A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  He turned, wearing a somewhat guilty look. “Shhhh . . .” Smiling, he held a finger to his lips. “If Cordina catches me in here again, I’m a goner.”

  Claire giggled and let the door swing shut behind her, surprised at how delighted she was to find him down there. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “Couldn’t sleep. And you?”

  She shook her head. “Me either.”

  “You hungry?” He pointed to a bowl of fresh eggs on the counter.

  “Starving.”

  “Here—” He gestured her closer. “Keep stirring this, and I’ll crack a couple more.”

  Claire did as he asked, feeling as though they were getting away with something. And it felt rather good. The kitchen was surprisingly well lit, with oil lanterns affixed to the walls. Only three flickered with a flame, but the white plastered walls seemed to multiply their efforts. “I meant to ask you yesterday . . .” She assumed a more formal tone. “How was the opera Wednesday evening?”

  He sighed. “Long, and wasted on me.”

  She laughed again, stirring as he added the two eggs he’d whipped in a separate bowl. He lifted the lid on a second pan set off to the side, revealing eight slices of bacon fried up brown and crisp.

  She peered up at him. “You’re a tad hungry.”

  “Always. But I’m willing to share.” He transferred the slices of bacon to a plate. “What about you? Do you enjoy the opera?”

  Claire kept her gaze on the scrambled eggs, reliving a tinge of the “out of place” feeling she’d experienced at dinner her first night at Belmont, yet she was determined not to show it. “Actually . . . I’ve never attended an opera.” She made a face. “But I’m guessing it would probably be wasted on me as well.”

  He flashed a smile, and she knew she’d said it convincingly enough. She was getting better at masking what she didn’t want others to see. She scooted the pan off the burner. “The eggs are ready.”

  “And so are”—Sutton grabbed a towel—“these.” He opened the oven door and withdrew a pan of golden brown biscuits.

  Claire looked from him to the pan, then back again. “Where did you learn how to cook? Most of the men I’ve known”—not that she’d known that many, she realized, thinking mainly of her father and Antoine DePaul—“didn’t know the first thing about anything culinary. Except the eating part.” She took the plates he handed her.

  “You don’t get to be my age without learning your way around a kitchen. Not if you want to eat.”

  She held the plates as he dished up the food. “Come, come, Mr. Monroe. You’re not that old.” She smiled sweetly, guessing him to be only a handful of years older than she. “You’re at least a good decade away from needing a cane.”

  He feigned a frown. “Such impudence after I made you breakfast.”

  She inhaled. “Which smells wonderful!” She carried the plates to a small side table and claimed one of the two chairs. He followed with coffee, steam rising from the cups.

  As she picked up her fork to start eating, she noticed Sutton’s outstretched hand and read the soft intention in his eyes. Uncomfortable at having revealed she didn’t follow the same routine, she returned her fork to the table and wordlessly slipped her hand into his.

  He bowed his head. “Father God, we thank you for this food and for the gift of friendship—” He spoke as if the One he addressed was seated right next to him instead of in another realm. “And for grace that is wholly undeserved, Lord. But upon which our souls depend. In Jesus’ name . . .”

  “Amen,” she whispered in unison with him, aware of how he gently squeezed her hand before letting go.

  “So . . .” He forked a bite of eggs. “What’s on your itinerary for the day?”

  Claire heard the question but was still thinking about his prayer . . . So simple, so honest. And he’d called her a friend. She was more touched by that than she should have been. But it had been a long time since she’d had a friend. Since boarding school. And even then, she’d never truly been close to any of the girls. She’d always felt on the outside. Different. Never quite able to bridge the gap.

  Aware of Sutton watching her, she directed her attention back to his question. “I have a meeting with Mrs. Acklen this afternoon about—”

  “The party.” He gave her a playfully ominous look.

  She nodded. “I’m afraid I’m still not quite ready for the meeting yet. But I will be! I thought an early-morning walk might help stir the imagination.”

  He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “That always works for me. Has anyone given you a tour of the estate?”

  She finished a piece of bacon and wanted to lick her fingers, but refrained. “Mrs. Routh gave me a tour of the main floor of the mansion. But no, I haven’t seen the grounds or any of the other buildings yet. This morning though, I’d planned on walking the fields you can see from my room. And may I add . . .” Fork in hand, she pointed to her plate. “This is delicious, kind sir, thank you.”

  “You’re most welcome, m’lady.” He winked, those bluish-gray eyes intent on hers, and something inside her went soft and warm. She felt a tightness begin to unfurl, like a wood shaving being devoured by the flame. Whatever the feeling was, it felt good. And inviting. So inviting, it almost scared her. What was it about Sutton Monroe that did that to her? That made her want to open up to him? To be closer, somehow.

  It would have been different if he were trying to gain her attention, as other men sometimes did. But Sutton didn’t seem to be the least aware of the effect he had on her.

  “The fields are a good choice for your walk.” He sipped his coffee. “It’s beautiful back in there. There’s an old Indian trail you can follow that leads down to a creek.” He drained his cup, eyed the coffeepot, and started to rise.

  Claire held up a hand. “Please, allow me.” She retrieved the coffeepot from the stove and refilled his cup, then hers, enjoying the chance to look at him without him looking at her.

  “So tell me, Claire . . .” He leaned back in his chair. “How long did you live in New Orleans?”

  Her guard heightened at the unexpected question. Not that it was overly personal. But it had to do with her past. “We lived there for about two years.”

  “Did you enjoy the city?”

  She returned the coffeepot to the stove. “Yes, for the most part.”

  “Where did you live? Chances are good I’ll know where it is. I’ve been to New Orleans many times for Mrs. Acklen on business.”

  Claire reclaimed her seat and took a sip of coffee, buying herself a little time. From her experience, most people enjoyed talking about themselves. She didn’t. And she wasn’t about to give him the name of the street where they had lived. Not when that could lead him straight to the gallery. “We lived not far from the Old Square, in the French Quarter.”

  His eyes widened. “So I’m sure you know Café du Monde.”

  She smiled, but only to cover her unease. Her two worlds were becoming far too close, far too fast. “Yes. I’ve been there before, but”—she waved a hand, eager to turn the subject away from her—“you asked me about my day. . . . Now what about yours? I’m guessing it’s busy, and that you have lawsuits to be fought and won, closing arguments to be delivered . . .”

  He stared at her, and for a second, she got the feeling he knew she was intentionally changing the subject. Then he smiled that easy smile.

  “No lawsuits, and no closing arguments either. But yes, it’s on the busy side. But first, another question.”

  He leaned forward, forearms on the table, and Claire tensed. I will not lie. I will not lie.

  “Would you allow me to give you a tour of the estate this evening? I’d enjoy showing it to you.”

  A weight lifted from her shoulders. “I’d love that, Sutton. . . . But didn’t Mrs. Acklen say something about having dinner guests tonight?”

  He winced, nodding. “The Worthingtons. I’d almost forgotten.”

  Claire reached for another bisc
uit. “Judging from your reaction, I’m guessing that whoever the Worthingtons are . . . they’re not listed among your favorite dinner guests.”

  “No, no. The Worthingtons are a very nice couple. And I’m certain dinner conversation will be quite lively.”

  Claire took a bite of biscuit and waited, eyebrows raised.

  “The Worthingtons appreciate fine art. Mrs. Worthington, especially. She and Adelicia—Mrs. Acklen—attended an art auction in town last year, one to benefit an orphanage, and they ended up bidding against each other for a painting. It was all quite civil, but Mrs. Worthington’s interest in the painting greatly increased once she realized Mrs. Acklen was also interested. There was a small scene. It made the papers the next day.”

  Claire took his words in, acting as though the mention of art auctions and paintings and biddings gone wild were of only passing interest to her. “I would imagine that type of situation happens frequently with Mrs. Acklen. And that her opinion of art, and everything else, is highly esteemed by the rest of the community.”

  Sutton took his time in answering. “Mrs. Acklen’s opinions and actions never go unnoticed. You can say that with full certainty.”

  Claire sipped her coffee as the reality of her situation once again stared her boldly in the face. Belmont was both the best—and absolute worst—place she could be. Mrs. Acklen’s sphere of influence with art in Nashville was far-reaching and highly esteemed. If Adelicia Acklen were to bestow her approval on a painting, or—Claire could hardly imagine such a thing happening—if by chance, she could paint something worthy of Mrs. Acklen’s bidding on that painting, others would certainly take notice. Mrs. Worthington along with everyone else.

  As sweet as that imagining was, an equally bitter thought overlaid it. If Mrs. Acklen were to uncover the truth about her family’s business and what she had done, Mrs. Acklen would see to it that she never worked in the state of Tennessee again. Much less, painted.

  And that was one promise Claire had no difficulty believing.

  Sutton stood and stacked their plates. “I have meetings in town this morning and afternoon, but I should be back in time for dinner. Which leads me back to my original question. If we have time after the meal, I’d be honored to show you the estate. Otherwise, sometime this weekend. Mrs. Acklen wants you to know what and where everything is for the day of the party.”

  Claire’s heart sank a little. So Mrs. Acklen had asked him to show her around. Not that that made any difference. She and Sutton were colleagues, after all. And, not to forget, he’d told her point-blank that he didn’t consider her qualified for the job. Sobered by the collection of thoughts, she reached for a smile. “I would appreciate your showing me the estate, Sutton. Thank you.”

  She gathered their cups, still grateful she’d ventured down to the kitchen, and remembering the look on his face when she’d opened the door. Which reminded her . . . “You said you’d be a goner if Cordina found you down here again. Why is that?”

  “I be tellin’ you why’s that, Miss Laurent.”

  Claire nearly dropped the cups. She spun around to see Cordina standing behind her in a doorway she hadn’t even noticed was there. Hands on hips, Cordina wore a look that said somebody had better do some explaining. And fast!

  17

  Cordina huffed, eyeing the kitchen stove. “Here you go again, Mr. Monroe. Just helpin’ yourself to my kitchen. Like I ain’t even here.”

  Claire stared, wide-eyed, not knowing to say. Or if she should say anything at all. She couldn’t believe Cordina was speaking this way to a man! Much less to Sutton Monroe. She didn’t even seem like the same woman who had welcomed her to the mansion. Claire started to volunteer to clean up their mess but hated to make things worse. She looked to Sutton for direction.

  His expression was surprisingly calm. “Now see here, Cordina. We’ve talked about this before. I’m quite—”

  “Comin’ in here, usin’ my stove this way. Fixin’ them plain ol’ eggs like you do.” Cordina picked up the egg pan and sniffed. “Not a shred of cheese in them things. Mmmph . . .” She shook her head and glowered at the remaining biscuits. “I’m bettin’ you didn’t even give this poor girl any butter for them ol’ hard things either. Or any of my jelly.” She tossed up her hands. “Lawd, help me! This man’s stealin’ my joy.”

  Slowly, it dawned on Claire what Cordina was frustrated about. It wasn’t that Sutton had used her kitchen, but that he’d cooked his own breakfast. Feeling a tickle of humor, she tried to get Sutton to meet her gaze. But he wouldn’t. As humorous as the situation seemed to her, she also sensed a thread of genuine irritation from Cordina.

  Almost without thinking, she feigned a cough, and Sutton’s and Cordina’s attention angled to her.

  She took a little gasp. “I nearly choked on those dry old biscuits,” she whispered, holding her throat. “If only I’d”—she coughed again—“had some jelly.” Uncertain whether she could hold back a grin, she found the determination to when seeing the start of their smiles.

  Sutton eyed her, shaking his head. “Are you serious?”

  Cordina let out a laugh. “Good for you, Miss Laurent! Us womenfolk, we got to stick together.”

  Claire finally allowed the hint of a smile, pleased with herself for her small performance—but even more, with the glint of humor in Sutton’s eyes.

  “Women,” he said beneath his breath, then looked at Claire, his gaze appraising. “I wouldn’t have thought you capable of such duplicity, Miss Laurent. Seems I underestimated you.” A wry smile tipped one side of his mouth. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Cordina laughed, and so did Claire, outwardly. But not so much on the inside. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she’d heard a touch of seriousness in Sutton’s tone, and once again she was reminded of how important it was to keep him on her side.

  Both as a colleague, and a friend.

  By the time she left on her walk, the sun had risen, though a hush still lay over the house. True to Sutton’s word, a well-worn path wound its way through the grass-covered meadows and across the maple-dotted ridge to a creek bed below.

  She spent the next hour searching and exploring, enjoying the discovery of wildflowers and foliage in the area and spying glimpses of approaching fall, little clues of color nature had hidden. Having missed taking walks in recent days, she reveled in the canted sunlight through the trees, the blue of sky, and longed for a fresh canvas, paintbrush, and palette with which to capture it all.

  As she walked, she thought about the events that had led her to Belmont, and try as she might, she couldn’t see them as anything less than orchestrated. “Things happen for a reason, Claire.” She could hear her mother’s voice clearly in her mind. No telling how often her mother had said that to her. Looking back, she wondered if her mother had said it to encourage her, or to convince herself.

  The soft, drawn-out coo of a mourning dove drifted toward her from over the hill, and Claire stared up into the cloudless sky. Until leaving New Orleans and arriving in Nashville, she hadn’t realized how heavy she’d felt inside. Not just lonely and alone but weighted down. Which didn’t make sense. How could she feel so empty and yet so weighted down with guilt?

  She told herself it wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t wanted to forge those paintings. But she’d done it. And, God forgive her, she would do it again if it meant providing money for her mother’s medicine. If it meant buying a chance that her maman might still be alive.

  But to think that her mother had lived with that same anvil of shame for so long . . . The guilt her mother had carried became undeniably clear the day before she’d passed.

  Claire sank down onto a flat lichen-covered rock and drew her legs up against her chest, still able to see her mother lying in the bed so clearly.

  “Water,” her mother had whispered, and Claire felt a flush of emotion as the folds of memory loosened and smoothed, offering up recollections of those final hours like jewels on a blanket. Claire had filled the cup a
nd held it to her lips. But her mother shook her head. So Claire dipped a fresh cloth in the cool liquid and sponged her fevered forehead and face. But again, her mother objected, tears coming. It broke Claire’s heart to see her cry. Her mother never cried. And when Claire held the water to her mouth again, her mother had whispered something she hadn’t understood. . . .

  “Pour it over me,” she’d begged, and Claire had stared down, not understanding, believing the laudanum had addled her mother’s reasoning. But her mother had known what she was asking, even if Claire hadn’t, at the time. So Claire had done exactly as her mother asked. Cupful by cupful, she’d poured the water over her mother’s frail body until the mattress was soaked and her mother was weeping. But tears of contentment this time, not of frustration. “Merci beaucoup, l’amour de moi,” Maman had whispered, a peace easing the traces of pain and illness from her face.

  A peace that still eluded Claire, but that she craved with everything in her.

  Claire wiped her cheeks and looked around. The meadow was empty, and from where she sat, she could barely see the top of the mansion. She was alone. She recalled how straightforward and honest Sutton’s prayer had been, and wanted to word her request to God just like that, as if He were right beside her. But the words that came to mind seemed forced.

  No, more than that. They seemed coercive. Like she was trying to bargain with God, convince Him that she was worth His time and attention, when really, deep down, she knew the opposite was true. Because she knew what she was. A fake. A forgery. Not good enough. And it wasn’t the paintings she was thinking of any longer. It was her.

  She sat for a while, wishing away the fear inside, wishing she could feel the sun’s warmth on her heart as she felt it on her face.

  By the time she started back, she guessed it had to be approaching nine o’clock. She’d thought of other ideas for William’s party on her walk, but none seemed worthy of presenting to Adelicia Acklen. But the idea would come. It had to.