Page 98 of Drawing Home
“Emma?”
Diane Knight tugged on her handbag to get her attention, and before Emma could muster a “Happy Fourth,” the woman began gushing about how fabulous Bea Winstead was and how much was getting done for the auction. “She is a godsend,” Diane said.
Well, that was one way of putting it.
“And Emma, I’m aware that you know—”
The room went silent, filled with white noise. Somehow, Mark was in front of her. Somehow, Diane Knightwas holding Mark’s hand.
“Hey,” Mark said quickly.
“I love this town,” said Diane. “It’s such a small world.”
“How…how do you two know each other?” Emma said.
“We met at the Bay Street Theater party last week. Mark performed there one summer. Oh, but you know that…”
“Mark,” Emma said, struggling to keep her voice even. “Can I speak to you for a minute outside?”
She could see he was about to refuse, but then he reconsidered. He probably didn’t want to risk a scene in front of his new friend.
Heart pounding, she pushed her way impatiently through the lobby, glancing back a few times to make sure Mark was following her. When they were on the sidewalk, he said, “This isn’t the time or the place, Emma.”
“I can’t believe you’re trying to take Penny from me!” she said.
“I’m not debating this with you now,” he said. “Anything you have to say about this can go through your lawyer.”
“Do you have any idea what it takes to raise a child full-time? You take her to the beach for one day and think you’ve got the whole thing figured out? You’re out of your mind!”
“Is anything I said untrue? Really, Emma. Look at it in black-and-white and tell me I’m the bad guy.”
“Youarethe bad guy!” she yelled. People turned to look at her.
He shook his head. “I’ll see you in court, Emma.”
Somewhere in the distance, a single firecracker sounded. Emma started shaking, standing alone on the sidewalk.
Chapter Forty-One
It was the party that would not die.
More than a month after Bea had abruptly walked out on the Frank Cuban showing in her apartment, Joyce Carrier-Jones was still pushing for her to reschedule.
“What are you doing out there all this time?” Joyce asked. “Taking the whole summer off?”
“Of course not,” Bea said defensively. She hated how everyone was always waiting for her to start slowing down, to retire. But how to explain her continued self-exile in Sag Harbor? She did not want to admit she was still fighting over Henry Wyatt’s house without a shred of progress. Her lawyer had not given her any good news since she’d found the old will. She herself was no closer to making sense of Henry’s intentions. And as for her Hail Mary pass with Penny’s father, who knew how long that would take to play out? The only positive spin she could put on her situation was to say “I happen to be organizing a big art auction. I’m hosting it at Henry’s house.”
“How fabulous! So you’ve rectified that whole mess with the hotel woman out there? What wasthatall about?”
Oh, how she regretted that Page Six article. She’d gotten absolutely nothing out of it except fake sympathy from members of her professional circle who were faux scandalized that Henry Wyatt had overlooked her.
“It’s complicated,” Bea said. And then, in an effort to deflect: “Why don’t you send me one of Frank’s pieces for the auction? It will be great publicity for him.”
“Send it? I’ll bring it myself!”
Bea considered how to extricate herself from this unwanted visit, then realized perhaps it wasn’t so unwanted after all. She missed her Manhattan life, and if she couldn’t be in New York City at the moment, why not let New York City come to her for an afternoon?
And yet, when Joyce Carrier-Jones arrived, Bea felt out of sorts. Emma was gone for the day, packing up the Mount Misery house and therefore one step closer to staking a permanent claim to Windsong.
