“Smith Mountain Lake, yeah,” he said, rifling through the stack of paper. “I’ve already bought us some new fishing gear. It’ll be a full week of him groaning at me and saying, “Daaaad, you’re such a dork.” He laughed, though quickly sobered. “He’s the light of my life,” he said.

I smiled at him. He was so sweet. I wished I’d had a father who’d felt that way about his kid.

Adam suddenly appeared in the doorway of the office. He was taller than I’d realized. Taller and broader and half naked. He pulled his T-shirt on over the glistening skin of his chest, messing up his bun.

“We’re ready to start stretching the mural,” he said to Oliver. “You said you wanted to help?” I wondered if he’d intentionally waited to put on his shirt until he was in front of me because when he caught my eye, he was grinning at me. I looked away. I wasn’t here to find a man, especially one who reminded me of Trey.

“Be out in a sec,” Oliver said, and Adam disappeared down the hallway. Oliver pulled a yellowed piece of newspaper from the pile he’d been sorting through. “So,” he said, “here’s what I wanted to show you. Lisa gave me a big folder of Jesse’s plans for the gallery and I found this in it.”

He handed me the yellowed article, folded in half. I unfolded it carefully and laid it flat on the edge of the makeshift desk. Leaning forward, I read the date at the top of the page: December 14, 1939. The headline: New Jersey Artist to Paint Mural for Edenton Post Office.

“It’s your Anna Dale,” Oliver said.

My Anna Dale. The words made me feel instantly closer to the artist. There was a photograph of a girl about my age standing a distance in front of what looked like a warehouse. She wore a light-colored, neatly tailored coat and gloves, but no hat. Her hair looked very dark—maybe even black—and it was cut in a striking chin-length bob with thick straight bangs that just grazed her eyebrows. The overall look was very dramatic and, at the same time, almost impish. She wore an engaging smile. A confident smile. She didn’t look the least bit deranged.

“Wow,” I said. “So this is our talented and possibly nutso Anna Dale?”

“Read it,” Oliver said.

I read the article to myself.