A Lasting Impression (47 page)

With a dip of his head, Eli left, and Sutton closed the door behind him. Hand on the door latch, Sutton stared at her.

“What is it?” Claire asked.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten your next appointment.”

She glanced at the clock, scanning her memory, then shook her head. “I’m sorry but—”

He walked to the desk, picked up the leather portfolio Mrs. Acklen had given her at Thanksgiving, and opened it. “November thirtieth.” He peered over the book as if the date should have special meaning.

“I
know
what day it is, Sutton. But I—”

“At twelve thirty sharp.”

She knew full well there was nothing written on her calendar for twelve thirty today. Her next appointment was at half past one with a company specializing in decorative lanterns and other illumination devices for gardens. But still, she played along. “And what, pray tell, does this twelve-thirty appointment involve?”

“Lunch, Miss Laurent.” He snapped the portfolio shut. “With me.”

Claire walked with him outside to the gazebo nearest the house, the one he’d “fallen” out of. Inside was a patchwork quilt, spread on the floor, and a basket set off to one side. Filled with picnic food, she guessed by the loaf of fresh bread peeking out. What she noticed next warmed her heart. Dotting the blanket were red and orangey-yellow maple leaves.

“You haven’t had much time to paint,” he said. “Not like you’ve wanted to. So I thought I’d bring some remnants of fall color to you. I caught a glimpse of the paintings in your room.” He got a shy look about him. “I came looking for you the other day, but you weren’t there and your door was open. The one of the hillside all ablaze is especially beautiful.”

Claire shook her head, knowing it was far from her best work. “Thank you, Sutton, but . . . it didn’t turn out as I’d hoped.”

The painting of the hillside lacked something. As did the ones of the rose garden and the statues she’d painted in the garden. Maybe it had been the flat afternoon light—early morning was better, but her mornings had all been scheduled. Maybe it was her texturing or color choice. She wasn’t sure. She only knew she wasn’t pleased. With any of them. And none of them would garner serious interest at the auction, much less make a name for her.

She required more time to paint well. She was a fairly quick sketcher, but painting a portrait or landscape took her hours, if not days, and grueling repetition. She thought of her
Versailles.
How much time had she spent studying Brissaud’s style, his technique, until she’d mastered it.

Until she’d made it her own.

Sutton tipped her chin upward. “The time to paint more often will come, I promise. But I want you to know that you’re doing an excellent job with the reception. This event promises to be the grandest Nashville has ever witnessed.” He lifted a curl from her shoulder. “And you’ve probably been too busy to notice, but Mrs. Acklen is starting to receive invitations again. She’s visiting friends in town. She’s taking flowers and food to people at church. I haven’t seen her so happy or so . . .
hopeful
in a very long time.”

Claire appreciated the compliment, but her attention honed in on one thing only. “She’s starting to receive invitations
again
? What do you mean by that?”

Sutton looked away, as if realizing he’d misspoken. “I didn’t mean anything by it, necessarily. Only that . . .” A seriousness moved over him. “Sometimes people in positions of wealth and influence such as Mrs. Acklen can become the object of gossip and ridicule, whether it’s warranted or not. As you can well see”—he motioned to their surroundings—“Mrs. Acklen came through the war rather well, compared to others. And some people begrudge her that.”

Claire wanted to ask him if he begrudged her resilience but couldn’t bring herself to voice the words.

“My point,” he continued, “was that you’re making such a difference here. One for which I’m personally most thankful.”

Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, half wishing at the last second that he would turn his mouth toward hers. But he didn’t. And she told herself she was fine with that.

They made quick work of the bread, sliced ham, and cheese, talking as they ate. For dessert—which Cordina insisted be part of every meal—they each had one of Cordina’s tea cakes. A third tea cake remained, and they both eyed it.

“We could Indian-wrestle for it,” he said, giving her a look that made her grateful for the cool breeze.

Claire scooted to the bench on the side of the gazebo and positioned her elbow on the edge.

He smiled. “Like those tea cakes, do you?”

Familiar with the children’s game, she grinned. “If you’re not over here by the count of three, you forfeit the tea cake. One-two-three,” she said quickly.

But he was beside her in a flash. He positioned his elbow by hers and gripped her hand. “I see you Indian-wrestle about as honestly as you play checkers.”

“I did not cheat at checkers! I won fair and square.”

“Cajun checkers?
Cajun
checkers?” He eyed her. “There’s no such thing.”

She bit her lower lip so she wouldn’t smile. “It’s just the way we play checkers in Louisiana.”

He nodded. “Well, let me show you how we Indian-wrestle in Tennessee.” He slid his other hand between their elbows, and following his lead, she grasped his forearm as he did hers. Then he pulled her arm a little closer, and the rest of her had no choice but to follow.

40

C
laire was grateful for every point and curve where their bodies touched—their hands, their arms, their knees—and she was especially grateful for the privacy of the vine-laced gazebo. “Would you like for me to count again?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “One-two-three!” She pushed against his arm—to no avail. She couldn’t help laughing, which didn’t help her goal.

His smile broadened. “That’s the most pitiful attempt at cheating I’ve ever seen, Miss Laurent.”

Claire giggled but continued to push, wanting to win and knowing that her time and strength were limited. Already, she could feel the pressure of exertion in her head, while Sutton seemed completely at ease, his arm totally immovable.

She rose up on her knees for better leverage, and he effortlessly pulled her closer. He brushed his lips across her knuckles, slow and patient, and her body lost its strength by a third. His mouth moved and teased as he kissed her hand, then her wrist, his eyes taunting her.

“What you’re doing, Mr. Monroe”—she sucked in a breath—“would be considered cheating in Louisiana.”

His laughter was warm against her skin and sent shivers from her shoulders to her toes. “Aw, shucks, ma’am, it’s just the way we country boys Indian-wrestle here in Tennessee.”

Surprising herself, she leaned forward and kissed him, feeling their tangle of arms between them, and she did to his mouth what he’d just done to the back of her hand.

“This,” he whispered in the midst of their kiss, “is most definitely cheating . . . in any state.”

Claire smiled and drew back slightly, loving the dazed look in his eyes, and the fact that his forearm lay decidedly beneath hers on the ledge. He hadn’t even noticed. “Thank you for the tea cake, Sutton,” she whispered.

He frowned, then looked down. “I don’t believe it.”

Laughing, she reached for the last tea cake, took a big bite, and fed him the rest.

They packed up their picnic, and he walked her back inside with ample time to spare. Her next appointment hadn’t arrived yet. She would have seen the carriage coming up the long drive.

In the library, Sutton picked up one of the
bombonnières
she’d painted, and he studied the decorative candy box. “You have such a gift, Claire. Where did you learn to paint?”

“From my mother. But her giftedness far exceeded my own.” She searched the folders on the desk for the one she needed for her next meeting. “As my father said often enough, there’s nothing unique about my talent.” As soon as she said it, she gritted her teeth. Seconds passed, and she finally looked up, hoping Sutton hadn’t taken notice.

He was watching her. “Your father said that to you?”

“Sutton, I’m . . . I’m sorry. That was wrong of me to speak ill of those passed.”

He returned the
bombonnière
to the shelf with the others. “Obviously, I can’t judge your mother’s talent, Claire, but looking at these, and having seen the paintings in your room . . .” He shook his head. “Your talent is anything but ordinary. And, forgive me, but . . . I can’t imagine a father saying that to his daughter.”

Claire looked back down at the desk and began riffling through the files, not even knowing what she was looking for anymore. She just didn’t want him to see her tears. Tears for a father she was certain had never loved her. Not really. Not when remembering her mother’s love. And not after having seen the love in this household—that Mrs. Acklen had for her children, and they for her, that Eli and Cordina shared, and that the servants, many of whom were family, had between them.

“Claire?”

“Yes?” She didn’t look up.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine . . . Ah!” Forcing a smile, she pulled a file from the stack. “I knew it was here somewhere.” Emotions patched back together, she lifted her gaze, and the tenderness in Sutton’s eyes nearly dismantled her again. Seeing him about to speak, she shook her head. “Don’t, please,” she whispered, wishing her next appointment would arrive or that Eli would knock on the door—anything to avoid this conversation right now.

“Claire . . .” Sutton’s voice was soft, so safe sounding. “You can tell me anything.”

Claire exhaled, wishing that were true. “My father and I . . . As I told you before, we weren’t close. But it was more than that. He had a temper, and sometimes he—”

“Did he
hurt
you?”

“No,” she said, seeing a fierceness in his eyes. “He never hit me, if that’s what you mean.”
He saved that for Antoine DePaul.
“Looking back, I just don’t think he was a very happy man. Or . . . maybe he just wasn’t happy with me. Or with my mother.” She shook her head. “I don’t really know. But it’s not important anymore. Because he’s gone. And I’m fine.” She put on her bravest face.

He moved closer. “Your mother, being so talented, was obviously involved in art. Was your father too?”

Claire found herself filtering her response, not with encumbered lies, but not with the ease of truth either. “My mother was an artist, and my father . . .” She glanced down as though searching for another file. “He was an art broker. He”—she forced herself to look up—“bought and sold art.”

Sutton smiled. “That’s a good thing for an art broker to do, I guess.”

“Yes.” She smiled too, but it didn’t feel natural. She didn’t want to tell him about her parents operating the gallery. That would be too specific a piece of information to share for her ever-shrinking comfort. But if he were to ask directly, though the chances of that were slim—
Oh please, God, let them be slim
—she would tell him.

“Did your parents work together?”

Sending up another prayer, she nodded.

“And where did they work?”

Claire turned as though reaching for something behind her and squeezed her eyes tight, feeling herself start to shake. It was as if he knew the exact questions she didn’t want him to ask. She took a breath, hoping she wouldn’t stammer. “They worked in an art gallery.”

“I bet you loved that. Being around all that art.”

She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that, Sutton. Not like Belmont, I mean. All of this . . .” She indicated the home around them. “The art Mrs. Acklen has collected . . . is
far
beyond the pieces my father worked with and anything I’ve ever been around.”

He moved around to her side of the desk. “You told me about your mother’s passing. But I’m wondering, if it’s not overstepping my bounds and isn’t too painful for you . . .” His voice was gentle, just above a whisper. “You’ve never told me how your father died.”

She told herself to breathe. “My father passed away unexpectedly after I left New Orleans. I didn’t even learn of his death until after I arrived in Nashville.” She looked for something to occupy her hands and found nothing.

“So . . . your father didn’t die of an extended illness, then. It was more . . . sudden.”

It wasn’t a question, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he already knew what had happened the night she left New Orleans. But that was absurd. As determined as she was to put her past behind her, she also felt another determination rising up inside—she would not lie, not again. And not to this man.

“There was a robbery. At the gallery.” It was surreal, hearing the words come from her mouth, and with the scene still so vivid in her mind. Kneeling over her father, the blood staining her hands. “My father was injured. The doctor told me he would be all right. That his injuries weren’t”—she took a steadying breath and met Sutton’s gaze—“a threat at all to his life. But . . . the doctor was wrong.”

Sutton reached over and touched her cheek. “And that’s the last time you saw him, that night you left?”

She nodded, her eyes watering.

The clomp of horses’ hooves and the squeak of a buggy announced the arrival of her next appointment. Claire reached to gather the items she needed, but Sutton took hold of her hand, surprising her.

“I’m glad you eavesdropped on those women in church the morning we met,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into the palm of her hand.

Claire felt the sensation all the way through her. “And I’m glad you
coerced
me into confessing.”
Both then, and now . . .
But part of her still wished he knew the whole truth, so she could stop worrying, fearing he would find out. And there was a way for that to happen, she knew. But the cost . . .

The cost grew higher every day.

Sutton pulled her close, and she pressed her head against his chest, hearing the solid beat of his heart. And she would’ve sworn his sigh held as much relief as her own.