Big Lies in a Small Town (ARC)

by Diane Chamberlain

  “I’m Martin Drapple,” he said, standing up straight now. “And you’re the little lady who stole the mural competition out from under me.” He never did lose his smile, but Anna feared she lost hers rather quickly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She remembered his wife’s fingertips digging into her arm through her coat sleeve. “I know that must have been terribly disappointing.”

  “I’m only teasing you.” He grinned, slipping his pipe into his jacket pocket. “I’m actually here to apologize for my wife’s behavior. She told me about bumping into you at the library. I’m afraid she had a frightful headache and took it out on you.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” she said. Her mind scrambled to connect that nasty woman to this charming man. “I’m sorry she wasn’t feeling well.”

  “So,” he said, dragging out the word, “have you ever painted a mural before?”

  She felt immediately on guard and shivered in the cold, wrapping her arms across her chest. “Yes, in art school,” she said, hoping he didn’t ask the size of the painting. She didn’t want to lie, but there was a huge difference between painting a five-by-four mural and a twelve-by-six.

  “I just wanted to let you know that I’d be happy to help you in any way I can,” he said. “No compensation,” he added quickly, his hand in the air in front of him. “As long as I have free time, it’d be my honor to help you with the stretcher or anything else you might need. It’s a huge job. You can’t possibly do it all on your own.”

  She was stunned by his generosity. “Thank you,” she said, “but I couldn’t possibly ask you. I’m looking into having a few students help me.” Her fingers were already starting to ache with the cold and she rubbed her hands together. “It’s very kind of you, though. I’ll certainly contact you if I need help.”

  Mr. Drapple tilted his head, seeming to appraise her. “My cousin’s taken a shine to you,” he said, in a rapid change of topic.

  It took her a moment to remember that Mayor Sykes was his cousin. They certainly looked nothing alike.

  “Mayor Sykes has been very helpful,” she said, trying not to think about the rumors of the mayor harming his wife and having an affair. She added with a smile, “Even though he doesn’t approve of me having the Tea Party front and center in the mural.” The mayor had grimaced when she told him her plan. “I hope you’ll reconsider,” he’d said.

  “Ah well, that’s why he’s a mayor and not an artist, right?” Mr. Drapple smiled up at her.

  Would you have put the Tea Party in the mural? she wanted to ask, but of course, she didn’t. What had his sketch been like? What had he painted to represent Edenton? She wished she could know.

  “I saw the Life Magazine spread of the sketches,” he said. “Your Bordentown design was quite nice. You have a lovely style.”

  His wife certainly hadn’t thought so, and Anna wondered if he was teasing her. She felt young and inexperienced—and also a bit as if she were on stage, up there on the porch while he stood below. She thought he sounded sincere, though. She would treat the compliment as such.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He looked as though he wanted to say more, but then tipped his hat again. “Good day, then,” he said. “My phone number is 47, if you change your mind.” Anna watched him turn and walk toward the street before she stepped inside to warm up. She stood inside the front door, her back against it, thinking about what had just happened. She was touched by Martin Drapple’s generosity and warmth. She hoped she would have been as kind as he was if their fortunes had been reversed.

  Chapter 21

  MORGAN

  June 19, 2018

  I was alone in the foyer of the gallery, balancing on the ladder as I cleaned the top square of the fourth row. After my conversation with Lisa, I started timing myself. The twelve-by-six-foot mural was divided by twine into seventy-two squares and it was taking me about forty-five minutes to clean one square. I had to work slowly, nearly holding my breath each time I set the cotton-tipped dowel to the surface of the painting, afraid of missing a speck of flaking paint and scraping it off by accident. To clean the entire mural should take me approximately fifty-four hours. I could only do so many hours at a time, though, before my shoulders and back began to seize up on me. I figured it would take me ten days to do the cleaning alone. Lisa would not be happy about that.

  I gave myself a fifteen-minute break between each square, so I was sitting on the bottom rung of the ladder drinking a bottle of water and listening to Post Malone sing “Congratulations” when Oliver walked into the foyer. His mouth moved but I had no idea what he was saying.

  I pulled out my earbuds and gave him an apologetic smile. “What did you say?” I asked.

  “The conservation paints and other supplies I ordered for you are here,” he said. His own earbuds hung around his neck.

  “Oh, cool.” I pointed up at the mural. “It’ll be a while before I need them, though.”

  “Well, you’re making progress. It’s looking good.” He stood away from the mural to study it, hands on his hips.

  “How well do you know Lisa?” I asked.

  “Lisa?” He looked surprised by the question. “Not well at all. I’d been to Jesse’s house a few times over the years, and I knew she lived with him and was his primary caretaker toward the end, but I never actually saw her there. She was—and I guess still is—a workaholic real estate agent. She called me when he died and said he wanted me to curate the gallery, which wasn’t a surprise. He’d told me as much. And I know she’s in a time crunch to get this place up and running.”

  I looked down at the bottle in my hand, remembering back to the night before when I’d caught Lisa in tears. I didn’t think I should share that with Oliver.

  “I think she’s a challenge, Morgan,” Oliver continued, “but she also gets things done, so hang in there. I just do what she tells me to do unless I think she’s completely off the wall. She’s leaving the placement of art entirely up to me—with the exception of having the mural in the foyer, which was Jesse’s wish.” He nodded toward the mural. “I think between the gallery and her job, she’s extremely stressed.”

  “Do you know anything about the will?” I asked.

  “The will?”

  “If the gallery doesn’t open by August fifth, she loses her house. Jesse’s house.”

  Oliver’s jaw dropped, and I could tell I’d left him speechless.

  “She won’t inherit it,” I said. “Not only that, but if I don’t have the mural done by then, I don’t get paid and I’ll end up back in prison.”

  “What? That’s insane.”

  “Jesse Williams specified that the mural had to be done in order for the gallery to open, so—”

  “Did Lisa tell you all this?”

  I nodded.

  He looked away from me, out toward the glass wall of the foyer. “She did tell me—several times—that everything has to be up and running by our opening date, but nothing about her house. Could she be making that up for some reason? To put pressure on you, maybe? Jesse was a real character, but I can’t imagine him disinheriting his daughter just because she can’t get the gallery ready by an arbitrary date.”

  “I don’t think she was lying. I caught her crying and then she told me.”

  Oliver grimaced. “Wow,” he said. “Well, I guess if I were in danger of losing something precious to me, I’d be a nasty SOB myself.”

  “You’d always be nice,” I blurted out, then felt myself blush. Oliver struck me as perpetually calm, perpetually kind. “Seriously,” I said. “Thank you for helping me so much.”

  He smiled, and I wondered if he knew I was developing the teensiest crush on him. “We’d better get back to work,” he said. “Let’s stay one step ahead of the boss lady.”

  Adam and Wyatt came into the gallery around four and began taking measurements for the long “information counter” that would run parallel to the wall where the mural would be displayed. My ladder and supplies were
in their way and after dozens of “can I move this?” and “excuse us” and a few other comments that let me know they thought their work was more important than mine, I called it quits. The air-conditioning wasn’t working properly, either, and being up on the ladder only added to my misery. I’d finished my quota of squares for the day, anyhow, and I left the gallery and headed back to Lisa’s.

  “Done for the day?” Lisa asked when I walked in the front door, and I explained about Adam and Wyatt taking measurements in the foyer. For the first time since I’d met her, Lisa was dressed in jeans. They were dressy jeans, but still. She wore a loose embroidered yellow blouse and her hair was pulled back in a small ponytail at the nape of her neck. She looked very pretty and the closest to relaxed I’d seen her.

  “Hmm,” she said. “Those guys are going to have to stay out of your way as they build that thing.” Then she looked into the air above my head as if pondering something. “Well, listen,” she said. “Would you like to see where my father grew up?”

  The invitation was so out of character that it took me a moment to understand it. “Tonight?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh. It’s my aunt’s birthday. Mama Nelle. My father’s baby sister.”

  “Wow,” I said. Did I want to spend a whole evening with Lisa? But the thought of seeing where Jesse Williams grew up was enticing. “All right,” I said. “Give me a minute to change?”

  Lisa looked at her phone. “Hurry up,” she said. “I want to leave in five.”

  I raced to the sunroom. I had little in the way of nice clothes. Everything I’d bought after being sprung from prison had been with the idea that I’d spend the bulk of my time working on the mural. But I put on a pair of clean jeans and the only decent top I owned—the blue sleeveless blouse I’d worn the day I left prison. I ran a comb through my hair and hurried out front, where Lisa was already waiting in her car.

  “How far is it?” I asked as Lisa began driving.

  “Just a little ways outside town.”

  “So, this ‘Mama Nelle’ is Jesse’s sister?”

  “Yes.”

  “How come you call her ‘Mama’ then?”

  “Everybody does. Don’t know when that started, but everybody treats her like she’s their mama. She’s eighty-seven and has a serious heart condition and some of that come-and-go type of dementia, so we’re all thinkin’ this may be her last birthday.”

  Lisa sounded different. The change in her voice was fascinating, actually. Her tone was more casual, her language looser. She was definitely off duty tonight.

  “He grew up out in the country?” I asked as the town gave way to fields that stretched far into the distance.

  Lisa nodded. “The Williams farm’s been in our extended family one way or ’nother pretty much since the end of slavery.”

  “Were Jesse’s ancestors slaves?” I asked.

  “What d’you think?” Lisa smirked as though it were a stupid question. “Mine, too. Remember? My ancestors are Jesse’s.”

  Okay, I thought. So Lisa’s language might be looser but her personality was as prickly as ever.

  “Right,” I said. “So, your … great-great-grandparents were slaves?”

  “Exactly. On both sides of the family. Nearly all my people still live near the farm, except for a few who moved away. But people who move away tend to come back. Edenton’s got a magnetic pull on folks who were born here.”

  “Have you ever thought of leaving?”

  Lisa was quiet for a moment. “I only left for college,” she said. “And I don’t plan to leave ever again.”

  After a while, she pulled into the driveway of an old white farmhouse set back from the road by a deep lawn. There was a cornfield to the left, and a few more houses scattered to the right. Kids, a couple of them white, were taking turns on a tire swing that hung from a big tree in the front yard. Some older men were playing horseshoes near the side of the house. And even before I opened the car door, I felt the thrum of music in the air. Chance the Rapper. I smiled, already moving my head to the beat. I had the feeling I was going to like it here.

  Lisa and I began walking across the lawn to the house. The day was finally beginning to cool off a bit, but I was still perspiring after a few steps.

  “Are the white kids from the neighborhood?” I asked.

  Lisa laughed and I was stunned when she put an arm around my shoulders. “Honey,” she said in a voice I hadn’t heard her use before, “I’m related to every one of these folks, one way or another. Our history goes back a long way. There were white big shots who had black women on the side, or forbidden love that couldn’t be out in the open, or rape, maybe. Who knows? A lot of powerful men and powerless women over the generations. It all adds up to a rainbow of hues in a black family.” She dropped her arm from my shoulder and immediately seemed to shift back to the distant Lisa I had come to know.

  The outside of the house had a choppy appearance, as though it had been added onto time and time again over the course of many years, but when Lisa and I walked inside, the warmth of the smooth wood floors, the low ceiling, and the chintz curtains gave me a homey feeling, as if we were stepping back in time. The rap music faded into the distance, and inside, the main noise came from the chatter of aproned women preparing huge trays of food and the hum of a window air conditioner.

  Lisa walked with me from room to room, introducing me to what seemed like an endless series of cousins and aunts. One of the gray-haired women hugged Lisa and said, “How’re you doing, darlin’? I know you missin’ your daddy.”

  “Fine, Auntie,” Lisa said. Returning to my side, she led me into a sitting room where several women sat close together on a sofa on either side of a small, shriveled woman with nearly white hair and coffee-colored skin. The little woman looked up when we entered the room.

  “Dodie!” she exclaimed to Lisa, reaching toward her with frail-looking arms that protruded from the ruffled, loose-fitting sleeves of her pink blouse.

  Lisa moved forward, taking the old woman’s hands.

  “No, Mama Nelle,” she said, bending low. “It’s Lisa, remember? Dodie was your big sister.”

  “Lisa! ’Course! Jesse’s little girl.” The woman’s gaze went past Lisa to me. “And who’s this?” she asked, her large dark eyes intent on me from behind tortoiseshell glasses.

  “This is Morgan Christopher,” Lisa said. “She’s stayin’ with me for a while. She’s an artist like Daddy—like Jesse—and I thought she might enjoy meetin’ Jesse’s family and seein’ where he grew up.”

  Mama Nelle reached for my hand. Hers was cool, the skin as soft as the cotton I used on the mural.

  “Hi, Mrs.…” I said.

  “Mama Nelle,” Lisa said.

  “Mama Nelle.” I smiled at the old woman who seemed reluctant as she let go of my hand. She turned her gaze again to Lisa.

  “Did Jesse come with you?” she asked.

  Lisa pulled up a straight-backed chair for me in front of the woman, then another for herself. “No, honey,” she said, sitting down, patient sadness in her voice. “Jesse passed a few months ago, darlin’. Remember?”

  “Oh, yes, I recall.” Mama Nelle looked at me again as I sat down. “You knew Jesse?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I wish I had,” I said. “I knew his work. His paintings. They’re amazing.”

  “How you know Lisa?”

  “I’m working on restoring a mural in the art gallery…” My voice trailed off, unsure how much Mama Nelle would know or understand of what I was saying, and the old woman frowned as if trying hard to follow me.

  “Mama Nelle,” Lisa said loudly, “remember Jesse wanted to have an art gallery built in town?”

  “Yes, I ’member.” Mama Nelle nodded. “He talked ’bout it for years and years.”

  “Well, Morgan is in town to restore an old mural Jesse wanted in the gallery. It has views of old Edenton in it.”

  Mama Nelle looked toward the window, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Miss Anna
’s mural?” she asked the air.

  I caught my breath. In the chair beside me, I thought Lisa did the same. “Anna Dale’s mural,” I said. “Is that who you mean? An artist named Anna Dale painted it in 1940.”

  “I loved Miss Anna,” Mama Nelle said. Her face had broken into a smile. She turned to the woman next to her. “Do you ’member her?”

  The woman shook her head. “I wasn’t born till 1950, Mama,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t go makin’ me older than I already am.”

  “How amazing,” Lisa said under her breath to me. “I had no idea she might know the artist.” Lisa raised her voice again. “You’ll have to come see it when it’s finished, Mama,” she said to the old woman. Then she nudged me. “Let’s go and—”

  “Can I stay and talk with her a while longer?” I asked.

  Lisa looked at her watch. “For a while,” she said. “We can’t stay too long. I have a world of calls to make yet tonight.”

  “Okay,” I said, and as Lisa headed back toward the kitchen, I turned my attention once more to Mama Nelle. The women on either side of the old woman gave me looks of caution.

  “She don’t remember much of anything, honey,” one of them said quietly. “Don’t put much stock in what she say.”

  I gave them an “okay, fine” smile before riveting my gaze on Mama Nelle.

  “How did you know Anna Dale?” I asked.

  “Who?” Mama Nelle responded.

  “You were just saying you remembered Anna … Miss Anna. The mural painter?”

  “The mural, yes. In the big barn.”

  “Big barn?”

  “Where she done paint it.” Mama Nelle lifted her trembling arms into the air again, wide apart. “Was like a … a big white garage wit’ big ol’doors,” she said.

  “The warehouse!” I said, remembering the photograph and article Oliver had shown me from the paper. “You’re right. She painted in a big warehouse. Can you tell me what she was like? Miss Anna?” I didn’t feel as though I could come right out and ask the old woman if Anna had been crazy.