I felt my stomach flip. He definitely had the right Morgan Christopher.
“‘She has a one-year-minimum prison sentence,’” Lisa continued, “‘and when that is up in June of 2018, Lisa will hire legal counsel to free Ms. Christopher to have her restore the mural. The work will be done in the gallery itself. At no time will the mural leave Edenton, so Lisa will make arrangements for Ms. Christopher to live in town while she works. I will leave a sum of fifty thousand dollars as compensation for the work, along with another ten thousand for any supplies and expert advice Ms. Christopher might need.’” Lisa looked up from the page. “He goes on to say how the mural should be displayed, the lighting, et cetera.” She began reading again. “He says, ‘To the best of my memory, there are no tears in the mural nor is there adhesive on the back that will need to be removed, since it never made it to the post office wall. I am confident, therefore, that despite Morgan Christopher’s lack of restoration experience, she will complete this project in time for the gallery opening on August 5, 2018. That opening date, with the fully restored mural in place, is firm, and my other bequests are contingent on the restored mural being in the gallery on that date.’”
Upon reading that last sentence, Lisa shook her head with what looked like a mixture of exhaustion and annoyance. “Unbelievable,” she said, more to herself than to me.
“Wow,” I said, overwhelmed. “What does he mean by the other bequests?”
Lisa waved the question away. “They have nothing to do with you.” Her phone rang and she checked the screen, rolled her eyes, and hit a button to stop the ringing. “Follow me,” she said, setting the papers back on the island.
I followed her out of the kitchen and through the lavender dining room and into a large, brightly lit sunroom. A full-size bed was at one end of the room, a recliner and dresser at the other.
“My father had this sunroom converted into his bedroom so he wouldn’t have to use the stairs, and I haven’t gotten around to converting it back, so it’ll be your room while you’re here. His things have been cleared out and I got rid of the hospital bed and had this full-sized brought in.”
The space was so sun-filled, so unlike what I’d experienced in the last year that I felt my throat tighten with gratitude at the thought of making this room my own.
“The upstairs is mine,” Lisa said, “so off-limits to you. We’ll share the kitchen, but I don’t expect either of us to be here much except to sleep. You’re going to be practically living in the gallery, and I have more than enough work to keep me busy. We’ll take care of our own meals. The housekeeper comes on Wednesdays and she’s here most of the day.” She gave me a stern look. “Absolutely no drugs in this house,” she said. “I know you had a problem and I—”
“Not with drugs.” I felt defensive. “I never—”
“I keep wine in the kitchen,” Lisa interrupted me. “Is that going to be an issue for you?”
“No. I don’t drink. Not anymore. And I never drank wine, anyway. Only beer.”
Lisa gave a laugh that sank my spirits. “Hard to drink in prison, I suppose,” she said.
“I’m done,” I insisted. I would never drink again. Not ever.
Lisa looked at me as though unsure whether to believe me or not. “Fine,” she said finally. “If it becomes a problem for you, let me know and I’ll keep the wine in my room. I can move a minifridge in—”
“It won’t be a problem.” I felt my cheeks burning. I wished she’d stop talking about it.
“No smoking in the house.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“All right, then.” Lisa gestured toward the hall. “The bathroom’s right down the hall by the kitchen. Freshen up and let’s go see your mural.”
Chapter 4
ANNA
December 5, 1939
Anna wondered if it was rude to write in her journal while eating breakfast in the big hotel restaurant but decided not to worry about it. The hotel guests were not the people she needed to impress. So, in between bites of soft-boiled eggs and sausage—which came in a flat patty instead of the links she was accustomed to—she jotted down her thoughts. Grits were also on the menu. She’d heard of them but had no idea what they were, and after seeing them on another diner’s plate, she decided to pass. The accents flowed around her like syrup, easy and affable and unfamiliar. She supposed she would sound just as strange to her fellow diners.
Most of the people in the restaurant were men, and she felt their eyes on her. Was it the journal? Her hair? Maybe she should have gotten a more suitable hairdo before heading here to Edenton, but she’d been wearing her nearly black hair in a bob with bangs for so long that she wouldn’t recognize herself without it. Perhaps she wouldn’t fit in with this style here, but she was her mother’s daughter: when had she ever cared about fitting in?
She had given in to the realization that she’d best wear a dress on this trip. After spending the last three years in pants while attending art school, she’d nearly forgotten what stockings and garter belts felt like, so getting dressed in her hotel room this morning had been an ordeal. But she needed to make a good impression in Edenton, so she’d left her pants at home. Her mother probably would have told her, Oh for heaven’s sake, Anna, wear the pants! Just be yourself! But her mother was no longer around to advise her one way or another, and Anna decided on playing it safe.
Looking up from her journal, she saw a man staring at her from a nearby table, making her feel both attractive and vulnerable. When she accidentally caught his eye, he nodded at her, not unkindly, but his scrutiny made her nervous and she shut and locked her journal and focused on her food for the rest of her meal.
* * *
She decided to walk rather than drive through Edenton as she explored the town. The sky was a brilliant blue that belied the cold air and the slivers of ice still on the road from some recent storm. She left the hotel bundled up in the long beige woolen coat that had been her mother’s, along with her favorite red velvet halo hat and gloves. She had a target in mind—the post office where her mural would hang—but she thought she should see a bit more of Edenton before heading there.
Next door to the hotel stood a redbrick courthouse that she thought might look stunning in a mural. She was drawn to red, always. She snapped a couple of pictures of it before crossing a long expanse of grassy parkland, walking toward the waterfront. Near the water’s edge stood three Revolutionary War cannons, all pointing out to sea. The nearby houses were enormous and looked well cared for, despite the financial difficulties most people had faced during the last decade. She took a few more pictures, then turned in the direction of Broad Street and was disappointed by the unsightly waterfront. Winter-barren fish shacks, along with an ice plant, a blacksmith shop, and sheds filled with lumber nearly blocked the view of the rough gray water. The buzz of saws filled the air, and she suddenly felt the weight of the sadness that had dogged her since her mother’s death. She needed to get away from the depressing waterfront. Quickly, she turned around and headed back toward downtown. There was nothing on the waterfront she could use in a painting. Maybe the Tea Party ladies would have to carry the entire weight of her mural. Which was the real Edenton? she wondered. The gritty-looking harbor or the elegant houses? How could she capture the true feeling of a place so unfamiliar to her?