Anna twisted her arm from the woman’s grasp, stunned. She wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t going to apologize for winning the competition. Why should she?
One of the woman’s daughters spoke up before Anna could.
“Mama,” she said, trying to tug her mother toward the library door. “Let’s just go inside.” But the woman stood rooted to the steps.
“I wish everyone who entered could have won,” Anna said, lamely. “But I won the competition, fair and square. The entries were anonymous and—”
“Well, they shouldn’t have been anonymous!” The woman yelled so loudly that a man walking down the street turned to look at them. “The people runnin’ it should have taken experience into account, not to mention knowin’ somethin’ about Edenton! And they should have taken into account that a man would have a family to support. We could have used the money.”
The twin who hadn’t spoken studied Anna hard from beneath her furrowed brow, but the other one tugged again at her mother’s arm. “Mama,” she said, “it’s freezing out here!”
“I’m very sorry,” Anna said, annoyed at herself as the apology left her lips. She had nothing to apologize for. “It’s out of my control,” she added. She moved past the threesome and down the steps, clutching the railing, her knees shaking.
She walked briskly away from the library, looking over her shoulder every minute or so as if worried that Mrs. Drapple might be following her, ready to grab her arm again. Ready to sling more insults. Anna felt as though she’d stolen something from someone. She pictured Martin Drapple, whom she hoped never to meet, in a deep depression, penniless, struggling to figure out how to support his family. It wasn’t her fault, and yet she felt guilty. She was an interloper. An outsider. A female. Had she taken food from those little girls’ mouths?
Chapter 19
MORGAN
June 18, 2018
It was dusk when I reached Lisa’s house after my third full—very full—day of cleaning the mural. Sharp pains pierced my shoulder blades and I thought I could already see and feel a new firmness in my right bicep. I let myself in the front door with the key Lisa had given me, pulled out my earbuds, and headed through the living room for the kitchen. I was starving. I’d again skipped going out with the guys in favor of working on the mural. Safer and smarter that way. While I was cleaning the mural today, Adam began a conversation about music with me. I could tell he was just trying to find something to talk to me about. I felt torn around him. He was my type, or at least the type I used to be drawn to. Very male, very good-looking. The sane part of me said I should run in the opposite direction, and I was glad when Wyatt came into the foyer to drag Adam back to work.
As I neared the rear of the living room, I could see through the hallway into the kitchen. Lisa sat at the table, her back to me, a glass of wine at her side. Was she on the phone, as usual? Something in her posture—the way she was a little slumped, her shoulders drooping—caused me to stop. Should I go in?
She must have heard me. She suddenly spun around, getting to her feet so quickly she knocked over the wine. The glass rolled from the table and fell to the tiled floor, splintering into pieces.
“You surprised me!” she said, hand to her throat, and I knew she’d been crying. Her eyes were red, her cheeks damp. I caught a glimpse of a photograph on her phone before the screen suddenly went dark: Lisa, her arm around an elderly man. Her father, no doubt. I was touched by her grief.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and began cleaning up the mess. The air filled with the scent of wine. Lisa seemed almost paralyzed. She stood in the middle of the floor, not trying to help, not doing anything, really. She just watched me work. “Move back,” I said. “Let me get the glass up.”
Lisa backed up woodenly against the far counter, her hand still at her throat, while I picked up the shards of glass with the damp paper towel.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“I think I got it all,” I said, straightening up. A pinprick of pain pierced my right shoulder. I threw the paper towels and shards of glass into the trash and washed my hands, then turned to face Lisa, who looked away from me, one hand wiping away tears on the side of her face. She wasn’t wearing her Michelle Obama hair. Her natural hair, with its short curls and coils in a halo around her face, made her look younger and more vulnerable, and for the first time since meeting her, I felt sympathy for her. For the first time since meeting her, I felt as though I was the one with the power.
“Are you okay?” I asked. The words came out more gently than I’d anticipated.
Lisa drew in a shaky breath. “Just…” She glanced at her phone, as if remembering the picture of her father, but she didn’t mention it. “Nothing’s going very smoothly,” she said instead. She moved to the cabinet over the dishwasher and took out another glass, then poured herself more wine. She looked at me. “I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s rude of me to drink in front of you.”
“It’s fine,” I said. It was.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“I am.” I walked to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out a yogurt. I was more interested in learning what was going on with Lisa than I was in fixing myself something to eat. I got a spoon and sat down at the table across from her. “What’s not going smoothly?” I asked.
Lisa drew in a breath. “One of Judith Shipley’s paintings and two of Ernie Barnes’s that my father loaned out to another gallery have been delayed and might not make it here in time for the opening,” she said. “And the roofer had an accident and is now backed up. The workers lost half a day when they built your stretcher … which I know is not your fault,” she added hurriedly. “But still, they’re behind. And you’re…” She offered me a sad, apologetic smile. “You’re a novice in an unfair position. I know that. I want you to know that I understand that. That my expectations of you are completely unreasonable. We’re both in an untenable position. And we both stand to lose so much.”
I was stunned by her sudden show of empathy. “Then … why are you killing yourself to get everything done by some arbitrary date?” I asked. “Why don’t you just change the date of the gallery opening? It’s a pretty simple solution.”
Lisa looked away then let out a long, frustrated-sounding breath. She was not at all the woman I’d come to know over the last few days. She took a swallow of her wine, and her hand trembled when she set the glass down again. “I can’t,” she said simply.
“What is so magical about August fifth?” I asked. “If it’s causing you this much … agony, why not just say, hey, we need to move it to September fifth. Or October, even. I could really use the extra time, believe me.”
Lisa looked across the table at me. “My father put several conditions in his will.” She held up a hand as if to prevent an argument. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “He was a kind man. A very loving man. I always felt his love. Always. But he was also very controlling. And I guess his will was his final attempt to control me.”