Page 40 of Drawing Home
“You never have time for anything—ever.” Her eyes blazed with defiance.
“You’re right, Penny,” Emma said softly. “I don’t. Least of all myself. But you don’t see me complaining. Now, come on—enough with the attitude.”
“I’m sick of this place!” Penny said. “I don’t know why so many people come here. It’s so boring. How can you live here your whole life?”
Emma, shocked, pulled back like she’d been physically struck. She said the first thing that came into her mind. “I love it here.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Where was this coming from? “You need some perspective, Penny. I want you to do a good job today. When you act better, you’ll feel better. Trust me.”
It was good advice; Emma knew it was. And yet Penny rolled her eyes.She’ll come around,Emma told herself. Maybe she needed to follow her own advice. If she acted like Penny’s outlook was bound to improve, if she believed it to be true, things would take a turn for the better.
At least, she hoped they would. Beyond that, she didn’t know what more she could do.
Chapter Eighteen
Penny stared at the pile of old maps Angus had left for her to log in the computer system. It would take her hours and hours.
She was actually glad there was no window in the office. She didn’t want to be reminded that outside it was a perfect summer day. Regardless of what her mother said about the job not being a punishment, it felt like one, and that’s what mattered.
But today she was not alone in her exile; she had her new copy of the graphic novelAnya’s Ghostin her backpack. It had been published a few years ago but she’d asked Alexis at the bookstore to order it for her. She’d read online that Neil Gaiman had called it “a masterpiece,” so she’d added it to her must-read list. And from the description, it sounded like it definitely belonged in her preferred genre of misfit lit. Although, lately, Penny had to admit she didn’t feel so very much like a misfit.
She dug into her stuffed bag and pulled out her phone. It was ten in the morning. She wondered what Robin was doing, if she was even awake yet. She shot off a quick text and was surprised by the immediate response.
Heading to the beach soon. Wanna come?
What beach?
Coopers.
Coopers Beach was in Southampton, a half-hour drive. It was a really nice beach with a great snack bar.
How are you getting there?
Mateo’s brother’s driving us.
Did she dare?
There was one major obstacle to accepting this invitation: Angus. Penny would have to sneak past him. She knew that once she was out of the building, she would be in the clear because yesterday, after setting her up at the computer, he hadn’t checked on her again, and at one point, flying a little off the white pill, she’d abandoned her post in the office, wandered into the front room, and found Angus asleep in one of the antique rocking chairs.
So as long as she got out without him noticing, he’d never figure out she was gone. Later, around the time he’d start thinking about going to the back of the museum to get her, she’d text him that she’d just left to meet a friend on Main Street for dinner or something. As for her mother, she’d be at work until eight and would never know the difference.
Great! Pick me up in front of BuddhaBerry.
It was close to lunch when Chris ambled over from the bar and called Emma into the hallway.
All morning, she’d been plagued by an unsettled feeling. She tried to chalk it up to the conversation with Penny, but then Chris said, “A woman at the bar is asking a lot of questions about you.”
Her first thought was that Bea Winstead had returned, but Emma would have noticed her. No, this was something else.
“I think she’s a reporter,” Chris said. “And I have to let Jack know.”
She nodded, uncomfortable. Of course he had to. Jack was sensitive about press at the hotel. He took their clientele’s privacy very seriously, and he didn’t like reporters nosing around or taking photographs without his permission. Jack put a lot of effort into making the place feel casual and open, especially for the celebrity clients who wanted to just hang out and be part of the crowd.
Back at the front desk, Emma eyed the customers at the bar, trying to pick out the interloper. It wasn’t difficult; there were only three women, and two were regulars. The stranger appeared to be around her age, and, as if sensing Emma’s gaze, she turned and looked right at her.
Then the woman stood and made her way over to the front desk. “Emma Mapson?” she said.
