Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,79
the display rooms were painted, the humidification system up and running, and the rooms ready to be filled with art.
When he wasn’t dealing with the art, Oliver was busy writing the wall texts that would go beside each piece. I knew he was particularly stewing over what he’d write for Anna’s mural. What could you say about a puzzle that had no answers?
Just like the blank spot near the lumberjack’s cheek. I stared at it a while longer as though the answer might magically come to me. Finally I gave in and turned to Oliver.
“I can’t figure out what should go here,” I said.
Without a word, he set down the box he was opening, stood up, and joined me in front of the mural. He chewed his lip as he appraised the abraded area. Then he pointed to another spot in the lumberjack’s section of the mural.
“Look at the way she treated similar areas,” he said. “That’ll help you figure out what she intended.”
I studied the way Anna had used color to bring out the depth of the forest. She really had been a staggeringly good artist. “She always goes dark,” I said. “She always goes for red. That deep blackish red, wherever she can. Even here in the trees.”
“That ‘dried-blood’ red.” Oliver smirked. “Her signature color.”
I elbowed him, laughing. “Exactly,” I said.
I expected him to walk back to his folding table, but he stood still, and I felt his gaze on me. I turned to look at him, breathing in that enticing leathery scent he seemed to carry with him.
“You have such a good eye, Morgan,” he said. “Trust yourself a bit more.”
He did return to his worktable then, and I began mixing paint, but my mind was still on him. I thought I was sort of falling in love with him. He seemed so much older than me, and so different. Bob Dylan? Really? But where I’d seen a nerdiness in him only a few weeks ago, I now saw an intelligence. Where I’d seen a straight-arrow rule follower, now I saw a maturity I wished I could emulate. And where I saw the smooth, slightly pink skin of his cheeks … well, there were moments when I wanted to press my lips against that skin, just to see what it would feel like. The thought sent a surprising jolt to the pit of my stomach, and I returned my attention to my work, smiling to myself as I carefully brushed Anna’s “signature color” into the trees.
It was dark by the time I walked home that evening. I felt no fear walking through Edenton’s downtown at night. The town seemed idyllic to me, a charming water-bound haven that was easing the hypervigilance that had been my companion in prison. I no longer looked over my shoulder as I walked. I no longer tightened my fists when I was out in the open, ready to defend myself.
Lisa’s car was gone when I reached the house. I took a bath in the walk-in bathtub that had been installed for Jesse, then headed for the sunroom. In the hall, I passed a small framed medallion I had never truly noticed before. I stopped to look at it, gasping when I realized what it was. The National Medal of Arts. I knew Jesse had been awarded the medal at some time, but it never occurred to me that the actual bronze medallion was here, just a few yards from where I slept each night. I read the inscription on the plaque beneath it.
Presented by President Barack Obama to Jesse Jameson Williams on this day, August 5, 2012
Oh my God. August 5? Was this the reason Jesse wanted the gallery to open on that date? To commemorate his receiving the National Medal of Arts? If that was the case, the medal was more important to him than it appeared to be, hanging in the hallway here between the sunroom and bathroom. We needed to move it to the gallery.
We.
I stunned myself as the pronoun passed through my mind. We. Not they. The gallery was no longer simply my job. My mere ticket out of prison. It had become more to me than that.
Carefully, I lifted the framed medallion from the wall and carried it into the kitchen. I propped it up against the fruit bowl on the island, then wrote a note for Lisa. Check out the date! We need to hang it in the gallery.