Page 84 of Drawing Home
“She told you where she keeps them?” Angus said.
“No, not exactly.”
“Well, I don’t want to take it upon myself to guess. I can call her in the morning and find out. I’m sorry you wasted a trip over here. This will just have to wait until tomorrow.”
Bea put her hand on his arm. “Penny isn’t being cooperative. But if you can just show me to her bedroom, I’m sure I can find them.”
He looked at her in a way that was decidedly less congenial than seconds before. “I can’t do that, Bea.”
“Why on earth not? She’s just a child. This is an adult matter and she’s playing games. I can’t believe you want to be a party to that.”
“This is Emma’s house, Bea. I can’t let you go rooting around in it.”
“And Windsong should be my house, but no one seems to care about that!” she said. “Really, Angus. I thought we were…on friendly terms.”
“We are. And I’ve tried to stay neutral over this matter.”
“You’re not being neutral. You’re being an obstructionist.” She walked to the hallway and he blocked her path.
“Bea, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Penny watched Bea with intense focus. She was such a great subject with her big jewelry and even bigger attitude. Penny moved the pencil in long strokes to establish Bea’s body before attempting to sketch her facial features, willing herself not to give in to the voice in her head telling her the outline wasn’t right, that she should start over.
“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s not polite to stare?” Bea said, moving around the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinet doors like she was searching for something.
“Artists have to observe. Right?” Penny said.
Bea looked at her. She started to say something, then stopped.
The idea to try to finish the graphic novel she’d started with Henry last summer came to her in the middle of the night. It was as if Henry himself had sat on the edge of her bed and whispered,Do it!But earlier that morning, when she looked through her old sketches, they’d seemed really childish and not at all what she wanted to say anymore. She didn’t want to write about girls with superpowers. Now she had a real story to tell—the story of Henry, of the house, and of Bea Winstead trying to take it away.
“Young lady, just because you had the good fortune to meet the greatest artist of the past half century doesn’t makeyouan artist. You’re a child.”
Penny switched pencils. “Henry said he started drawing when he was six. He always knew he was an artist.”
“Indeed.” Bea sniffed.
Kyle walked in and Penny felt the dark cloud of Bea’s attention shift.
“Morning, Bea,” he said.
“What are you still doing here?”
Penny observed Kyle reaching for the coffee. How old was he? Maybe her mom’s age. Maybe younger? He wore a faded gray and blue T-shirt with a fire department logo on it and dark blue shorts. Penny would have to include him in her story too. She just wasn’t sure how, exactly, he fit into it. Kyle had come to town with Bea; he lived with her at the house. But Bea was yelling at him to get out.
“I slept on the boat last night. Technically, I’m not staying here. But frankly, I need coffee and I probably have about as much of a right to stand in this kitchen as you do.”
“Oh, so now you’re a lawyer? How dare you tell me what rights I do or don’t have?” She turned to Penny. “And that also goes for you and your mother!”
Penny looked down at her sketch pad and drew a dialogue bubble. She filled it withAnd that also goes for you and your mother!
Yes, Penny had an awesome story to tell.
She just had no idea how it was going to end.
Emma was tired. She’d stayed up far too late, but her exhaustion was a small price to pay for such a delightful night.
