A Lasting Impression (40 page)

He smiled, but in a way that made Claire wary. She unfolded her napkin, draped it across her lap, and scanned the faces around the table, growing more nervous by the second.

Finally, Mrs. Acklen leaned forward. “I’ve concocted the most marvelous plan, Miss Laurent! And I think you’re going to love it!”

Diddie wriggled in her seat, and Madame LeVert looked about ready to burst. Cara Netta glanced at Sutton with a look Claire couldn’t interpret.

“It’s a party!” Pauline blurted, then clasped a pudgy little hand over her mouth as her brothers frowned in her direction.

“A
reception,
actually.” Mrs. Acklen tossed her daughter a playfully stern smile. “In honor of Madame LeVert, and we’ll host it right here at Belmont. It will be the social event of the season! I stayed up late last night working on the guest list and the menu. And I’m eager for your ideas, Miss Laurent, on invitations and decorations and centerpieces. And then there’s the music, of course, and party favors, and . . .”

As Mrs. Acklen continued to speak, Claire listened, her mind already churning. Maybe it was because she’d slept so little and so ill, but she couldn’t get excited about planning another huge event. Not when she needed to be painting. Yet she didn’t
dare
let her reaction show. After all, meeting Mrs. Acklen’s every need was her job.

She’d barely had two weeks to plan the birthday party for forty-seven children and their parents, and the party preparations had consumed nearly every waking minute. But with the proper time to plan the reception, to choose and coordinate details—

Claire’s thoughts screeched to a halt. She’d heard Mrs. Acklen mention a number but was certain she’d misunderstood. “Pardon me, Mrs. Acklen, but . . .
how
many guests did you say?”

Mrs. Acklen tilted her head to one side as though communicating her displeasure at being interrupted. “I said one thousand, Miss Laurent. Perhaps a few more than that. . . . I’ll let you know.”

Claire could scarcely wrap her mind around that number of people in one place. Much less in a house. And with tables and favors and centerpieces and invitations. And the cost! She looked across the table at Sutton, who gave her an almost imperceptible nod of his head, as though to say, “Stay calm.”

“But not to worry, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen gestured to Cordina and two other women who came from the kitchen bearing breakfast—“the reception isn’t until December eighteenth. So that gives you a good seven weeks to get everything in order!”

Seven weeks!
Seated sidesaddle on Athena, Claire prodded the feisty black mare uphill, her mind churning. Seven weeks to plan a reception for over one thousand guests! “The social event of the season,” Mrs. Acklen had said.

Claire’s head felt ready to explode.

She’d masked her frustration well, she thought, but the moment breakfast was over, she’d made a beeline for the stables. Until Mrs. Acklen caught her in the entrance hall. “Mrs. Worthington has invited us to coffee this morning, Miss Laurent, and I felt we needed to accept, seeing as the LeVerts are leaving Belmont in the morning . . .”

As soon as Claire heard the words, she’d begun formulating an excuse as to why she couldn’t attend. But as it turned out,
she
hadn’t been included. The invitation was extended to Mrs. Acklen and the LeVerts only.

Athena bounded over the crest of the hill, and Claire reined in, breathing hard but welcoming the exertion. She hadn’t wanted to go to the silly coffee anyway. It would have meant making polite conversation on topics of no interest that she knew little to nothing about, and sipping too-weak coffee when she preferred the richness of
café au lait.
 . . .

She sighed. So if she hadn’t wanted to go, why was it bothering her that she’d not been invited?

She prodded Athena forward through stands of pine and white birch, hoping the path led where she thought it would. She leaned forward and gave Athena’s neck a rub, appreciating the animal’s speed and strength, as well as Mrs. Acklen’s permission to ride the mare whenever she desired. Never in all her days could Claire have afforded such a fine mount.

That last thought lingered, settled, and the reason for her frustration became clearer, and reached far deeper than disappointment over not being invited to coffee. She didn’t belong in Adelicia’s world of wealth and privilege. She had no right to be there. The world of afternoon teas, fancy silk dresses, and evenings at the opera was as foreign to her as racing thoroughbreds at Nashville’s Burns Island track was to Athena.

The pretty black mare tossed her head as though voicing her disagreement at the thought. Claire ran her fingers through Athena’s mane. “It doesn’t make you any less a fine horse, pretty girl,” she whispered. “It just makes you”—she thought of Sutton and Cara Netta—“different from them.”

Seeing Antoine DePaul had done more than frighten her. It had forced her to see herself again for who she really was—Claire Elise Laurent, daughter of Gustave and Abella Laurent. Her father, an art dealer who had made his living selling fraudulent paintings from a second-rate gallery. And her
maman,
the gifted, but misguided, artist who had painted them.

But even more than showing her who she was—Claire’s throat thickened with unshed tears—seeing him had revealed who she wanted to be. Herself, only, truer. More honest. Without the past dogging her heels and without the feeling that, at any moment, her old self could show up and wreak havoc. But how did she become that person she wanted to be without sacrificing everything she now enjoyed?

The path ahead opened as she’d hoped it would. She dismounted and stood close to Athena, holding the mare’s bridle and looking out across the valley, feeling small and insignificant. And yet, strangely, not as alone as she’d once felt.

Belmont sprawled below, the mansion and grounds professing a different kind of splendor when viewed from this height. The flourish of fall was only days away and she wished the canvases and paints she’d ordered would hurry up and arrive. Not that she would have time to paint now.

Bitter irony tinged her tongue. She was in the perfect place to create, literally surrounded by beauty and where she had the opportunity for her work to be seen by people of influence, and yet she had no supplies. And even when they did finally arrive, she would have no time to paint. She had the
social event of the season
to plan!

She half laughed, half sighed.

She still believed God had led her to Belmont, and was grateful to Him for that. But why lead her to a place with such opportunity, and then keep her so busy she couldn’t pursue her painting? She wanted to create something that would last. That would stir people’s emotions so they would feel the passion she poured into her work and would recognize her giftedness.

She reached up and scratched Athena behind the ears. Not only did she see little evidence of God’s plan for her painting, she also didn’t think His timing was very—

The distinct thud of hoofbeats sounded, and Claire turned toward the treelined path to see a horse and rider cresting the hilltop. Recognizing both, she smiled.

Sutton reined in beside her, out of breath. “You’re a hard woman to catch.”

She peered up, shading her eyes from the sun. “You followed me?”

“I tried.” He leaned forward and rested his arm on the saddle horn. “You and Athena tore out of there pretty fast.”

“I did not. I waited until after Mrs. Acklen and the LeVerts left to go to coffee.” Hearing a hint of defensiveness in her tone, she smiled and glanced at Athena. “This pretty little girl just needed to work off some frustration.”

Sutton dismounted, his hair windblown. “And what about
this
pretty little girl . . .” He reached up and tugged a curl at her temple. “Has she worked off her frustration too?”

Claire’s heart did a little flip.
He’s a friend. He’s only a friend.
Remembering the
stay calm
look he’d given her at breakfast, she shook her head. “I hope my feelings weren’t too obvious.”

“Only to me. But I know what to look for.”

She narrowed her eyes, pretending to be offended. “And just what does that mean?”

“I’m not about to tell you my secrets. Let’s just say you covered your lack of enthusiasm fairly well.”

“Except to you.”

He winked. “Except to me.” He looped Truxton’s reins over a branch, and Claire did the same with Athena’s. Sutton took a few steps forward. “Pretty up here, isn’t it? Prettiest view in all of Nashville.”

Maybe it was the softness in his voice or the way he looked out over the countryside as she’d done earlier, but Claire didn’t get the sense he was intentionally trying to change the subject. “Yes, it is. I’d love to paint it. Someday.”

“Which reminds me . . . Your canvases and paints were just delivered. That’s what I came to tell you. I told Eli and Zeke to put everything in your room. I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you, Sutton. I was hoping they would arrive soon.” She could hardly wait to open up everything. And how thoughtful of him to ride to tell her. His gaze settled on a point in the distance, and she wondered . . . “What are you looking at?”

He inched back toward her, pointing. “See that rise just there to the left? Near where that bird’s flying right now?”

She moved closer and peered down the line of his arm. “Yes, I see it.”

“That’s Laurel Bend, my family’s land. Our house stood just over that hill there. My grandfather built it in 1817, when my father was a boy.”

“Our house stood,”
he’d said. Past tense. She sneaked a look at him, remembering his comments from last night and hearing the same subtle hurt in his voice now that she had then.

“My grandparents raised seven children in that house.”

She felt herself responding to his sad smile. “And how many did
your
parents raise?”

He turned to her, his face close. “Only one. They wanted more, but . . . it never happened.” He lowered his arm, studying her with an intensity that sent a shiver through her.

“I don’t know whether my parents wanted any more children or not,” she whispered, thinking it strange now that she didn’t know that. Yet being this close to him, seeing the tiny flecks of gold in his eyes, she felt no interest in exploring the question. “But regardless, I was it.”

He smiled. “And I’m betting you were more than enough for them both. For your father especially, when it came to fending off interested young men.”

His words wounded in a way she knew he couldn’t fathom, nor had intended, and she turned away.

“Claire . . .” He urged her back, but she resisted. “Claire,” he whispered again, closing what little distance there was between them. His hands on her face were her undoing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken about your father with such casualness. I’m—”

“No, Sutton. It’s . . . not that.” She tried to smile and brush it off, but a tear slipped from the corner of her eye. “It’s nothing.”

He wiped it away with his thumb. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

She shook her head, unwilling to tell him more.

He leaned closer, his features tensing, as though he were wrestling with something, and losing. “I need to tell you something,” he whispered, his voice husky. “About . . . me and Cara Netta.”

Cara Netta.
The name made her pull back an inch or two.

The lines at the corners of his eyes grew more pronounced. “Cara Netta and I . . . We’ve spoken and . . .” Certainty deepened his gaze. “I want you to know that the understanding between us has changed.”

“Changed?” Claire whispered.

He looked at her long and steady. “She and I have been friends for many years. And, somewhere along the way, we confused our friendship for . . . something more.”

Something more.
That was a good term for what she felt for him. Something more than friendship. Far more . . . Whatever conversation he’d had with Cara Netta, it had pained him. Claire could tell by the regret shading his expression. And no doubt, that conversation had hurt Cara Netta too. Which explained her reticence that morning at breakfast. “Does Cara Netta agree with your conclusion? About . . . your friendship?”

He didn’t answer immediately. “Maybe not right now. But I have no doubt she will, given time.”

Knowing Cara Netta what little she did and how much she seemed to care for Sutton, Claire questioned how soon that would happen. Yet she couldn’t deny a sense of relief at the news. Even hopefulness.

“I’m sorry, Claire, again, if my not telling you about her earlier on hurt you in any way.” He cradled her face, stroking the curve of her cheek with his thumb, and unknowingly fanning the spark inside her into a flame. “I promise you, that was never my intention. Your . . . friendship is very important to me.”

“And yours is the most important of my life, Sutton.” His thumb stilled on her cheek. Claire read surprise in his eyes, and for an instant, she wished she could take back the words.

Then he smiled, only the tiniest bit, and more with his eyes than with his lips. Oh, but those lips . . .