Anna Dale, though … She’d been excited about the mural. She’d wanted to do a perfect job. Her heart had been in it and then something happened. It must have been something truly terrible to turn this pretty girl into … what? A mentally ill artist who mysteriously vanished from the art world? I shuddered. I wanted to do right by her. This girl who was my own age. I wanted to give life to the mural that Anna Dale never had the chance to give it.

The mural had been cut from its former stretcher so sloppily that it was a challenge to get it square on the new stretcher. It took a couple of hours for Adam, Wyatt, Oliver, and me, along with a few of the other construction workers, to stretch the mural into place and secure it with dozens of thumbtacks. I watched from a distance as the men attached the mural very low on the wall, helping them get it straight and square, ready for me to work on. Done with their job, the men returned to their work inside the gallery, but I stayed in the foyer a while longer. Now that the mural was on the wall, facing me head-on, the bare spots and the filth that seemed to coat every inch of the painting were more apparent, and yet the art behind the grime seemed to pop out at me. Those women and their broken teapot. They looked angry, didn’t they? The black woman in the upper right-hand corner seemed to grin around the stick she held in her teeth. The motorcycle looked ready to race from the mural into the foyer.

I thought of the newspaper article again and its photograph of the optimistic young woman with her short black bob. I shuddered. It was like seeing the photograph of someone in an obituary. You could see the ignorance in their faces. Their blindness to what was coming. Anna Dale had looked that way in the photograph. She’d been at the beginning of her adventure—the beginning that had somehow become an ending.

For the first time, I noticed the artist’s signature in the lower right corner of the mural and I walked forward to crouch in front of it. Anna Dale. Gently, I touched the filthy letters, but drew my fingers away quickly, startled by the roughness of the painting’s surface. Anna’s writing was vertical and round, painted in a grime-covered gold. I stared at the signature a while longer, wondering how a life that had started with so much promise could now be shrouded in such mystery.

Chapter 16. Anna

Chapter 16

ANNA

December 25, 1939

“You must be Anna!” Pauline Maguire handed the grocery bag she was carrying to her husband and reached for Anna’s hands. “Mama’s told me so much about you!”