Big Lies in a Small Town (ARC)

by Diane Chamberlain

  “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.

  “So, have you decided? Are you going to tell her the truth?” he asks. “That it was Trey behind the wheel?”

  I stare at the house. I don’t yet know the answer. Oliver wants me to profess my innocence. He hates that I paid for what Trey did. But what is the point? It would be self-serving to tell her. I’m here to make amends, not to make excuses.

  “I only want to tell her I’m sorry,” I say. “I want to see if there’s any way I can help her. I just hope she’ll talk to me.”

  I didn’t write to Emily. I didn’t call her. I was too afraid she either wouldn’t respond or would hang up on me. Of course, this way, showing up uninvited, has its own pitfalls. I fully expect the door to slam in my face. The last thing I want to do is make things worse for her.

  “If someone actually lets me in, why don’t you go get a coffee or something?” I say to Oliver. “I can call when I’m ready to leave. I don’t want you to have to—”

  “I’m waiting right here,” he says. “I have a book with me. You don’t need to rush.”

  I think he’s as uptight about this as I am. “Okay.” I look toward the green door. “I don’t know whether to hope she’s home or hope she’s not.”

  He gives me a gentle shove. “One way to find out,” he says.

  I nod. Open the van door. Start walking up the driveway. I’m empty-handed and suddenly wish I could have thought of something to bring her. I considered flowers. Homemade cookies. Nothing felt right. I would have to make do with myself and my words. I tell myself I survived prison, restored a mural when I had no idea what I was doing, and haven’t had a drink in a year and a half. I can do this. I’m so much stronger than I ever thought I could be.

  I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the incredible power of this last year. Working together with Oliver in the gallery. Making discoveries so few people had the privilege to know about. Learning that Judith Shipley is my great-grandmother. My good fortune seems to hit me all at once. What if Jesse Williams had never even known my name? I’d still be in prison. Still spending my nights wide awake, waiting for my silent roommate to slit my throat with a dull butter knife. Still wondering what I could possibly do with my ruined life once I got out. Still with no goals, no love, no passion of any sort.

  I climb the front steps, my mind suddenly on Judith. I think of how she was able to face hard truths, writing about them in her journal, painting them into the mural for all the world to see, and then setting them aside, rebuilding her life and moving on. “You have to make peace with the past or you can never move into the future,” she said.

  Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand to the doorbell. I hear it chime inside and I stand tall, waiting to see what my own future holds.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND AUTHOR’S NOTES

  After my first visit to the charming town of Edenton, North Carolina, I knew I would someday set a book there. It wasn’t until I read about the ‘48 State Mural Competition’ sponsored by the Treasury Department during the Great Depression that I could envision a story that might fit the small town. I should note that Edenton’s post office was not the actual North Carolina recipient of a mural—that honor went to the post office in Boone. But to my mind, Edenton’s history and industry lent itself perfectly to such a mural.

  Although Edenton’s population is under 5,000 people, those people are passionate about their town. As I did my research, I discovered that many, if not most, Edentonians are very tuned into their history, which made writing Big Lies in a Small Town a bit daunting, since I wanted to present the town as accurately as an outsider possibly could. In that regard, I had a lot of help and I’m grateful to many people for their generosity and enthusiasm.

  I’m most grateful to Sally Kehayes and her husband Alex for introducing me to Edenton and being my enthusiastic guides during my first visit. Alex’s father owned the Albemarle Restaurant where Anna occasionally dines, and Sally has served for many years on Edenton’s Historical Commission. She wisely knew I would find inspiration for a story in the little town she and her husband love so much.

  It’s often extremely difficult to see a modern day town and imagine what it was like nearly eighty years ago, but I was very lucky. The people of Edenton have long memories. I met with Edenton native Philip McMullan, an author in his own right who has written about the parts of North Carolina he loves so much. Phil helped me reconstruct much of Edenton as it was in Anna’s time. He could remember every store and filling station and restaurant, helping me map out how the town would have looked—and even smelled—to Anna. He helped me figure out where Anna could stay (with the fictional Miss Myrtle) and what scenes might go into Anna’s mural. Thank you, Phil, for your generous spirit.

  I knew that race relations were going to play a major role in my story simply by virtue of the town’s large African American population (currently about sixty percent). Although I did my best to understand life between the races both in 1940 and today, I don’t pretend to know what it is now—or was then—like for any individu
al to live there. It was my good fortune to stumble across the Racial Reconciliation group that has met at the United Methodist Church in Edenton for several years. The group was started by Jo Baker and several other concerned townspeople to foster communication between the races. I’m grateful to Jo for inviting me to a meeting, where I expected to find five or six dedicated folks chatting for an hour or two. Instead, I found a large circle of perhaps thirty animated people, black and white, who had clearly become important to one another. They moved me to tears as they described how they’d tiptoed around difficult topics in the beginning, afraid to say anything that might offend. But they were determined to find new ways to understand one another and it was clear to me that they were succeeding. The most obvious indicator of that success, to my eyes, was the little boy who ran from lap to lap in the room, no one a stranger to him. I think Edenton’s Racial Reconciliation Group could be a model for similar groups in many other cities in the United States. Here’s a link to a video about the group for anyone who might be interested. https://www.dailypress.com/visuals/video/84720339-157.html.

  Through the Racial Reconciliation group, I met two African American men, Norman Brinkley and historian, Dr. Ben Speller, both of whom had been boys in Edenton in the forties. I’m grateful to each of them for spending individual time with me as they helped me understand what Jesse Williams’s life might have been like as a teenager. It would have been close to impossible for me to write about Jesse without Norman’s and Ben’s valuable input.

  The Shepard Pruden Memorial Library is near the lovely waterfront in Edenton. Librarian Jennifer Finlay answered my questions, and Joyce White helped me use the microfilm machine to read the 1940 Chowan Herald, as Morgan does in Big Lies.

  Speaking of the Chowan Herald, I’m grateful to the late reporter Rebecca Bunch for accurately and generously covering my visits to Edenton. Rebecca was clearly devoted to the town. I quickly learned that I could trust her reporting, and I’m very saddened by her death

  During my visits to Edenton, I stayed at Susan Beckwith’s beautiful Inner Banks Inn, where the rooms are filled with history. Thank you, Susan, for your lovely inn and the incredible breakfasts!

  One more Edentonian I’d like to acknowledge is Elizabeth Berry of the Garden of Readin’ Bookstore and Tea Room. Thank you for helping me with my first Edenton book event, Elizabeth, and I hope we get to work together again. Elizabeth also makes a great cup of tea!

  Probably most overwhelming to me as I did my research for this book was my need to learn about mural restoration. Jan Hessling of Hessling Conservation LLC in Durham, North Carolina spent hours with me, illustrating the tools and techniques of her trade. Thank you, Jan, for the time you took to give me so much information about your work—and the work Morgan would have to do on the mural. You were an amazing resource.

  I’m also grateful to my stepdaughter, Brittany Walls, an artist by training, for helping me understand some of the artistic elements that went into Anna’s painting and Morgan’s restoration.

  Speaking of Morgan, I needed to learn about her crime, her punishment, and her parole. Former probation officer Jason Dzierzynski was a wonderful resource for me, as was an old high school friend who prefers to remain nameless. Thank you both for taking the time to answer my many questions and for helping me make Morgan’s crime and punishment realistic and believable.

  I’m grateful to my assistant Kathy Williamson for whom no task is too challenging, and my sister Joann Scanlon for reading an early draft of Big Lies in a Small Town and offering helpful feedback.

  Thank you to my North Carolina writing friends, those women who understand the joy, creativity, self doubt, and just plain hard work that goes into writing a novel. Special thanks to Mary Kay Andrews. We spent a week together in her beautiful Tybee Island home, writing and researching and brainstorming our works in progress. Thank you, Mary Kay, for sharing your home, your friendship, and your ever-inventive brain with me.

  I’m convinced I have the best agent in the world in Susan Ginsburg. Susan is perceptive, talented, and kind, but ferocious when she needs to be on behalf of her clients. I’m so lucky to have her in my corner. Thanks also to the rest of the staff at Writers House for their hard work on behalf of my books, especially Catherine Bradshaw and Peggy Boulos Smith and those folks who work behind the scene to get my books into the hands of my readers. Thanks, too, Lucy Stille at the Agency for Performing Arts.

  Jen Enderlin, my ever-perceptive editor, can read a manuscript and immediately see how it can be improved. Authors get so close to their work that it’s sometimes impossible for them to see the imperfections. I’ve learned to trust and respect Jen’s editorial superpowers and I’m grateful that I get to work with her.

  My publicist at St. Martin’s, Katie Bassel, gets special thanks for setting up my book tours—and setting them up again after my bouts of laryngitis caused cancellations last year. Thanks, Katie, for your patience and perseverance.

  I’m also grateful to the rest of the folks at St. Martin’s who make my books the best they can be. Thank you Sally Richardson, Brant Janeway, Erica Martirano, Jeff Dodes, Lisa Senz, Kim Ludlam, Malati Chavali, Jonathan Hollingsworth, Anne Marie Tallberg, Tracey Guest, Lisa Davis, Mike Storrings, and everyone in the Broadway and Fifth Avenue sales department. Special thanks to Danielle Fiorella for the beautiful cover!

  Thanks also to my UK Editor, Wayne Brooks, and to all the people at Pan Macmillan who work hard to help my books reach my beloved UK readers.

  As always, I’m grateful to my significant other, John Pagliuca, for all he does to free up my writing time, for not complaining about all the DoorDash meals, and for being ready and willing to help me escape any corner I’ve written myself into.

  And finally, thank you to my readers around the world. You are the people who make it all worthwhile!