Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,39
Anna’s face.
“You have bags under your eyes for one so young,” she said.
Anna only laughed. The insult didn’t bother her a whit. She was too excited to have her mood brought down by Miss Myrtle or anyone else today.
“It’s just that I love what I’m doing, Miss Myrtle,” she said. “I’m very happy.”
“Yes, but I’m a little concerned about you.” Miss Myrtle frowned. “Freda wrote me a note saying you didn’t eat breakfast or lunch today. You’re already thin as a rail. Promise me you’ll have a snack, all right, dear?”
Anna felt her smile falter. She’d skipped both meals? She hadn’t even thought about eating, and it was nearly two o’clock. She remembered chastising her mother for not eating during her “lively spells,” and the memory shook her.
“I’ll have that snack right now,” she promised Miss Myrtle as she got to her feet, forcing a smile, and as she walked toward the kitchen, she wondered if this was how her mother had felt during those manic episodes, so full of energy and joy that she forgot to take care of herself. Ridiculous to compare what she was feeling to her mother’s situation. Ridiculous!
She found a package of Nabs in the pantry and sat at the kitchen table to eat them under Freda’s silent, approving smile. The maid poured her a glass of milk to go with the crackers, and Anna dutifully chewed and swallowed, but she was anxious to get back to work and annoyed with herself for letting paranoid thoughts about her mother disturb her newfound happiness. She would make sure she ate her three meals a day from now on, but she wouldn’t let anything get in the way of the joy she felt as she worked on the mural for the intriguing little town of Edenton, North Carolina.
Chapter 15
MORGAN
June 15, 2018
Following Oliver through the gallery, I was overwhelmed by how much there was left to do before the building opened to the public. The three good-sized exhibition rooms still lacked drywall, much less paint, and I spotted an electrician working with a tangle of wires inside one of the open walls. The space was definitely intriguing, though.
“The walls are curved,” I said, stating the obvious. I ran my fingers along the wall as I followed Oliver down the hallway.
“Jesse’s design,” he said.
“What was he like?” I asked. “Jesse?”
“Brilliant artist, but you already know that.”
“I’ve loved his work forever,” I said.
“And a generous guy, obviously,” he said over his shoulder. “Very passionate about the people he cared for. But demanding. And fussy. He knows–knew—what he wanted and he always found a way to get it. Like the windows in the gallery. He wanted a special type of glass that took the architect months to track down. And the tile in the restroom had to be special-ordered from Italy. He could be hard on people if they didn’t measure up to his standards.”
I felt a stab of sympathy for Lisa, who was apparently still trying to measure up to her father’s standards.
I followed Oliver into a small office, made to feel a bit bigger by the fact that one wall was almost entirely glass. The tall window overlooked a green lawn and a hedge, the only visible buildings a good distance away. The walls hadn’t yet been painted and there were no switch-plate covers in place yet. Oliver sat down at his desk, which consisted of a board spanning two sawhorses. The makeshift desk supported a computer, half a dozen towering stacks of paper, the framed photograph of a cute, dark-haired boy of eleven or twelve, and a small speaker, from which Bob Dylan’s crotchety old voice tried to sing.
“Dylan?” I raised my eyebrows.
He smiled. “Not your taste?”
“Not hardly.”
He motioned toward a wooden stool at the side of the desk and I sat down. “I like old folk music,” he said. “Dylan, Baez, Judy Collins, Peter, Paul, and Mary. As a matter of fact, when you first showed up in the gallery, I thought you were Mary Travers walking in the door.”
“Who’s Mary Travers?”
“Mary from Peter, Paul and Mary?”
“Sorry,” she said. “You lost me after Dylan.”
“‘Puff the Magic Dragon’?”
I made an “I have no idea what you’re talking about” face. “That might be vaguely familiar, I think,” I said. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Not as ancient as you’re making me feel.” He smiled. “I just turned thirty. What music do you like?”
“Mostly rap. Some pop.”
“Oh, man.” He cringed. “I don’t think we can be friends.”