Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,151
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.