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© 2011 by Tamera Alexander
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3396-7
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Unless otherwise indicated, Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Scripture quotations identified NLT are from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.
Cover design by Jennifer Parker
Cover photography by Mike Habermann, Minneapolis
Cover background photograph by Photolibrary/Flirt Collection
Author represented by Natasha Kern Literary Agency
Praise for A Lasting Impression
“Tamera Alexander has once again written a novel rich in storytelling and history, peopled with living, breathing characters who made me laugh, and cry. Better than sweet tea on a veranda, A Lasting Impression is a winner. I want to live at Belmont!”
—Francine Rivers, New York Times best-selling author of Redeeming Love
“Tamera Alexander paints vivid scenes, not with oils on canvas but with words on the page, as she sweeps us away to the cafés of New Orleans and the hills of Tennessee. In Claire Laurent we find a true artist, ever doubting her talents, ever questioning her calling. And in Sutton Monroe we meet a hero whose bright mind is eclipsed only by his tender heart. A lovely story, sure to please anyone who treasures a good romance.”
—Liz Curtis Higgs, New York Times best-selling author of Mine Is the Night
Beautifully written and brimming with “real life” history, A Lasting Impression captures a slice of American history, and an era the South will not soon forget. Nor should we. As Director of the Belmont Mansion for the past twenty-five years, I highly endorse A Lasting Impression and invite you to visit the home of Mrs. Adelicia Acklen to see, in person, the beauty and elegance that defines both Adelicia’s home, and this novel.
—Mark Brown, Executive Director, Belmont Mansion, Nashville, Tennessee
“A Lasting Impression is a wonderful start to a new series. With writing that is rich and textured, Ms. Alexander paints a portrait of Belmont and Nashville after the Civil War that will pull you in and almost make you believe that you are living there yourself.”
—Robin Lee Hatcher, bestselling author of Belonging
Praise for Tamera’s Timber Ridge Reflections
“Alexander exposes pain and loss, then paints a picture of true redemption and trust. In her iron-willed characters we find the rugged individualism and courage that the people of the American frontier are known for, and fans of inspirational historical fiction will be moved by how friendship turns into desire.”
—Booklist (Within My Heart)
“Alexander crafts a pleasing and well-written romance that is filled with adventure and intrigue. Subtly weaving in the main character’s steadfast faith in God, the book is full of faith and full of life. Readers who enjoy romantic novels but also want to feel inspired will definitely enjoy this satisfying read.”
—Publishers Weekly (Within My Heart)
“Tamera Alexander paints scenery with the written word, and her characters, stories, and insights linger long after the book is read.”
—Cindy Woodsmall, New York Times bestselling author of When the Heart Cries
For Deborah Raney
In lieu of the world’s best Peanut Butter Twist,
I offer this . . . and my gratitude, dear friend.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Endorsements
Dedication
1 2 3 4
5 6 7 8
9 10 11 12
13 14 15 16
17 18 19 20
21 22 23 24
25 26 27 28
29 30 31 32
33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40
41 42 43 44
45 46 47 48
49 50 51 52
53
Epilogue
Dear Reader
With Gratitude to . . .
About the Author
Books by Tamera Alexander
Back Ad
Back Cover
“For we are God’s masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.”
Ephesians 2:10 nlt
Preface
Most of the novel you’re about to read is purely fictional, though there are bits of real history and people woven throughout. For instance, there really is a Belmont Mansion in Nashville, built in 1853, that still stands today. And Mrs. Adelicia Acklen, a character in the novel, is the dynamic, born-before-her-time woman who lived there.
In addition to Adelicia Acklen, many of the other characters in the novel were inspired by real people who lived during that time—people who worked at Belmont and who visited there. But the characters’ personalities and actions as depicted in this story are of my own imagination and should be construed as such.
The first time I stepped across the threshold of Belmont Mansion and learned about Adelicia and her extraordinary personality and life, I knew I wanted to write a story that included her, her magnificent home, and this crucial time in our nation’s history. After over two years of research and writing, A Lasting Impression is the culmination of that dream, and I invite you to join me as we open the door to history once again and step into another time and place. Thank you for entrusting your time to me. It’s a weighty investment, one I treasure, and that I never take for granted.
Thanks for joining me on yet another journey,
Tamera
1
French Quarter, New Orleans, Louisiana
September 7, 1866
Claire Laurent studied the finished canvas on the easel before her, and though masterpiece hardly described it, she knew the painting was her best yet. So why the disappointment inside her? The fiendish fraudulence trickling its way through her like tiny beads of sweat beneath layers of crinoline and lace. She ran a hand through her curls and dropped the soiled paintbrush into a cup of turpentine, full well knowing why. And knowing only deepened her guilt.
Her gaze fell to the lower right-hand corner of the canvas, the one reserved for the artist’s signature. She hadn’t yet been able to bring herself to sign this one. Not with that name. Because of all the landscapes and still lifes and portraits she’d painted, none had truly felt like hers . . .
Until this one.
A breeze, moist and swollen, heavy with the certainty of rain, wafted in through the open second-story window, and she peered from her bedroom over the town, breathing in the tang of salty air moving in from the gulf. She viewed the Vieux Carré below, the Old Square she’d painted so many times she could close her eyes and still see every detail—the rows of pastel-colored buildings clustered together and edging the narrow streets, their balconies of decorative black cast
iron boasting hanging baskets that cascaded with late summer blooms. The combination lent a charm and beauty unique to this part of the city.
No wonder she’d fallen in love with New Orleans so quickly, despite the hardship of recent months.
The steady tick-tick-tick of the clock on the mantel marked the seconds, and she released her breath with practiced ease. She rose from her stool and stretched, paying the toll for retiring so late in recent evenings and for rising so early, but there was no avoiding it. This painting had taken longer to complete than she’d estimated.
Much longer, as her father kept reminding her.
Almost half past two, and she needed to “take leave of the gallery no later than three,” as her father had insisted. She knew she shouldn’t allow his request to bother her. It wasn’t the first time he’d demanded she leave while he “conferred” with gallery patrons. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t know what he was doing during that time. What they did as a family business.
His increasing agitation in recent weeks wasn’t helping her attitude toward him, however. Though not a gentle man, by any means, he wasn’t customarily given to a sharp tongue. But in recent days a single look from him could have sliced bread hot from the oven.
“Claire Elise? Où es-tu?”
She stiffened at his voice. “Oui, Papa. I’m up here.”
She glanced back at the canvas, fighting the ridiculous urge to hide it. Something within her didn’t want him to see the painting. Not yet. And—if it had been within her control—not ever. Maybe she could tell him it wasn’t finished yet. But one look at her, and Papa would know. Pretense was a skill she’d never mastered—not like he had.
Hurried steps coming up the stairwell told her there wasn’t enough time to stash the painting in the empty space behind the wardrobe, and throwing a drape over it was out of the question with the final brushstrokes only moments old. Maybe if she told him how much this particular painting meant to her, he would let her keep it.
But she had a feeling that conversation would go much like the one six months ago, following her mother’s passing—when she’d told him, as forcefully as she dared, that she didn’t want to paint “like this” anymore. Her father had never struck her, but she’d sensed he’d wanted to in that moment, and she hadn’t considered broaching the subject again.
Until now.
“Ah . . .” His footsteps halted in the doorway behind her. “Finally, you have finished, non?”
His tone, less strident than earlier that morning, tempted her to hope for an improvement in his mood. “Yes . . . I’ve finished.” Readying herself for his reaction—and critical critique—she stepped to one side, a tangle of nerves tightening her insides.
He stared. Then blinked. Once, twice. “Jardins de Versailles . . . again.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “This is not the painting upon which we agreed.” He looked at her, then back at the canvas. Keen appraisal sharpened his expression. “But . . . it does show some improvement.”
Claire felt her nerves easing at the merest hint of praise. Until she saw it. . . .
That familiar flicker in his eyes. Her father appreciated art, in his own way, but he was a businessman at heart. His pride in her artistic talent ran a losing footrace with the profit he hoped to make through selling her paintings.
Her paintings . . .
The irony of that thought settled like a stone in her chest, which sent an unexpected—and dangerous—ripple of courage through her. “Papa, I . . .” The words fisted tight in her throat, and he wasn’t even looking at her yet. “I need to speak with you about something. Something very important to me. I know you’re not—”
His hand went up, and she flinched.
But he seemed not to notice. “This isn’t the landscape we agreed for you to paint this time, nor is it what I described to the patron, but—” He studied her rendering of Louis the XIV’s palace and the surrounding gardens, then gave an exaggerated sigh. “Given we are out of time, and that the patron very much desires to own a François-Narcisse Brissaud . . . it will have to do.” He nodded succinctly, as though deciding within himself at that very moment.
“Yes. I’m certain I can convince him of its worth. After all”—he smiled to himself—“the larger galleries in Paris often ship the wrong painting. But next time, Claire . . .” He looked down at her, his gaze stern. “You must render, to the smallest detail, the painting upon which we have agreed.”
Claire searched his face. His words stung, on so many levels. But the most disturbing . . . “You’ve secured a buyer for this painting? Before they’ve even seen it?”
A satisfied smile tipped his mouth as his focus moved back to her work. “I told you this would happen. Word is spreading. After two years of tireless effort, our humble little gallery is finally earning the recognition it deserves in this city. As well as our patrons’ trust, as I knew it would, given time. And my negotiating skills.” His head tilted to one side. “Though I must admit, your mixture of lighter and darker shades, the hues in the garden, the way you blended them this time . . . I see you took my advice to heart.”
Claire said nothing, having learned that was best when it came to comments about taking his counsel.
His expression turned placating. “If I were to stand closer”—he did just that—“I am almost certain I could catch a whiff of lilac warmed by the noonday sun.”
He stilled, and she followed his gaze to the lower left corner of the painting. The added detail was subtle, so subtle one might miss it if not looking. So she wasn’t surprised it had taken him so long to notice.
“Abella . . .” His voice barely audible, her mother’s name on his lips sounded more like a prayer than any Claire had ever heard. Not that she’d heard many, and never from him. “Y-you . . . painted her,” he whispered.
Emotion stung Claire’s eyes, prompted as much by the halting break in his voice as from missing the woman in the portrait. She’d painted her maman barefoot on the cobbled pathway, half hidden behind a lilac bush, a basket of flowers dangling from one arm. Her chin was raised ever so slightly as though she were looking for someone, waiting for them. And her cascade of auburn curls, mirrored in Claire’s own, lifted in the imagined breeze.
Claire stared at the image of her mother until the delicate brushstrokes blurred into a pool of color. Ten years had passed since that afternoon at Versailles, their last visit to the palace before leaving Paris, and France, forever. She’d been nine at the time, but the memory of afternoons spent there with her parents—wandering the gardens, nurturing childish dreams of what it would be like to live in such a place—had nestled deep, and were still so vivid to her senses. The air fragrant with blossoms, nature’s symphony in the rustle of the trees, the thriving sea of color—every detail locked away, secure.
Memories of those days were the happiest of her life. And those of the past six months . . . the loneliest.
She thought she’d been prepared for her mother’s death. For over a year, she’d watched the sickness devour her from the inside out. And while she felt relief knowing her mother wasn’t hurting anymore, there were days when a void, murky and dark, yawned so wide and fathomless inside her that she feared it would swallow her whole.
“She was so beautiful.” Her father’s voice was fragile, weary beyond his forty-two years. He reached out as if to touch the painting, then stopped. His hand trembled.
Claire looked at him more closely. The shadows beneath his eyes . . . How long had those been there? And the furrows in his brow. Etched by regret, perhaps? And worry, most certainly. But worry about what? Rent being late again? Selling the expensive pieces of art he’d purchased on credit, and against her better judgment?
She looked back at the painting. “I didn’t plan on including her in the painting, Papa. She just . . . appeared . . . from the tip of my brush.”
For the longest moment, he said nothing. Then his breath left him in a long, slow sigh. “The truth of a painting must first be birthed in the a
rtist’s heart before it can be given life on the canvas.”
Claire felt a quickening inside her. Her mother’s first lesson in painting . . . but from long ago. She couldn’t believe he remembered. She, on the other hand, remembered everything her mother had taught her. If only she’d inherited Abella Laurent’s giftedness. Her mother had insisted she had, and more so. But Papa had made it clear she hadn’t.
He’d never said it outright, of course—that nothing she did was ever quite good enough. Yet she knew he thought it, just the same. She knew it by what he didn’t say.
Her father’s hand moved at his side, and in a briefly lived dream, Claire imagined he was going to cradle the side of her face, as she’d always wanted him to do, as her mother had told her he used to do, but Claire couldn’t remember back that far. She waited, breath trapped in her throat, feeling less like a woman and more like a child.
He turned away. “I miss her too,” he whispered. “Never think that I don’t.”
Feeling foolish, telling herself she should have known better, Claire bowed her head to hide the hurt. “I don’t think that, Papa.”
There had been times in earlier years when she’d questioned the love between her parents. But mainly her father’s love for her mother. In the final days, especially. When it became apparent that the medicine wasn’t working and the doctors had given up hope, and when Claire had pleaded with him to send her mother to a sanitarium. “People like Maman go there and some of them get better,” she’d told him. But his anger had erupted. “Those places cost money, Claire Elise! Money we don’t have. Unless you can paint in her stead. Faster and better than you’re doing now.”
So she’d worked, night and day, for months on end. Caring for her mother as her mother continued to instruct her—just as she had since Claire was a little girl—sometimes from bed, when her mother was too tired to sit or stand. But in the end, no matter how much Claire pleaded or how much she painted, Papa had held his ground, and her mother had died in this very room.
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