“Well, they said you were selected fair and square, so we’ll make it work, right?”

“Of course.” She shifted in the chair, hoping to take some control over this meeting. “And who is ‘we’?” she asked.

“The folks who run this town,” he said. “The movers and shakers. Our Mayor Sykes. Then there’s the editor of our paper, the Chowan Herald. Our various business leaders and myself, of course.”

“I see.” She realized she’d been mispronouncing “Chowan,” the county Edenton was in, if only in her head. It was Cho-WAN. She would have to remember that. What else was she getting wrong? “Well,” she said. “I’m going to do my best to give Edenton a mural it can be proud of.”

“I’d like to see your sketch,” he said. He looked toward her hands where they rested in her lap as though she might have the thirty-six-by-eighteen-inch sketch hidden away inside her coat. “Do you have it with you?”

“I don’t have a sketch yet,” she admitted, then told him about winning the competition based on her sketch of Bordentown, New Jersey.

“So you have no sketch at all for an Edenton mural?” He sounded aghast, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead toward his hairline again. “Do you have an idea, at least?”

“That’s why I’m here,” she said, trying to reassure him with a calm voice, although her stomach tightened with anxiety. “I want to learn about Edenton to get a subject—or subjects—for the mural. Perhaps I could meet with … the movers and shakers, as you call them? I need to learn what’s near and dear to an Edentonian’s heart.”

“A fine idea.” He nodded, finally looking a bit more relaxed. “I can set somethin’ up for next week.”

“I’m afraid I’m only here for two more nights,” she said. “Is it possible to get together with them sooner?”

He hesitated, looking thoughtful, then nodded again. “I’ll make some calls,” he said. He picked up a pencil from his desk but did nothing with it other than tap it on his blotter. “There’s somethin’ you should know,” he said, eyeing her from beneath those unruly brows.

“Yes?”

“An Edenton artist by the name Martin Drapple—a fella everyone knows—he was born and raised here, as was his daddy. Anyway, he also sent in a sketch to the Forty-eight-States Contest. Understand?” He looked at her to see if she was following him. She was. “No one will think it’s very fair some young girl from New Jersey won when Martin has lived here his whole life, right?” he said. “Martin’s a fine artist, too. Near everyone has a Martin Drapple painting hangin’ somewhere in their house. Everyone expected him to win.” He let out a small chuckle. “’Specially him,” he added.