Page 48 of Drawing Home
“So, as you know, the majority of the fund-raiser events will take place under the tent on Long Wharf. I had hoped to find a way to include the art auction at this location, but for insurance purposes, we cannot have it on the water.”
The guests all murmured their disappointment.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but I’m sure this group can come up with an exciting alternative. And in the meantime, to incorporate our beautiful bay into the evening, I’d like to suggest chartering a yacht to transport guests to our venue, if that’s feasible. Ideally, we will find a property right on the water.”
Was Emma imagining things or had Diane directed that last comment at her? Maybe she was supposed to jump in and offer to do something constructive.
“I can talk to someone at the marina about getting a boat for the event,” Emma said.
“Excellent,” Diane said. “But again, before we can commit to that, we really need to nail down the venue.”
The table erupted in conversation. Various restaurants and museums were floated as possibilities. Diane and Cheryl dismissed them one by one: Unavailable. Too small. Boring.
And then: “I have the perfect place!” Cheryl said, clapping her hands. “Where better to hold an art auction than at the home of Sag Harbor’s most famous artist?”
This time, Emma knew she wasn’t imagining it; the comment was directed at her. Everyone turned toward her. She was sure there was a deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face. “Oh, I don’t know…”
“Brilliant idea!” said Diane. And from the way she and Cheryl looked at each other, Emma could see that this had been discussed—and no doubt decided on—before she had even walked in the door. “Emma, I know it’s a lot of work,” Diane continued, “but Cheryl and I are here to do the heavy lifting. It would be a huge draw and bring in that much more for this cause.”
Emma’s gut response, given her cautious, protective nature, was to say no. But then she thought about Penny wanting to spend more time at the house, and she thought about Bea Winstead laying claim to it. It was time for Emma to stop being so hesitant, so apologetic, about the good fortune that had come their way. She had to just step up and own it. Maybe Penny would want to help out with the auction—it could be something for the two of them to bond over.
“Okay,” Emma said. “I’m in.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
As soon as Bea saw the town library, a stately Classical Revival building just steps from Main Street, she felt heartened. If the John Jermain Memorial Library did, in fact, house some of Henry’s drawings—as Angus had suggested yesterday—at least they had a distinguished home.
At the circulation desk, Bea found a young woman with cascading strawberry-blond hair and thick bangs.
“Excuse me,” Bea said. “It’s my understanding that this library is holding some original Henry Wyatt drawings.”
“Drawings?” the young woman repeated.
“Yes,” said Bea. “Are you the librarian?”
“I’m the assistant librarian.” She tapped something into her computer. “I’m not sure about the drawings. Let’s check the archives room. It’s upstairs.”
Bea followed her up a winding marble staircase to a third-floor rotunda, an impressive space with a sixty-foot-high domed ceiling of herringbone brick and stained glass. The room had wall-to-wall red carpeting, arched pediments, Tiffany lamps, and carved wood furniture. It was tranquil and elegant, and Bea decided that some things in that town weren’t half bad.
The librarian led her across the expanse of red carpet, past the tables and desks, and through an opening framed by pillars. A stained-glass window dominated the room, which had little furniture, just some wooden shelves filled with books and several oversize editions stacked in piles. In the far corner stood a floor-to-ceiling metal filing cabinet. The librarian unlocked it and, after a few minutes of searching, pulled out papers protected by plastic sleeves.
“These are filed under Henry Wyatt,” the woman said, passing them to her. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
Bea’s hands shook as she took them.
“You can only view them up here in the reading room. They cannot be checked out,” the librarian said.
Bea bristled at being told what she could or could not do with Henry’s work. But he had indeed left them in the stewardship of this town, so what choice did she have?
She waited until the woman retreated down the stairs before carefully reaching inside the plastic. Holding the new drawings was different than simply spotting them on the wall. It felt intimate, like a final communication between them.
The first drawing was a self-portrait of Henry playing the guitar. He appeared to be roughly in his thirties in the sketch, and the sight of the young Henry at the height of his career gave her a pang. With her forefinger, she traced the arc of his cheekbone, the stretch of his refined neck. Somehow, his drawings were more immediate and intimate than photographs. The mark of a great artist was the ability to make something more visceral and real than reality.
How, oh, how could he be gone?
After a long while, she flipped to the next sheet of paper to find her own face etched in lines of black and gray. She was young in the drawing, and Henry had been kind. It was the best version of her, almost pretty. And yet her expression was tense, her posture defensive. A memory began to take shape.
If there was any doubt in Bea’s mind about the context of the first two drawings, the next sketch erased it. It was an old barn. These pictures all stemmed from the same night, one of the more uncomfortable moments in their long friendship. She’d all but forgotten about it, and she’d thought Henry had as well—until he named his house Windsong. Even then, she’d told herself it was a coincidence, that there was no subtext. Now she wasn’t so sure.
