“The upstairs is mine,” Lisa said, “so off-limits to you. We’ll share the kitchen, but I don’t expect either of us to be here much except to sleep. You’re going to be practically living in the gallery, and I have more than enough work to keep me busy. We’ll take care of our own meals. The housekeeper comes on Wednesdays and she’s here most of the day.” She gave me a stern look. “Absolutely no drugs in this house,” she said. “I know you had a problem and I—”

“Not with drugs.” I felt defensive. “I never—”

“I keep wine in the kitchen,” Lisa interrupted me. “Is that going to be an issue for you?”

“No. I don’t drink. Not anymore. And I never drank wine, anyway. Only beer.”

Lisa gave a laugh that sank my spirits. “Hard to drink in prison, I suppose,” she said.

“I’m done,” I insisted. I would never drink again. Not ever.

Lisa looked at me as though unsure whether to believe me or not. “Fine,” she said finally. “If it becomes a problem for you, let me know and I’ll keep the wine in my room. I can move a minifridge in—”

“It won’t be a problem.” I felt my cheeks burning. I wished she’d stop talking about it.

“No smoking in the house.”

“I don’t smoke.”

“All right, then.” Lisa gestured toward the hall. “The bathroom’s right down the hall by the kitchen. Freshen up and let’s go see your mural.”

Chapter 4

ANNA

December 5, 1939

Anna wondered if it was rude to write in her journal while eating breakfast in the big hotel restaurant but decided not to worry about it. The hotel guests were not the people she needed to impress. So, in between bites of soft-boiled eggs and sausage—which came in a flat patty instead of the links she was accustomed to—she jotted down her thoughts. Grits were also on the menu. She’d heard of them but had no idea what they were, and after seeing them on another diner’s plate, she decided to pass. The accents flowed around her like syrup, easy and affable and unfamiliar. She supposed she would sound just as strange to her fellow diners.

Most of the people in the restaurant were men, and she felt their eyes on her. Was it the journal? Her hair? Maybe she should have gotten a more suitable hairdo before heading here to Edenton, but she’d been wearing her nearly black hair in a bob with bangs for so long that she wouldn’t recognize herself without it. Perhaps she wouldn’t fit in with this style here, but she was her mother’s daughter: when had she ever cared about fitting in?