He shrugged. “I think we admit that we don’t understand why Anna Dale added the objects and—as Lisa suggested—we invite the viewer to examine both the sketch and the mural and draw his or her own conclusions,” he said. “Then a biographical text will tell what we know—or rather, what we don’t know—about the reclusive artist.”

“‘Reclusive’ isn’t really the right word, though, is it?” I asked. “I mean, we don’t know if she was a recluse. We don’t even know if she was crazy. We only know that she did some things we don’t understand. Maybe ‘mysterious’ is a better word.” I looked at Oliver to see an amused expression on his face.

“You trying to take over my job?” he teased.

“No, thank you,” I said. “I have enough on my plate already. And I need to get back to work.”

“Me, too,” he said. “But first”—he pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out to me—“let’s exchange music for half an hour.”

I looked at his phone as if he’d lost his mind.

“C’mon,” he said. “You said I need to listen to Nathan’s music. Just thirty minutes. It’s an experiment.”

I smiled, then pulled my phone from my pocket and handed it over. I attached my earbuds to his phone as he did the same with mine. I slipped the earbuds into my ears. A guy was singing something mellow. Very mellow.

“This might put me to sleep,” I said. I watched Oliver wince at whatever it was he heard on my Spotify playlist. I laughed.

“Good luck,” I said.

“Same to you.”

He walked back to his table and I returned my attention to the mural and the delicate, half-missing eyelashes of one of the Tea Party ladies. Some of Oliver’s music was pretty, actually. I had to admit it. But it would never keep me awake for long.

When twenty-five minutes had passed, I turned to look at Oliver. He appeared to be deep in concentration, studying something on his computer, but his head was gently bopping to a beat I couldn’t hear. I laughed.

“Rock it, homeboy!” I called across the room, loud enough for him to hear.

He looked up and gave me a sheepish smile that made him look boyishly handsome. Pulling my phone from his pocket, he stood up and walked across the foyer to me and we exchanged phones again.

“Pretty music,” I said, “but a little too tame for my taste.” I nodded toward my phone. “And what did you think?”

“I get the attraction,” he said. “The beat. The rhythm. The … um … power in it. And some of the women—their lyrics are moving. But I couldn’t take a steady diet of it the way you and Nathan can.”

“We’ll have to toughen you up,” I teased.