A Lasting Impression

by Tamera Alexander

  “What opera are we seeing?” she whispered.

  Nearing the doorway, he nodded toward the billboard, and she felt a thrill. Faust.

  She squeezed his arm. “I’ll understand every word!”

  “I know.” He pressed his hand against the small of her back as they entered. “So you can explain the parts to me that I’ve never understood.”

  Once inside the foyer, an attendant led them up a winding staircase and down a narrow corridor lined with doors. Near the end of the hallway, the young man paused and opened a door to reveal a secluded balcony overlooking the stage. “Will Mrs. Acklen be joining you tonight, Mr. Monroe?”

  “No, she won’t. It’s just the two of us this evening.”

  “Very good, sir. And do you desire the usual refreshments at intermission?”

  Sutton nodded and slipped the man a bill.

  Claire stood inside the doorway and drank in the scene. Swags of gold-brocaded curtains framed either side of the stage, bronze chandeliers twinkled above, the orchestra tuned their instruments, and the dissonant chords from horns and strings competed with the hushed conversation of a full house.

  Sutton came behind her and caressed her shoulders. “Promise me you’ll wear this dress at least once a week.”

  She wove her fingers through his and squeezed. “Sutton, this is all so . . .” She couldn’t find the words.

  He escorted her to her chair, then claimed his own beside her and scooted closer.

  Claire saw movement below, on the floor level. Someone waving at them. “Oh!” She nudged Sutton. “There’s Mrs. Holbrook.” She gave a discreet wave in return.

  Sutton nodded a greeting. “Her husband told me she was very pleased with what you did for the Women’s League annual tea. They’d like to have dinner with us, incidentally.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook?” Claire asked, remembering what Mr. Holbrook had said to her at the reception.

  “No . . . President and Mrs. Johnson.” Sutton glanced over at her and grinned. “Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook.”

  She managed a smile, glad when the house lamps were extinguished, but feeling that knot of tension inside her again, reminding her that she needed to tell him. But she couldn’t tell him now, or it would ruin their evening. “Sutton,” she whispered.

  He turned to her.

  “Could you set aside some time tomorrow so that I could speak with you? It’s about something very important.”

  He pressed a kiss to her hand. “Of course. I’ll look forward to it.”

  As the curtain rose moments later, with tears in her eyes Claire leaned over, intending to kiss him on the cheek. But at the last second, he turned his head and captured her mouth. “I love you, Claire,” he whispered against her lips.

  But she almost couldn’t answer, wondering if he would still feel this way tomorrow. “I love you too, Sutton,” she whispered, praying for the strength to accept whatever came, while thanking God for this man she loved, and for the seclusion of the private balcony.

  With her painting satchel slung over one shoulder and the artist’s case Sutton had made for her in her grip, Claire picked her way back down the ridge, humming an aria from Faust. The opera last evening had plucked every heartstring of human emotion. She’d laughed, she’d cried, she’d held her breath—and Sutton’s hand until it ached, he’d told her later.

  The artist’s case he’d made her was ingenious. It contained a special mechanism to hold the canvas in place so she could transport it with greater ease, and less chance for damage. Which was especially important today because the canvas within was the one she would send to the auction hall tomorrow, via courier.

  Seven times, she’d painted this particular scene, and each time something different came from her brush. But the landscape she’d most recently finished was without a doubt the one she was supposed to enter. She knew with a certainty, because—even though it frightened her—this was the only canvas of the seven that she’d not painted in the style of François-Narcisse Brissaud. But rather, in her own.

  She hurried back to the mansion and saw gardeners tending the grounds, primping the winter garden—dormant though it was—to look its best for Mrs. Acklen’s return at the end of the week, in time for the auction for established artists.

  Though ready for her return, Claire couldn’t imagine standing before Adelicia Acklen and telling her the truth. Telling Sutton today was going to be hard enough. . . .

  She deposited her case and satchel in a corner of the entrance hall by the Sleeping Children, as muted conversation drifted toward her.

  “Miss Laurent? Is that you?”

  Recognizing Mrs. Monroe’s voice, Claire walked around the corner to the tête-à-tête room. And when she saw who was seated beside Sutton’s mother, her blood ran cold. “Uncle Antoine . . .” Of its own volition, the name left her lips.

  “Bonjour, ma petite!” Antoine rose from the settee, looking elegant and far too much at home in his surroundings.

  Mrs. Monroe scrunched her shoulders. “I love it when he talks that way. He’s so charming!”

  Claire stared, too stunned to speak.

  Antoine DePaul crossed the room and leaned in as though to kiss her cheek. But Claire turned her head. His smile never broke.

  “It’s been too long, Claire. How are you, dear?”

  She kept her voice low. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m visiting my niece,” he said, loud enough for anyone in the hall outside to hear him. “After all, we’re family, you and I.”

  Heart pounding, she gestured. “I’d like to see you privately, please.”

  Antoine returned to the settee and took his place beside Mrs. Monroe. “I think I prefer this room, Claire. It’s so”—he glanced about—“rich looking.”

  The thud of horse’s hooves sounded through the open window, and Claire’s heart dropped to her stomach. She looked out, relieved to see it was Zeke and not Sutton. If Sutton were to find out about her this way, he would think she was only telling him because she was being forced to.

  “Expecting someone, Claire? Perhaps the gentleman I saw you with last night?”

  Claire looked back at him.

  “Did you enjoy the opera? It looked as though you did from where I was seated. Below you, toward the back. Then again, the private balcony where you were seated was rather dark, and you did seem . . .” He gave her a knowing look. “Well, shall we say preoccupied at times?”

  Claire’s face heated.

  “Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Monroe said, apparently having missed what Antoine had hinted at, “tell Cordina to set another place so your uncle can join us for lunch.”

  “I wish that were possible, Mrs. Monroe, but”—she leveled a stare at Antoine—“he’s unable to stay for lunch. He has an appointment in town. Don’t you, Uncle?”

  He met her eyes, seemed to debate his choices, then stood. “I guess I do need to be on my way. Madame Monroe—” He bowed and kissed her hand. “Au revoir, my dear. It was a pleasure meeting you and hearing all about life here at Belmont. Pity I wasn’t able to meet Mrs. Acklen. Perhaps I’ll come back some other day.”

  “Oh yes, do.” Mrs. Monroe patted his hand. “She’s the loveliest woman. She and I are the dearest of friends.”

  Shaking on the inside, Claire followed him into the entrance hall, closing the door to the tête-à-tête room behind them. She opened the front door and gestured him through it, but he paid her no mind.

  He studied Ruth Gleaning, then made a show of looking around the room. “You land on your feet well, Claire.”

  “You need to leave.”

  “I will. Once I get what I came for.”

  “I’m not giving you anything. And you’re not taking anything from here either.”

  He inhaled. “On second thought, lunch does smell delicious.”

  “Please,” she said, hating the pleading quality of her voice. She closed the front door so no one could walk up on them unannounced. “You have no right
to be here.”

  He raised a brow. “And you do?”

  Her grip tightened on the door handle. How many times had she asked herself that question? And she knew the answer, only too well.

  She felt so helpless, at his mercy. Was this what everything was coming down to? After she’d finally committed to telling the truth. After she’d begged God to make something more of herself than she ever could. She breathed deep, trying to still the trembling inside her. “I’m not painting for you anymore. Like I told Papa, I won’t do it.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then scoffed. “Of course you will. Unless you want me to speak with your employer—” he glanced at the portrait—“Mrs. Adelicia Franklin Acklen.” He spoke the name slowly, each syllable accentuated. “I’m guessing she doesn’t know yet about the family business we had in New Orleans.”

  “Your business—and Papa’s. Not mine.”

  “You were just as much a part of things as we were, Claire Elise. You knew it then. And you know it now. I can see it in your eyes.” He shook his head as though pitying her. “You never were good at lying.”

  “Unlike you and Papa,” she said, fearing at any minute that someone would walk around a corner.

  He took a step toward her. “Mrs. Acklen is a very wealthy woman, and I would imagine that as her personal liaison—as the dear Mrs. Monroe informed me that you are—you have access to her personal accounts. And judging by the loathing in your eyes at the moment, I’m convinced you would pay a handsome sum to be rid of me. Am I correct?”

  “I don’t have access to Mrs. Acklen’s money, and even if I did, I wouldn’t—”

  “Get access to it, Claire. Because if you don’t, your part in our arrangement back in New Orleans will come to light in a most unflattering manner, and the world you’ve created for yourself here will come to a very hasty end. And I’m not simply referring to the loss of your job. They prosecute forgers, just like they prosecute the dealers who sell their work. Or haven’t you considered that?”

  Claire didn’t know how to respond. She’d known what she’d done was wrong, and she was ready to admit that and accept the consequences. Or so she’d thought. But . . . prosecution? As in . . . the possibility of going to jail? That was a cost she hadn’t calculated.

  Sensing movement at the corner of her eye, she tensed. But when she looked, no one was there. It was only Mrs. Acklen’s likeness staring down at her from the portrait. She thought of what Sutton had told her about Adelicia braving two armies, fighting to keep what was hers, and she prayed for a measure of that same strength and courage. What would Adelicia Acklen have done if they’d threatened her with arrest? With going to jail? Claire could only imagine. . . .

  The door handle turned beneath her grip. Panicking, yet having no choice, she pulled the door open.

  Eli looked at her, then at Antoine. “Is everything all right, Miss Laurent?”

  “Yes,” she forced out, her voice tight. “Everything is fine. But . . . my guest is ready to leave. He needs his horse.”

  Eli gave Antoine a thorough study. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get it right away.”

  “Thank you, Eli.”

  She turned back to see Antoine running a finger along the line of Ruth’s shoulder, then down her arm to the fragile right hand, where delicately carved fingers extended outward. Claire stepped forward, fearing he intended to do the statue damage.

  Antoine crossed to the door and paused beside her. “I think five hundred dollars would tide me over for now, Claire. I’ll contact you at the end of the week and we’ll arrange to meet.”

  “I’ve told you, I won’t do it.”

  He smiled. “You have until Friday. Use the time wisely. And remember, I’m neither as patient—nor as stupid—a man as was your father.” He touched her face, but she pulled away. “While you may have your mother’s beauty, Claire, you’ll never have her talent. Yours was, and always will be, a cheap imitation.” He gave her chin a hard pinch. “À bientôt, ma petite.”

  He strode past her. Claire held on to the door, and not until he’d rounded the final bend toward the main gate did she draw a full breath again. “See you soon,” he’d said in farewell.

  And God help her, she believed him.

  50

  The next morning, Claire read the note Sutton had slipped beneath her door sometime during the night, and she knew she was reaping what she’d sown.

  Dearest Claire,

  Forgive me for not being here when you awaken. Mr. Holbrook and I have meetings with the authorities first thing in the morning. I’ll fill you in this evening, but suffice it to say . . . those prayers you’re praying for me—and this lawsuit—are proving most powerful. I’ll see you at the auction tonight and will be searching the crowds for your smile.

  Always your faithful corporal,

  Sutton

  Claire rubbed the sleep—or lack thereof—from her eyes. Not only had he been unable to keep yesterday’s lunch appointment due to his case with Mr. Holbrook, but he’d already left for the day. She sighed. This was her punishment for not having told him the truth sooner.

  She’d awakened during the night, thinking about Antoine’s visit and what he’d said. At first she’d worried what would happen if he returned to Belmont. But he wouldn’t return. Because with a word, she could do to him what he was threatening to do to her. No, he would contact her, as he said he would, learn she wasn’t going to give him the money, then ruin her from afar. All very safe, clean, and simple for him.

  But in truth, could he hurt her any more than her own admission was going to hurt her? Yes, but only in one way—if he somehow contacted Sutton first. Which she couldn’t let him do.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” the clerk behind the desk asked.

  “Yes, please.” Claire’s nerves were stretched taut. “I’m entered in the auction for new artists and was told to come here to check in.”

  “And your name?”

  “Miss Claire Elise Laurent.”

  As the young woman skimmed her pen along the side of the page, Claire turned and scanned the lobby of the Worthington Art Center in search of Sutton. The hall was a sea of faces—but none of them his.

  She’d gone by the law office on her way to the art center, hoping to find him. But the receptionist had said he was out of the office for the afternoon. He wouldn’t forget the auction. At least she didn’t think he would. But he’d been so preoccupied with his mother being here, and then with the lawsuit . . .

  “Here you are, Miss Laurent.”

  Claire looked back.

  “All of your information appears to be in order, ma’am, except for one item. I need for you to complete and sign this certificate of authenticity. It confirms that you are indeed the artist of the canvas you submitted and that it is an original work of your own design.”

  Claire stared at the form for a moment, the full weight of what it represented sinking in. Perhaps for the first time. This truly was her painting, for better or worse. It wasn’t a copy. Or a fake. Or a forgery. She completed the form and signed her name at the bottom.

  The clerk checked her information. “You’re all ready, Miss Laurent. Best of luck to you!”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it.”

  Claire spun around and, to her relief, saw Sutton—but with Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook beside him.

  His smile turned sheepish. “Were you worried I wouldn’t make it?”

  “No, of course not,” she said, then saw the way he looked at her. “Well, maybe I was a little worried.”

  Mrs. Holbrook gave her a quick hug. “This is so exciting, Miss Laurent. Your first auction. I can hardly wait to see your painting. I’m sure it will do very well.”

  “And afterward,” Mr. Holbrook chimed in, “we’re taking you and Mr. Monroe out for dinner to celebrate. Our treat!”

  Claire smiled, the evening already not unfolding as she’d planned. “How kind. Thank you.”

  Sutton offered his arm, and Claire slipped her hand thro
ugh. He gestured for Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook to precede them into the auditorium, then leaned down. “Mr. Holbrook insisted they come with us to support you tonight. I hope you don’t mind too much. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, Claire felt ashamed. “No, Sutton, it’s fine. You’re here and that’s all that matters.” Already, some of the framed paintings were being brought to the stage, but hers wasn’t among them.

  At the door a young man handed them each a program.

  It was more crowded than Claire expected. They chose four chairs together near the middle and crowded in, and as Sutton visited with Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook, Claire read through the program, noting the artists’ names. Seeing her own name near the bottom of the first column, she ran a finger across the printed type, a sense of satisfaction welling up inside her.

  Conversation in the hall quieted as a gentleman on the stage took the podium.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the Worthington Art Center and to Nashville’s twenty-second annual auction for new artists. First, we want to thank Mr. and Mrs. Worthington for their generous contribution to the arts, which enables us to be sitting in this lovely building today. A portion of today’s proceeds will benefit the Tennessee Endowment of . . .”

  Claire searched the crowd until she located Mrs. Worthington. At that moment, Mrs. Worthington looked back at her and smiled. Claire did likewise—then jumped when the gavel came down, signaling the start of the auction.

  The auctioneer stood behind the podium. “First up for bid is an oil on canvas entitled Cherished Dawn. The artist is Mr. Adam Marcus Avery of Gallatin, Tennessee.”

  Claire peered over heads in front of her to better see the framed landscape. Stunning. She leaned back in her seat, knowing her chances were doomed.

  “As with all of our new-artist submissions,” the auctioneer continued, “we’ll start the bid at two dollars. And remember, folks, half of the winning bid goes to the artist and the other half to charity. So bid high and bid often.”