“I don’t have a license.”

He studied me curiously and I held his gaze. “DUI?” he asked.

I nodded.

“You went to prison for a DUI?”

“It … got complicated.”

He raised his eyebrows in a gesture I was beginning to think of as uniquely his. “I’ll send one of the builders to get the material,” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “Really. Sorry to create more problems for you.”

He touched my bare shoulder lightly again. “Did you design this tattoo?” he asked.

“I did,” I said.

“It’s a stunner,” he said, then smiled, “and I don’t want to hear you put yourself down as an artist again.”

“Thank you.” I smoothed my hand over the tattoo, my cheeks heating up with the compliment … and the reprimand.

“So.” Oliver returned his attention to the mural. “There’s remarkably little flaking for you to deal with. That’s a miracle. So I don’t think you’ll have to do any consolidation, which is fortunate, because it would take me a long time to teach you how to do that.” He pointed to a section of the canvas. “Your biggest job is going to be inpainting, given all the abrasions. Fortunately she—Anna Dale—painted very thinly. That’s to your benefit.”

I’d never heard the term “inpainting” before, but I could guess what it meant. I’d look it up to be sure. “Thank you again, Oliver,” I said. “I’m sorry. I know I’m taking you away from your work.”

“I want to see this done right.” He motioned for me to follow him into the gallery. “Come with me,” he said. “I have an office here, such as it is at the moment. Let me show you what I found out about Anna Dale.”

Chapter 14. Anna

Chapter 14

ANNA

December 14, 1939

Anna’s picture and an article about her were in the Chowan Herald on Thursday morning, and she felt rather famous. She was glad the interview and picture-taking was over with, though. It had unnerved her, all of it. The reporter made her go to the warehouse. She’d been afraid he was going to ask her to pose inside it, and she was relieved when he said the lighting wouldn’t be good for an interior photograph. She would have to get over the discomfort she felt inside the building. Those dark corners. That beamed ceiling with its hanging lights and fans. She knew why that ceiling distressed her so. She was just going to have to get past the discomfort. Once she filled the warehouse with her work and supplies, she hoped it would seem less ominous to her.

The reporter took the picture of her with the warehouse in the background, then asked her questions about her plans for the mural and she gave him her new pat line: “I will paint something to make Edenton proud,” she said.