Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,139

Would she notice slipshod work in one tiny bit of the mural? Probably not, and yet it pained me to think of making a mess of that corner when I’d been so meticulous all along.

I motioned once more for him to give me the brush. “It’s my job,” I said, but he didn’t hand the brush to me.

“My work is pretty well finished,” he said. “Let me help you. I can work on the grass here.” He pointed. “You can work on the signature.”

Reluctantly, I sat down next to him and picked up my own brush. We worked together until five, when we stopped to order and devour Hunan chicken and egg rolls. Then we were back at it, and I began to feel hopeful. I thought Oliver’s brushstrokes were not quite as clean as mine, but I kept my mouth shut. No one was going to notice, and we were getting the work done.

Oliver was talkative as we painted after dinner. “So, were you really in love with Trey?” he asked.

I was surprised by the question, and I had to think about it. “I was in love with the Trey I wanted him to be,” I said. “Not the Trey he really was. And he didn’t love me, either. He said he did, but he doesn’t have a clue what it means to love. You don’t treat someone you love the way he treated me.” I touched my brush to the paint on my palette. “Same with my parents.”

“Do you really believe they didn’t love you?”

“I’m certain of it.” I didn’t look at him. “I think it’s hard for you to imagine, because you probably had great parents and you’re a great parent yourself. But mine didn’t give a shit about me. And I don’t give a shit about them.” I’d reached the top of the D in “Dale,” and held the brush away from the canvas. I was getting upset. The last thing I wanted to do was screw up Anna’s golden-hued signature. I looked at Oliver. “It’s a pretty crappy feeling, knowing that no one in the world has ever loved you,” I said. “It makes you feel worthless.” I turned back to the mural, touching my brush carefully to the abraded top of the D. For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Finally, Oliver broke the silence. “You deserved a lot better,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry you didn’t get it.”

“Let’s put on some music,” I said. I wanted to get the conversation off myself.

“Good idea.” Oliver set down his brush. “I’ll get my speaker. We’ll have to fight over whose music we play, though.”

I smiled to myself as he left the foyer. We would listen to his music; I owed him that. He could be home resting up for the opening tomorrow. Instead he was here, helping me. I wanted to make him happy. He was one of the best people I’d ever known.

I went back to work on Anna’s signature while he was gone. There was something wrong with the D in “Dale.” The top of the rounded portion of the letter was discolored and I guessed I hadn’t cleaned it well enough. I’d probably gotten pretty sloppy by the time I’d reached that section of the mural as I cleaned. I still had a bowl of distilled water and a cotton-tipped dowel on the floor near the mural. I picked up the dowel, then began to gingerly touch it to the top of the D. The letter would not come clean, the gold paint blocked not by some sort of grime that wouldn’t budge, but by something else. Paint? Frowning, I leaned back from the mural for a better view. Only then did I understand what I was looking at, and a chill ran up my spine.

Oh my God, I thought to myself, scrambling to my feet. Oh. My. God.

Chapter 62

I raced from the room, down the curved hallway, and into Oliver’s office where he was unplugging his speaker from the wall. I took the speaker from him and put it back on his desk. “Come with me!” I said, grabbing his hand.

“What are you doing?” He laughed, letting me nearly drag him out of the office and down the hall. In the foyer, I pointed to Anna’s signature.

“Look!” I said. “Look closely at the D in ‘Dale.’ What do you see?”

Oliver squatted next to the mural. “Is it a flower? A purple…” He looked up at me, eyes wide behind his glasses. “It’s