“Could your grandfather have been born here in Edenton?” Oliver asked.
“I don’t think so … I never heard my parents mention anything about Edenton. I’d never even heard of Edenton myself before I met Lisa. And besides, I never met Jesse. How could he have known who I was?”
“Jesse knew who the family was that took my son,” Judith said quietly. Now she was looking into the distance with an expression on her face that suggested she was lost in a memory. “He told me once … when was it?… Maybe 1980, when he moved back here? Yes.” She nodded. “That makes sense. I would have been in my early sixties. He told me that his sister Nellie knew the family and where they’d moved to long ago. My son—the baby I gave away—would have been about forty years old then. Jesse said he could tell me where he was, if I wanted to know.” Judith looked from me to Oliver. “I told him I didn’t want to know,” she said with a shake of her head. “I’d closed that chapter of my life long ago.”
I frowned at her. “But even if your son was my grandfather, which just … I doubt very much, is it just a crazy coincidence that I ended up here? That Jesse picked me to—”
“Not a coincidence,” Oliver said.
“He’s right.” Judith nodded toward Oliver. “I imagine Jesse kept an eye on my son. I’m guessing that he followed that family line just in case I one day said to him, tell me about my child. And then you came along, with an interest in restoration and—”
“No, I didn’t know anything about restoration,” I said. “I was an art major at UNC, and not a very good one, either.”
She studied my face for a moment. Then she chuckled. “Well, there you have it,” she said. “I can imagine how delighted Jesse was to stumble across someone in the Christopher line who was not only an art major but who was also having a rough time of it. No wonder you became one of his projects.”
I held up my hands. “Wait,” I said. “I’m still not buying that I’m one of that line of Christophers.”
“Call your parents,” Oliver said. “Find out where your grandfather was born. Then we’ll know if there’s anything to this, one way or another.”
I felt my face heat up as I thought of making that call. “I can’t call them,” I said. “I’m not speaking to them. They don’t even know I’m out of—” I cut myself off. I didn’t want to get into all of that in front of Judith and Gloria. I felt suddenly self-conscious about the monitor on my ankle.
“Call them,” Oliver said again. The tone of his voice left no room for argument. I knew he was right. It was the only way to find an answer to this puzzle.
I looked at him for a long moment. “My phone is in the kitchen,” I said. “I’ll call from there.” It was going to be hard enough talking to my parents without an audience. “I’ll be back.” I turned toward the hallway.
“Want me to come with you?” Oliver offered from behind me, but I shook my head. I needed to do this alone.
My mother picked up even before I heard a ring. “Who is this?” she asked instead of hello. A charmer, through and through, my mother. Even with those three words—“Who is this?”—I could hear the booze in her voice.
“It’s me,” I said. “Morgan.”
“What’s this number you’re calling from?” she asked. “It’s not your usual number at the prison.”
“I’m out. I’m just calling becau—”
“You’re out?” She sounded surprised. “Are you coming home?”
“I’m not coming home,” I said. “I just need to speak to Dad for a minute. Is he there?”
“Yeah, he’s here, but talk to me. How come they let you out? Why aren’t you coming—”
“Put him on, please.” I would not get sucked into my mother’s weird games and guilt-tripping. I was twenty-two years old. An adult. I could live wherever I pleased.
My mother hesitated. I heard the clink of ice in her glass. Heard her swallow.
“I need to talk to him,” I said again. “Please put him on.”
“Hold on,” she said with a sigh.
I pictured her shuffling through the house toward my father’s office. She was probably still in her robe, although it was nearly evening. I cringed at the memory of the house. The air would be filled with the scent of cigarettes and booze and whatever was crusted on last night’s dishes in the sink.
“Morgan!” My father shouted in my ear and I quickly adjusted the volume on my phone. “What’s this about you being a free woman?”
“I have a question for you,” I said.
“What’s that, honey?” He could always suck me in with that “honey” crap. Not this time.
“Where was Grampa Christopher born?”
“What?” He laughed. “You just get out of jail and that’s the first thing you want to know?”
“Please just tell me.”
“Edenton. Why?”
I shut my eyes, the truth dropping on me like a boulder. For a moment, I couldn’t speak.
“What color was his hair when he was young?” I asked finally.
“Morgan, I don’t under—”
“What color?” My thumb was already on the button that would end the call.
“Red,” he said. “People called him ‘Red’ when he was a kid, and even—”
“Thanks, Dad.” I turned off my phone so he couldn’t call me back, then stood stock-still, staring out the rear door of the gallery at the lush shrubbery that lined the property.
I was Martin Drapple’s great-granddaughter. The thought made me nauseous. But I was Judith’s, too. I would focus on that.
“I’m Anna Dale’s great-granddaughter,” I whispered to myself. “I saved my great-grandmother’s mural.”
I turned and began walking through the curved hallway of Jesse Williams’s gallery, and by the time I reached the foyer, I wore a smile on my face.
Epilogue
MORGAN
Late October, 2018
Apex, North Carolina
Oliver brings his van to a stop in front of the yellow house with the deep green door—the Maxwells’ house. The yard is a good size, maybe half an acre, and filled with trees, most of them beginning to show their fall colors. The house is nineteen-eighties vintage and looks well cared for.
“Nice neighborhood,” Oliver says.
It is. It reminds me of the neighborhood I grew up in. I study the yellow house. Three steps lead to the front door, but as I look more closely, I can see that a concrete walkway cuts a winding path from the driveway to the side of the front steps. Shrubs line the walkway, making it seem like an organic part of the landscape. Seeing the walkway tightens my heart. Makes everything feel very real. I wonder what other renovations had to be made to the two-story house to accommodate Emily Maxwell and her injuries.
There’s a blue van parked in the driveway. Someone is home.
“You sure you don’t want me to come in with you?” Oliver asks.
“I’m sure.” I think I lean on Oliver too much. He disagrees, pointing out how much he leans on me when it comes to making decisions about Nathan. Maybe it’s because I’m eight years closer to twelve than Oliver is, but whatever the reason, Nathan and I click. I love that kid. I suppose Oliver and I are actually pretty even when it comes to leaning on one another. Nevertheless, seeing Emily Maxwell is one thing I need to do alone.