By Vicki Lane
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Extra resources for Art's Blood
Right after we ate…say seven or seven-thirty. And it was well after nine when her father called, and I remember looking at the clock in the car when Ben and I were heading down the road to see about the fire. It was ten-thirteen. But what does all of this have to do with anything? ” “Well, don’t you think it’s a possibility that this nanny person is working for her father…that he set the fire so Kyra would have to go back home? Or at least back to Asheville, where she’d be easier to keep an eye on?
It was far more rustic than any place I had ever visited but nothing like the horrors my mother had imagined. I decided, however, that I would not mention the outhouse in my letters home. My room was simple and scrupulously clean. An iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, a small table and chair, and a wooden rocker were the furnishings. A row of pegs on one wall were my closet; a kerosene lamp on the table, my illumination. But there was a soft pink and green hooked rug on the floor, a white and pink quilt on the bed, and airy white embroidered curtains hung at the window.
The two women were eager to introduce me to their chosen way of life, and their words tumbled over one another’s as they told me something of their history. Geneva had been raised in Atlanta; Carolyn in Charleston. They had each come to North Carolina to attend a weaving class at Penland School for Handicrafts. It was there that they had met and there that the idea for their Center had been born. Both held Miss Lucy Morgan, Penland’s founder, in considerable esteem, and they readily admitted that their venture was modeled on the Penland example.