He tilted his head. “You were between jobs?”
I drew in a breath. “I’m not actually an art restorer.” I looked squarely at him. “I was a fine arts major at UNC in Chapel Hill and had to drop out in my third year.”
I thought his cheeks actually blanched. “You’re kidding,” he said. Was there worry in his voice or was I projecting? Suddenly, though, he let out a laugh. “So, you’re the one,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He was still chuckling to himself. He put his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “A couple of months before Jesse died, I was over at his house talking about his design for the building, and he said, ‘Watch for this white girl to show up at the gallery. She’s gonna need a boatload of help.’ Though he didn’t say ‘boatload.’”
“Oh my God…” Oliver’s words suddenly made this whole crazy experience feel real. “Do you have any idea how he decided on me?”
He shrugged. “I don’t even know how he decided to help me.”
“Help you?”
He nodded. “I was one of his charity cases,” he said. “Thirteen years ago, now.”
“You’re kidding!” I took a step back to really look at him. “What did he do for you?”
Oliver smiled. “I was seventeen, living in Philadelphia, and about to drop out of the stifling private school my parents had me in—”
“Wait. Private school? Charity case?”
“There are different types of charity.”
“Okay.” I could understand that. “Continue.”
“I’d gotten my girlfriend pregnant, and thought I should get a job and support her and my soon-to-be kid—”
“Whoa,” I said. Maybe not gay, after all. “You are so not at all what I imagined you to be.”
“What did you imagine?”
“Just not … the type to get a girl pregnant at seventeen.”
“Yeah, well … Don’t judge a book, and all that.” He smiled again. “So one day I get this phone call from Jesse Jameson Williams, a guy I’d never heard of. He told me I had promise and he wanted to help me.”
“He called you personally?” I wished I’d had the chance to talk to him myself. How incredible that would have been.
“Uh-huh,” Oliver said. “Jesse somehow got me out of my hellhole of a school and into the University of the Arts in Philly. He paid for everything. He even paid child support for my son, including child care, so my girlfriend could stay in school.” Oliver’s voice thickened and he turned his gaze away from me. Drew in a breath. “Really, he saved me,” he said. “I was going down the drain.”
“How did he even know about you?”
“He’d never tell me.” Oliver cleared his voice, seeming to get his emotions back under control. “I don’t think he ever told the kids he helped. But I’m pretty sure my art teacher got in touch with him. That was just the way Jesse was. He had a lot of money and he liked to spend it on people he thought were worth saving.”
“I’m not sure anyone would think I’m worth saving right now,” I said, the words out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Oliver nodded. “Exactly how I felt back then,” he said, without prodding me for an explanation.
“So, did you marry your girlfriend?” I asked.
“No, though I did get a great kid out of that relationship—he’s twelve—and I see him as much as I can.” He studied the mural, but I had the feeling it was his son’s image he was seeing. “We’re planning a trip to Smith Mountain Lake, just the two of us,” he continued. “We rent the same cabin every year. Can’t go till late August when the gallery’ll be up and running, though, and I can get away. He—his name is Nathan—he loves it up there.”
“Where does he live?” I asked.
“He and his mother and her new husband live down here. Well, in Greenville, anyway, which is why I ended up in North Carolina. I have an apartment there and teach a couple of classes at ECU during the school year. So”—he ran a hand through his thick dark hair where it fell across his forehead—“back to you.” He looked toward me again. “I owe Jesse and I think he was asking me to help you if you needed it. And it sounds like you need it, so I guess it’s my turn to pay it forward.”
“Thank you.” I felt incredibly relieved by his story. By his offer to help. I had the feeling he had no idea how much help I was going to need, though.
“Does Lisa know you have no experience in restoration?” he asked.
“Oh, she knows, all right,” I said. “Jesse Williams wrote in his will that he wanted me to do the restoration, so Lisa tracked me down and hired me. Experience be damned.” I felt my cheeks color. I was leaving plenty out of the story.
We were both quiet for a moment. Oliver looked down at the mural again. “The thing is,” he said slowly, “while I understand your position, it’s practically … criminal, in my opinion, to have an inexperienced person work on this. It’s a valuable mural. It needs a professional conservator.”
“You don’t need to convince me of that,” I said. “I’m scared to death to even touch that thing.”
“Why did you say you’d do it if you don’t know how?”
I hesitated, but there was something about Oliver that made me feel safe. And anyway, I didn’t think there was anything he could say to Lisa that would make her rescind her offer.
“Lisa’s following her father’s directions in his will,” I said. “And he clearly said he wanted me to do it, even though he’d never met me and had to know I’m an artist and not a conservator. And I’m not much of an artist, either,” I added. “I wish I could be, but I don’t think I’m all that talented.”
I felt Oliver’s quiet gaze on me. “Well, ol’ Jesse may have gone overboard this time,” he said. “Looks like we both know that he should have found a competent conservator to take on this work and given you something less … challenging. You’re being thrown to the wolves. Forgive me for saying this, all right? But you really shouldn’t do this,” he said sincerely. “I think you should just say no.”
“I can’t say no.” I let out my breath and looked toward the front windows of the foyer, my cheeks hot. “There’s more to it than that,” I said quietly. I looked over at him. “I was in prison,” I said, my voice still low, not wanting to be overheard by any of the workers in the building.
Oliver’s eyebrows shot up.
“It’s a long story.” I felt the alcohol monitor heavy on my ankle. “I didn’t shoot anyone or anything like that. But the thing is, Lisa was able to get me out on parole to do this work. If I don’t do it, I’ll have to go back to prison.” My eyes suddenly burned, surprising me. “I can’t go back.” I was whispering now. “I just can’t.”
He nodded, very slowly, brows furrowed above those vivid blue eyes. I wished he’d say something.
“I’m trying to read about how to do it—the restoration—online, but it’s overwhelming,” I continued. “Do you know any conservators I could call to give me some guidance? Jesse Williams left me money I can use to pay them.”