Andrea stopped in her tracks in the middle of the foyer. “Well,” she said, “that certainly looks different than the last time I saw it.” She looked at me, and I was afraid she might ask if I’d done the work entirely by myself. Did I have to admit to Oliver’s contribution to point one percent of the mural? But Andrea just smiled.

“Nice job, Morgan,” she said. She walked toward the side wall where Anna’s original sketch was displayed along with the “before” photograph of the mural and Oliver’s wall text about Anna Dale. She glanced from the photograph to the mural. “Unbelievable job, actually,” she said. Then she turned to Lisa. “You all set for the grand opening?”

“We are.” Lisa smiled broadly, and I knew she was letting out her breath in relief at Andrea’s response to the mural. Lisa was home free. “Let me show you around,” she said.

The two women started down the curved hallway and Oliver looked at me. “How’re you doing this morning?” he asked.

I looked again at the mural. It filled the entire foyer with color. “I think,” I said, returning my gaze to Oliver, “that I want to be an art restorer.”

He smiled. “And I think that’s an excellent idea,” he said. “Lots of schooling ahead of you, though.”

“That’s better than lots of jail time.”

He laughed and held an arm toward me. “Come here,” he said.

I walked over to him and he wrapped me in a hug. “You okay after last night?” He spoke quietly into my ear.

I knew what he meant. His loving words in the van. The kiss.

“I don’t know.” I pulled away with a smile. “I was really enjoying the whole ‘big brother’ thing.”

“This’ll be even better,” he said, a serious expression on his face now. “I promise.”

The front door opened and two women walked into the foyer, dressed in their Sunday clothes. “We’re your Art Guild volunteers, ready to man the information desk,” one of them said.

“Perfect,” said Oliver, letting go of me. “Let me show you around.”

It was an extraordinary day. People came from as far away as Asheville and Washington, D.C., and the reporter from the Charlotte Observer stayed for two hours. She interviewed me about the mural, and toward the end of our talk, she pointed to my alcohol monitor and said, “Interesting ankle jewelry.”

I told her the truth, all of it, while she scribbled her notes, and I had the feeling the whole tone of the article she would write changed in that moment.