Big Lies in a Small Town (ARC)

by Diane Chamberlain

  “Oh, honey,” Miss Myrtle said, “this town couldn’t survive without our colored folk! Between the housekeepers and the nannies and the fishermen and the people working the fields—why, they’re the glue that holds us together. Of course they’ve got to be in the mural!”

  Anna couldn’t help but wonder why, if Miss Myrtle felt that way about Edenton’s colored citizens, she made Freda go outside to use her own separate bathroom, rain or shine. She wasn’t sure she would ever truly understand the people in the South.

  “And listen, dear,” Miss Myrtle said, “I nearly forgot. A reporter stopped by to talk to you. He’ll be coming back tomorrow afternoon. Said he wants to talk to the lady who’s making a painting for the post office.”

  “A reporter!” Anna said. The word alone made her nervous. “I don’t have anything to say to a reporter. At least not yet.”

  “Oh, sure you do,” Miss Myrtle said. “Tell him you’re going to paint something that will make Edenton proud.”

  Miss Myrtle’s words still rang in her ears by the time she climbed into bed that night. Her head was so full of all she’d seen and heard and experienced over the last week, it was hard to separate one idea from another. But slowly, as she lay there sleepless, the mural began to take shape in her mind. She got out of bed around midnight, carried her sketch pad downstairs, and sat in the chilly living room to draw by lamplight. How she would include everything she wanted to without making a mess of it, she wasn’t sure. The ladies at the Tea Party would be front and center, whether the gentlemen liked it or not. The ladies were a bit of a problem as she sketched, though, since she had no models to work from. She would have to use models for the full-sized cartoon, that was clear. At that moment, though, she just wanted to get her ideas down so that once her art supplies arrived from Aunt Alice, she could begin working on the thirty-six-by-eighteen-inch sketch she needed to turn in to the Section for approval.

  She thought of the reporter who wanted to talk to her. What could she tell him? It would be embarrassing if she described the mural taking shape in her imagination only to have the Section reject her sketch. But then she thought of Miss Myrtle’s words and relaxed. She didn’t need to describe her idea to him. She’d tell him the truth: all she cared about was creating a mural that would make Edenton proud.

  Chapter 13

  MORGAN

  June 15, 2018

  I found two bare-chested men—Wyatt and Adam—and a T-shirt-clad Oliver on the wide lawn outside the gallery as they put the final touches on the largest stretcher I’d ever seen. For a moment, I stood back, watching them from the sidewalk. Wyatt and Adam seemed to be working under Oliver’s supervision, because he stood at the edge of the yard in his blue T-shirt, earbuds loose around his neck, motioning to them.

  “Hey, Morgan,” he called, waving me over, and I walked toward him. “They have a little more work to do on the interlocking joints,” he said, “and then we can tack on the mural and set it up against the wall for you to work on. You’re probably champing at the bit to get started on it.”

  “I am.” I smiled, a frisson of anxiety in my chest.

  “You do want the interlocking joints, right?” he asked.

  For a terrible moment, I wondered if it was a trick question. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what interlocking joints were. Maybe he was making them up to see if I knew the first thing about restoration.

  “That’ll be great,” I said, and I was relieved when he seemed satisfied with my answer.

  The stretcher was a work of art all on its own. It was huge, made of long two-by-fours with wooden braces forming a grid between them. It was an enormous, beautifully crafted thing. Oliver was right about these guys. They were fast and they knew what they were doing. If only I could say the same about myself.

  “Want to take another look at the mural?” Oliver asked, and I nodded, following him inside.

  The delicious woody scent of the gallery greeted me again and I could hear the buzz of saws from somewhere in the interior of the building.

  I stood next to Oliver in the middle of the foyer, looking down at the mural, which was still attached to the two-by-four on the floor. “I’m trying to find material on Anna Dale,” Oliver said, “and I did find something I’ll show you in a bit. But for the most part, it’s like she simply disappeared after she painted the mural.”

  “What did you find?” “So strange,” I said, but my gaze on the many areas of the mural that were nearly bare of paint beneath the layer of grime or mildew coating the enormous canvas.

  “Doesn’t look any better today than it did the other day, does it?” He laughed.

  “Uh-uh,” I agreed.

  “Where did you work before coming here?” he asked. A casual question or was he suspicious?

  I hesitated, my gaze on the women and their broken teapot. Even if I wanted to make up an answer, I didn’t know what it should be. I glanced at Oliver. With his tall, slender build and dark-framed glasses, he struck me as bookish and kind, a bit nerdy despite handsome features, probably gay, and I opted for the truth. “I wasn’t,” I said.

  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 h
ad 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.”

  Oliver rubbed his hand across his chin, his gaze back on the mural. After a moment, he let out a long breath. “I have some experience,” he said finally. “I apprenticed to a conservator for a year after college. I don’t have a lot of time, with the insane deadline for this place, but I can try to give you some guidance.”

  “Oh my God, Oliver!” It was as though a huge knot in my chest had loosened. I felt like hugging him, but stayed where I was. “I’ll … I’ll bake you brownies or do your laundry. Whatever you need.”

  He half smiled, but I could see he wasn’t happy. “A simple thank-you will do,” he said.

  “Thank you, then,” I said. “Please don’t tell the other guys here.” I glanced toward the front yard where I could picture Wyatt and Adam working on the stretcher. “I don’t want everyone to know I was in prison.”

  “No problem,” he agreed. “It’s best if they think you know what you’re doing, anyway.” He pointed to the mural. “So, take a look at it,” he said. “What do you notice right off the bat?”

  “That it smells terrible and the colors look like various shades of dirt. It’s filthy.”

  “Yes, it’s got a pretty revolting layer of grime on it, so the first thing you’ll need to do is clean it, and fortunately you don’t need anything fancy for that. We’ll figure out what fancy supplies you do need for later and order them. Then you can work on an aqueous cleaning while you’re waiting for them to arrive.” He went on to describe how I could use a cotton-wrapped dowel and distilled water to slowly and meticulously clean the mural. “Anna Dale painted in oil, but you know about not using oil paint for inpainting, right?”

  Mortified that I knew no such thing, I said nothing, thinking, Why not? Then I got it. “It would age at a different rate from the older paint?” I guessed.

  “Smart girl.” Oliver gave me a light tap on the shoulder. “There’s hope for you,” he said. “Anna Dale used no varnish, so you have no varnish to remove and you shouldn’t varnish it when you’re done restoring it, either, since you want to stay true to the artist’s vision.”

  “This artist had a bizarre vision,” I said, pointing to the motorcycle where it peeked out from behind the filthy skirts of the Tea Party ladies.

  “Or maybe a sense of humor.” Oliver shook his head. “I can’t quite figure it out.” He grinned down at the mural. “I love it, though. I’ve seen a million of these old government-sponsored murals and they’re usually dull as dishwater. At least this one has a little spark in it. It intrigues me. So, anyway”—he shifted, hands in his pockets again—“Restoration 101: photograph everything. Every step along the way, take pictures. You want a record. Take a good distance photo of the whole mural before you start and close-ups of each scene, especially any areas of damage. Got it?”

  “I do,” I said. “Photograph everything.” The words made me feel hopeful for some reason. For the first time in a few days, I wasn’t completely lost. Here was something concrete I could do.

  Oliver pulled a notepad from his back jeans pocket and began making a list of the supplies I would need to order and where to get them. “You need to get a good spray bottle. And a dowel, maybe half an inch around, from the hardware store. Then go to the beauty supply store in town and buy some cotton. Genuine cotton. It comes in long strips.”

  I watched him jot down the items on the list.

  “And a ball of twine and some tacks, like these.” Oliver leaned over and touched one of the tacks attaching the mural to the two-by-four. “Get a lot of them,” he said, “and a couple of gallons of distilled water.”

  I tried to imagine lugging gallons of distilled water and dowels and the other supplies down the street. “I don’t have a car,” I said.

  “You can borrow my van.”

  “I don’t have a license.”

  He studied me curiously and I hel
d his gaze. “DUI?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “You went to prison for a DUI?”

  “It … got complicated.”

  He raised his eyebrows in a gesture I was beginning to think of as uniquely his. “I’ll send one of the builders to get the material,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Really. Sorry to create more problems for you.”

  He touched my bare shoulder lightly again. “Did you design this tattoo?” he asked.

  “I did,” I said.

  “It’s a stunner,” he said, then smiled, “and I don’t want to hear you put yourself down as an artist again.”

  “Thank you.” I smoothed my hand over the tattoo, my cheeks heating up with the compliment … and the reprimand.

  “So.” Oliver returned his attention to the mural. “There’s remarkably little flaking for you to deal with. That’s a miracle. So I don’t think you’ll have to do any consolidation, which is fortunate, because it would take me a long time to teach you how to do that.” He pointed to a section of the canvas. “Your biggest job is going to be inpainting, given all the abrasions. Fortunately she—Anna Dale—painted very thinly. That’s to your benefit.”

  I’d never heard the term “inpainting” before, but I could guess what it meant. I’d look it up to be sure. “Thank you again, Oliver,” I said. “I’m sorry. I know I’m taking you away from your work.”

  “I want to see this done right.” He motioned for me to follow him into the gallery. “Come with me,” he said. “I have an office here, such as it is at the moment. Let me show you what I found out about Anna Dale.”

  Chapter 14

  ANNA

  December 14, 1939

  Anna’s picture and an article about her were in the Chowan Herald on Thursday morning, and she felt rather famous. She was glad the interview and picture-taking was over with, though. It had unnerved her, all of it. The reporter made her go to the warehouse. She’d been afraid he was going to ask her to pose inside it, and she was relieved when he said the lighting wouldn’t be good for an interior photograph. She would have to get over the discomfort she felt inside the building. Those dark corners. That beamed ceiling with its hanging lights and fans. She knew why that ceiling distressed her so. She was just going to have to get past the discomfort. Once she filled the warehouse with her work and supplies, she hoped it would seem less ominous to her.