Page 87 of Drawing Home
Chapter Thirty-Six
Angus was so self-righteous! Refusing to show her the girl’s collection of Henry’s drawings, putting a damper on Emma’s impulse to return the house to her, its rightful custodian.
Oh, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, that’s what he was. And he was a wolf sitting in the middle of her kitchen.
“Am I supposed to feed you now? This isn’t an inn,” she said, chopping kale on a cutting board. “All evidence to the contrary.”
“Of course not. I’m just collecting my thoughts. This is very upsetting, obviously.”
“I’m not offering counseling services either.”
Though at that point, she had to admit that she wouldn’t have minded some therapy for herself. She was still grappling with the discovery that the hotel bartender from all those years ago—the man who had dazzled Henry with his talk of fishing and living off the sea—was Emma Mapson’s father. She chose to view this as an insignificant detail. Henry simply would not have left his entire estate to the granddaughter of a man he had befriended briefly forty years ago. The odd thing was that Emma had never mentioned this connection. Was it possible she didn’t know? If so, Bea certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell her.
“Please don’t be cross with me,” Angus said. “I’m not trying to antagonize you and I wasn’t trying to last night either. But Emma’s like family and I have to look out for her.”
Bea wondered what it would be like to have someone that devoted to her. Kyle had been ready to hightail it out of town without so much as a word to her. She didn’t have a spouse, didn’t have family. Not even someone “like” family, as Angus put it. Her sense of being alone in the world suddenly felt as sharp as the knife she was holding.
And if Angus knew that she had allied herself with the ex-husband—had in fact bankrolled today’s calamity—he would not be speaking to her. She shook away the pang of guilt. She was fighting for the future of her lifelong friend’s artistic legacy. It was not her job to look out for the woman who was taking it away! Still, seeing Angus’s ashen, concerned face made her feel bad.
“Well, in that case, I suppose you might as well stay for lunch. I’m making a kale salad with red cabbage and mango.”
Angus shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m a carnivore.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And I’m sure you have the cholesterol levels to prove it.”
He laughed. “Did you invite me to stay so you can punish me?”
“Don’t be silly. I would never consider my company a punishment for anyone.”
She turned her focus back to the counter and mixed the sesame dressing, smiling.
The adults in her life had officially gone crazy.
Penny washed her hands in her bathroom—she loved having her own bathroom—and started counting to sixty. But then, midway, she was able to stop herself. The more time she wasted in the bathroom, the less time she had to work on her book. And she really wanted to get another panel drawn before it was time to go to sleep.
Today’s drama had given her another great scene to add, even though she didn’t entirely understand what it had all been about.
She’d caught a little of what they were discussing in the living room but not enough to really make sense of it. Her mother was upset, maybe because her father was back in town and trying to be more involved in her life. But why would they have a whole group conversation about that? Whatever the reason, seeing her mother and Angus and Kyle sitting there like some sort of assembly of the Justice League talking to Bea was really bizarre. The Justice League didn’t have joint meetings with its enemies. Wonder Woman didn’t sit down for coffee with Lex Luthor.
Wasn’t one of the Justice League’s archenemies named Queen Bee?
Queen Bea. Ha!
Penny climbed back onto her bed and pulled the drawing board into her lap. She felt bad that her mother was upset, but if her mother wouldn’t tell her what was happening, then Penny couldn’t help. Really, Penny couldn’t do much of anything except (a) try to boss back her OCD, (b) stay out of trouble (easier to do now that she was on crutches), and (c) draw.Someday you will find your own superpower.
Two summers ago, when she’d first started spending time with Henry, he’d told her that although the world was a place of chaos and disorder, artists could impose order within the confines of their work. He said when he was painting or creating a sculpture, his mind was completely blank.
“It’s important to be able to find that kind of quiet in your life,” he said.
“My life is already quiet. Too quiet!”
“You feel that way now, but someday, you’ll look back at this simple time and miss it terribly.”
She doubted that.
“When you’re young, your life, your perspective, has only one direction—forward, toward the future. But when you’re old, you also have the past.”
“But you don’t move toward the past. The past is over.”
