It struck me as an odd question to ask after all these months and I guessed she was just making conversation. My heart pounded every time she neared the mural, but she seemed disinterested in it. Instead, she studied my paints table, peered into the metal bucket where I keep my straight-edge and tape measure and other tools, all the while asking me lackadaisical questions about the trials of working in isolation. I tried to determine what she was getting at. The only thing I could think of was Jesse. She was feeling me out to see if Jesse and I were now—or were still—more than friends. It began to irritate me, her idle chatter, and after a short time I got to my feet and told her I needed to get back to work.

She looked abashed and apologized for keeping me from my painting.

“No bother,” I said. I told her it had been a delight to have her visit. I added that I didn’t think I’d be in Edenton much longer, and she asked if I’d go back to New Jersey. I said I most likely would. How I wish I knew where I was going! I told her I’d have the supplies to install the mural within a couple of weeks, and then could have kicked myself for mentioning the mural, since her gaze darted toward it. I ushered her quickly to the door, thanked her for the cookies, and sent her on her way.

What an odd visit! Now, though, I feel bad about it. Maybe Pauline was lonely and I’d rushed her out, blathering on about inconsequential things, when she may have had a burning need to confide in a true friend. So now I feel guilty for treating her as less than that. Perhaps she was trying to make amends. I am ashamed that I didn’t let her.

Friday, May 24, 1940

I’m terrified as I write this.

No, Pauline was not looking for genuine friendship yesterday. Pauline was a damn spy! I thought she was behaving oddly, but it never occurred to me that she was doing her husband’s dirty work. How foolish of me for not guessing!

Jesse was at his easel this morning and I was working on my signature on the mural, when a knock came on the warehouse door. Jesse and I looked at each other. We hadn’t heard a car and I had no idea who it might be. I stood up from the crate where I’d been sitting to paint my name, walked to the door and pulled it open. There stood Karl Maguire in his police uniform. I peered around the door frame to see his car parked far down the road. He’d wanted to surprise me. Or surprise us, I suppose.