Page 91 of Drawing Home
Emma nodded. “I get it.”
Andrew ran through a few more things, then said, “And how long have you two been together? I only ask because sometimes the issue of a significant other comes into play.”
“We’re just friends,” Emma said quickly, nervously adding, “I don’t have time to date. I haven’t had a…significant other in years. Certainly no one who has had anything to do with Penny.” For once, her pathetic personal life felt like a bonus.
When the meeting was almost over, Andrew asked if she had any other questions.
“Yes,” she said. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Just live your life as normally as possible. I’ll let you know when we have a hearing date. And in the meantime, try not to worry. Think positive.”
The second time that day she’d heard that advice. She realized, as her daughter had long been telling her, it wasn’t so easy.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Bea was not usually swayed by the weather, but the morning was so flawless that it demanded at least some time outdoors. Still, the girl insisted on spending hour after hour at the dining-room table bent over her sketch pad.
“What is it you’re working on so diligently?” Bea asked on her way to the pool.
“My graphic novel,” Penny said, not bothering to look up.
“You’re writing one?”
She nodded.
Bea peeked over Penny’s shoulder and was surprised to see a very fine sketch of Emma, her brows knit together in anguish. Bea felt the visceral, pulse-racing response she always felt when she spotted talent.Okay, Henry—so she can draw. But did you have to give her the house?
“Penny,” Bea said, pulling out the chair next to her and sitting. “It’s wonderful that you get up every morning and draw. Henry was the same way. He created every day of his life—”
“I miss being able to show him my drawings,” Penny said, turning to her, biting her lower lip, her eyes filled with emotion. Bea experienced a pang; how odd, how unlikely, that she and this girl should share even a sliver of the same grief.
“Well,” Bea said slowly. “I suppose you could showmeyour work. Henry always did, you know.” At least, he had for a time.
Penny wrinkled her nose as if Bea had suggested she drink sewage.
Very well, then—back to business. “As I was saying, Henry created every day of his life. But then he moved out here and something changed. It was difficult for me when this happened because his work and my work were so intertwined for many, many years. We had an art gallery together. Did he ever mention it?”
“No,” Penny said.
“It was in SoHo, a very exciting neighborhood at the time. Unfortunately, it has now been reduced to an outdoor mall. Have you ever been to New York City?”
Penny shook her head. “I really want to go. Maybe even live there someday. I guess then I could see your gallery.”
“Oh, the gallery is long gone. Shortly after Henry retired, I closed it down. Sold the building.” It had been a practical but painful decision, one that sent her into a sort of mourning.
Shortly thereafter, Henry had suffered a loss of his own. He called her, his voice breaking, late one day nearly two years after his move to tell her that his good friend Tom, the bartender from the hotel, had died suddenly. This time, Bea did not hesitate to make the trip to Sag Harbor. How silly it seemed then to view the house as a threat, a rebuke. Life was too short. Her friend needed her.
“I’ll stay for as long as you need me,” she told him. The gesture was not altogether selfless; she wanted to reconnect with him, wanted for them to find their way back to what they’d once shared.
But a few weeks into her visit, she realized there was no going back. She was dealing with a different Henry Wyatt. Instead of talking about the latest issue ofArtforumor gallery gossip, he went on and on about crab fishing. Instead of spending hours in his studio, the air filled with the smell of turpentine, he spent all afternoon prepping hearty meals, stews and roasts made from venison caught by a local hunter he had befriended down at the marina.
The last night of Bea’s stay, Henry made a campfire and they huddled under blankets while finishing bottles of wine.
“So this is your life now,” she said.
“Not bad, right?”
“It’s not New York,” she said.
