“No, Mama Nelle,” she said, bending low. “It’s Lisa, remember? Dodie was your big sister.”

“Lisa! ’Course! Jesse’s little girl.” The woman’s gaze went past Lisa to me. “And who’s this?” she asked, her large dark eyes intent on me from behind tortoiseshell glasses.

“This is Morgan Christopher,” Lisa said. “She’s stayin’ with me for a while. She’s an artist like Daddy—like Jesse—and I thought she might enjoy meetin’ Jesse’s family and seein’ where he grew up.”

Mama Nelle reached for my hand. Hers was cool, the skin as soft as the cotton I used on the mural.

“Hi, Mrs.…” I said.

“Mama Nelle,” Lisa said.

“Mama Nelle.” I smiled at the old woman who seemed reluctant as she let go of my hand. She turned her gaze again to Lisa.

“Did Jesse come with you?” she asked.

Lisa pulled up a straight-backed chair for me in front of the woman, then another for herself. “No, honey,” she said, sitting down, patient sadness in her voice. “Jesse passed a few months ago, darlin’. Remember?”

“Oh, yes, I recall.” Mama Nelle looked at me again as I sat down. “You knew Jesse?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I wish I had,” I said. “I knew his work. His paintings. They’re amazing.”

“How you know Lisa?”

“I’m working on restoring a mural in the art gallery…” My voice trailed off, unsure how much Mama Nelle would know or understand of what I was saying, and the old woman frowned as if trying hard to follow me.

“Mama Nelle,” Lisa said loudly, “remember Jesse wanted to have an art gallery built in town?”

“Yes, I ’member.” Mama Nelle nodded. “He talked ’bout it for years and years.”

“Well, Morgan is in town to restore an old mural Jesse wanted in the gallery. It has views of old Edenton in it.”

Mama Nelle looked toward the window, her brow furrowed in concentration. “Miss Anna’s mural?” she asked the air.

I caught my breath. In the chair beside me, I thought Lisa did the same. “Anna Dale’s mural,” I said. “Is that who you mean? An artist named Anna Dale painted it in 1940.”

“I loved Miss Anna,” Mama Nelle said. Her face had broken into a smile. She turned to the woman next to her. “Do you ’member her?”

The woman shook her head. “I wasn’t born till 1950, Mama,” she said with a laugh. “Don’t go makin’ me older than I already am.”

“How amazing,” Lisa said under her breath to me. “I had no idea she might know the artist.” Lisa raised her voice again. “You’ll have to come see it when it’s finished, Mama,” she said to the old woman. Then she nudged me. “Let’s go and—”

“Can I stay and talk with her a while longer?” I asked.