“Got it,” I said. I watched Oliver use short pointillist strokes with a tiny brush, touching the canvas with the gentlest care, but I was remembering what Nathan had said about not going to Smith Mountain Lake with him and felt like putting a comforting arm across his shoulders. I glanced at Nathan where he was engrossed in the computer. Spoiled little guy. I supposed most twelve-year-olds were just like him, only thinking of their own needs. Their own wants. I hadn’t been that way, though. No one could ever have accused me of being spoiled.

“If you want me to check your work the first few times, just ask,” Oliver said, bringing me back to the here and now. “Might be a good idea.”

I smiled at him from under the visor. “You worried I can’t do it?”

“The paint’s just different than what you’re used to,” he said. “But I have confidence in you.”

By the end of the day, I’d inpainted one tiny square inch near the upper left-hand corner of the mural. It was only background, only blue sky, nothing like what I’d be dealing with later—one of the Tea Party ladies’ missing eyelashes, for example—things that would truly matter, but Oliver declared my work competent. His faint praise told me it was quitting time for the day and I was relieved to slip the visor from my head.

Standing back, I looked up at the speck of paint that had taken me so long to apply. August fifth, I thought. One short month away. Slowly, I shook my head. This was going to be impossible.

Chapter 30. Anna

Chapter 30

ANNA

January 17, 1940

Anna stopped in the library on her way to the warehouse, hoping to pick up some art books for Jesse. Peter had borrowed some of the library’s books on drawing, and when Anna suggested to Jesse that he do the same, he replied, “Ain’t no colored library here, Miss Anna.” She’d been more frustrated than surprised at that news. So she checked out some books for him herself, wondering what the librarian would say or do if she told her she planned to put them into the hands of a colored boy. But she behaved herself, quietly checking out the books without comment. She thought people talked about her quite enough already.

She’d been working on the cartoon alone in the warehouse for a few hours when an unfamiliar man suddenly pushed open the door and strutted into the space as though he owned it. Anna stepped back from the cartoon, charcoal pencil in hand, unsure if she should be frightened or angered by the intrusion.

“You’re Anna Dale?” the man asked, his voice deep and gruff.

“Yes, and you’re…?”

“I’m Riley Wayman,” he said. “Theresa Wayman’s father.”