Page 85 of Drawing Home
The impromptu pool party had lasted well into the early hours of the morning. After she lost the first lap race, Kyle climbed out of the pool and mixed them both whiskey sours at Henry Wyatt’s amply stocked bar.
They drank standing chest-deep in the pool, talking until Emma realized she’d be useless in the morning if she didn’t get some sleep.
Yet why couldn’t she let herself be useless for one day? Penny didn’t have any appointments, and there was no job for Emma to get to. Yes, at some point she needed to start looking for one, but she wasn’t ready to let go of her old job. The American Hotel was more than just a paycheck to her, always had been. There had to be a way to regain Jack’s confidence, to prove to him she was still the reliable person he’d hired a dozen years earlier. When she’d told Sean about getting fired, he’d said Jack was loyal but he also got spooked easily. “You have to remember, the hotel always comes first.”
There was nothing she could do immediately, and while it frustrated her, it forced her to think about what she could fix. For one thing, if they were going to live at Windsong for the foreseeable future, she needed a way to make it feel more like a home. She needed to put her stamp on it, and there was only one way she could think of to do that.
Outside, she stepped off the stone path leading to the pool and walked around the back lawn. The area was meticulously landscaped, with low-growing perennials and a bunch of blue-rug juniper—probably for deer control—surrounding a few blockish metal sculptures. She would have to carefully consider where a rose garden would fit in; she didn’t want to ruin the balance of Henry’s strong aesthetic. She was concerned, too, about the ground. This close to the beach, the soil would be sandier than what she was used to working with on Mount Misery. Sandy soil would drain before the roots of her roses could get hydrated.
“Emma?”
She turned, cupping her hands over her eyes and squinting against the late-morning sun. Kyle stood on the front walk, waving her over. The sight of him made her stomach jump in a funny way—a way she hadn’t felt in a very long time. Was this a good thing? Bad? Maybe best not to overthink it.
“Hey,” she said, going over to him. “How was your first night on the boat?”
“Slept like a baby. You?”
“I was a little restless.”
They stared at each other for what felt like a long time before he glanced back at the house. “There’s someone for you at the front door.”
“Really? Who?”
“A man who seems very businesslike.”
Who could it be? She wouldn’t be surprised if it was Henry Wyatt’s lawyer telling her there’d been a mistake after all.
The layout of Windsong made it quicker to reach the front door by walking through the house rather than around it. A quick peek out the window told her it was not Henry Wyatt’s lawyer. She opened the door warily.
“Are you Emma Mapson?” the man said.
“Yes. How can I help you?”
He handed her a manila envelope and walked away. Strange. Closing the door, she examined the package. A stamp in the upper left corner readCOUNTY CLERK’S OFFICE, SUFFOLK COUNTY.
Emma ripped open the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of papers. At the top of the first page were the wordsPetition to Modify Custody Order.She leaned against the door, heart pounding, reading as quickly as possible as she tried to absorb the information. It didn’t make sense. She read and reread the wordsPetitioner: Mark MapsonandDefendant: Emma Mapson.It named the judge who had granted her sole physical custody of Penny thirteen years earlier. And then a paragraph detailing whythe best interests of the child(ren) will be served by the court in modifying the order.There was technical wording likematerial change of circumstancesandchild endangerment.
Petitioner requests that the order be changed to provide as follows: Mark Mapson shall have sole legal custody of his minor child, Penelope Bay Mapson.
She must have let out a scream or a cry because Kyle came running from the other room, asking what was wrong. Shaking, she handed him the first page.
“Bastard,” he muttered.
Emma started sobbing.
“I’m going to call Angus. Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay.”
He put his arm around her and guided her to the living room. The space, with its skylight, a stone fireplace, and an entire wall of glass, usually felt very serene. It had a large Wyatt painting dominating one wall and a white oak floor, and at the foot of the couch there was a shag area rug and a set of floating bookshelves filled with hardcovers. But her anxiety level was so high, she might as well have been sitting in the middle of a four-lane highway.
“This can’t be happening,” she said. Kyle sat next to her. Mercifully, he didn’t try to talk her out of being upset. He just let her sob quietly. She tried to pull it together but every time she calmed down for a second, the wording of the petition hit her fresh:Material change of circumstance. Nonsupervision. Unstable home environment. Failure to follow the medical advice of mental-health professionals.
Bea walked into the room.
“So is this how it is? Everyone’s just sitting around this house all day, living the life of leisure? Must be nice!”
“Bea, not now,” Kyle said.
Undeterred, Bea sat in one of the structured chairs next to the asymmetric coffee table.
