Page 9 of Drawing Home
In the morning, she left a terse message at his office. By noon, no one had returned her call, so she left another. And then, impatient and unable to lie around grieving any longer, she decided it was time to get to work.
Bea paced in front of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a sprawling green lawn. Her eyes fell on a sculpture on the back lawn, a twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot hollow steel cube. Part of the second phase of Henry Wyatt’s legendary career. First, the painting. Then sculpture. Then—the house.
He designed the house during a period when the two of them were, if not estranged, then certainly less connected than they had once been. For a few painful years, Bea had felt she was losing her biggest client and dearest friend.
She learned about the completion of Henry’s modern masterpiece of a house from a magazine. She heard rumors that he was designing a building, that he was painting, that the State of Texas had commissioned him to do a sculpture for a public square. None of it was true. None of it except for the great house.
She wanted to get him back to painting. She wanted to get him back to New York City. She wanted the two of them to be what they had once been.
The night of her first visit to Windsong, they sat on terrace lounge chairs, drinking wine and looking out at the bay. A far cry from their early days in the East Village cooking on a hot plate.
“I think your heart is still in painting,” she’d said.
He said no. His days of creating art were behind him. Looking forward, he wanted to turn the place into a museum someday. A permanent installation of his work. And he wanted her to be in charge of it.
The suggestion took her by surprise. She wasn’t ready to let go of the idea of Henry returning to Manhattan and re-creating the magic of the old days. After the visit, back in the city, she all but forgot about the Henry Wyatt Museum. There was plenty of time for that later. And then time ran out.
Bea sat down and called for Kyle.
“Send for my clothes in New York. Clear my calendar for the next six weeks. Postpone all my events until the fall. We need to catalog all the art in this house, and I want a list of the private collectors who have his work so we can buy some back.”
The sound of the front door clicking open and then closed startled them both.
“Are you expecting someone?” Kyle said.
“Certainly not!” Bea jumped up. “And the alarm was set.”
Bea rounded the table and peeked into the hallway, caught between irritation and fear. She turned and waved for Kyle to follow her, then put her finger to her lips in ashhgesture. Kyle nodded, then picked up a heavy, decorative ceramic plate from a table. To use as a weapon? Finally, some proactive thinking!
They crept along until they reached the entrance foyer, where Bea realized a weapon would not be needed after all.
A gray-haired man in a jacket and tie looked up, startled, clearly as surprised to see them as they were to see him. “Bea! What are you doing here?”
Bea squared her shoulders. “If you’d returned any of mymanyphone calls, Victor, you would know what I’m doing here.”
He sighed. “Bea, I’ve had my hands full.”
“Indeed. Let’s talk in the dining room,” Bea said briskly. “Kyle, put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
Victor did not move. “Bea, I’m sorry. I know this is a difficult time for you, but you cannot be here in this house.”
“Don’t be absurd, Victor. Where better for me to manage his estate than in the house with the work?”
Victor glanced at Kyle, then back at her. “Can we speak alone for a moment?”
Bea sighed impatiently but reminded herself that dealing with Victor was just a temporary annoyance and soon she’d officially take the reins.
“My assistant can hear whatever you have to say. He’s helping me catalog the estate. He’s more helpful than you at this point, Victor.”
“There’s nothing for you to catalog, Bea. You have no claim to Henry’s estate. He left it to another party.”
“Excuse me?” she said, although she had heard him perfectly well. She needed to stall, needed a moment to process the unthinkable. He repeated the noxious statement and she reached for the wall to steady herself. “That’s not possible!” Bea said. “There must be some mistake.”
“The probate process has been very thorough. I have it all here in black-and-white. You need to vacate the premises immediately.”
Emma had set the morning aside for pruning her rose garden.
She knew some people saw the annual task as a chore, but for her, any excuse to be down in the soil was welcome.
