note for the head of housekeeping that the L’Occitane bath products needed to be restocked upstairs.
“Are you Emma?” a blond, fit, forty-something woman sitting on the couch called out. She wore a white blouse knotted at her waist and black yoga pants.
“Yes, I am,” Emma said.
The woman waved her over. Emma reluctantly left the desk. She always felt better with a barrier between herself and a person who might be about to start aggressively complaining. But this woman looked pleasant enough.
“I’m Cheryl Meister,” she said, holding out her hand to shake Emma’s. “I’m heading up the art-auction committee for the Sag Harbor Cinema fund-raiser.”
“Oh, yes. Nice to meet you. You have a large party with us for lunch today, correct?”
“Yes, it’s the committee. Do you have a moment to sit?”
Emma eyed the desk. “Sure. Just for a minute.”
The woman moved over, making space for Emma on the couch. Across the room, Chris gave her a look, and she shrugged.
“Emma, I don’t mean to intrude, but I heard all about your extraordinary circumstances of late,” Cheryl said. “I know it’s asking a lot, but I also know you are a town native and surely you care as much about restoring Main Street as any of us on the fund-raising committee, maybe more. If there is any way you can donate a piece of work from the Henry Wyatt estate, it would mean the world. Henry was such a beloved figure here and I imagine he would want to contribute to the effort.”
Emma didn’t know how to respond. The truth was that the art wasn’t hers to give away—it belonged to her daughter. But that wasn’t the point, and it wasn’t this woman’s business.
“You’re right,” she said slowly. “Mr. Wyatt would want to support the rebuilding of the theater. And, of course, I want to also. But it’s too soon for me to make decisions about specific pieces of art. I hope you can understand.”
Cheryl nodded, placing a manicured and bejeweled hand on Emma’s arm. “I do. Absolutely. But as you sort it all out, please keep us in mind.”
Then, as if struck by something obvious, she added, “You and your daughter should come to my house sometime. I have twelve-year-old twins.”
“Oh, that’s very generous of you. I’d like that.” Emma couldn’t think of anything that would be more awkward.
“And while you’re figuring out the art situation, there are definitely other ways you can help. The committee meets Tuesdays at my house. I’ll give you my address before I leave.” She stood, smiled, and said with a wink, “I’m going to have one of Chris’s famous martinis before the other ladies get here.”
Emma watched her walk to the bar, feeling momentarily disconnected from her life. One minute she was logging a bulk order of bath products, the next she was being invited to lunch with a wealthy weekender.
So much for her promise to Jack that nothing would change.
Chapter Twelve
Bea’s seat at The American Hotel bar gave her an unfortunate view of Emma Mapson manning the front desk. Bea tried not to look in her direction, but she couldn’t help sneaking curious glances. The woman was very pretty, and not in the brash, obvious way that was usual these days. She had a throwback kind of daintiness, a sweet Audrey Hepburn quality. Clearly, looks could be deceiving. The woman was a snake.
