A Lasting Impression Read online

  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 . . .

  He got that look about him again, as though wrestling with something, and the sea blue of his eyes darkened. His thumb slid from her cheek to her mouth, and he traced a feather-soft path over her lower lip. She closed her eyes, thinking that maybe if she didn’t look at him, she wouldn’t be so moved.

  But the lack of sight only made her that much more aware of his touch.

  His hands, so strong, so warm . . . One of them edged down her neck, and she tilted her head, certain the hillside moved beneath them. And then, his lips on her cheek. Oh, how was she still standing? His breath was warm and minty. And his hand, inching up her arm only added to the weakness in the hollow backs of her knees.

  “Open your eyes,” he whispered.

  But she didn’t want to. She didn’t want it to end.

  “Claire . . .” He sighed, a smile somehow wrapped up in the sound.

  Reluctantly, she did as he asked, and what she saw in h
is eyes took her breath away. It was then that she realized he was holding her in his arms, and her arms were around his neck. And that he intended to—

  His lips brushed hers, softly at first, as though she might break, then grew more confident, and eager. He tasted like peppermint and sunshine, and somewhere deep inside, long cordoned off and forgotten, a place slowly began to open again.

  Or maybe it was opening for the first time. Yes . . . that was it. Because never had anyone touched her there before.

  Sutton deepened the kiss, and her willing response sent a bolt of lightning through him. With determination he knew was right but was already regretting, he drew back. He wasn’t sure who was more breathless, him or her.

  Seeing her eyes still closed, her lips full and parted, any question in his mind about whether this woman felt more than mere friendship for him, vanished. He kissed her cheek, and she slowly opened her eyes. His chest tightened at the mixture of innocence and desire he saw there.

  On impulse, he drew her to him again and held her, tracing the small of her back, then the curve of her spine, admiring how well they fit together, her head tucked beneath his chin, her arms around his waist. If he had to choose between kissing her and holding her, he would definitely choose the kissing. But the holding wasn’t too bad either.

  “My father and I,” she said softly, her cheek against his chest. “We weren’t close.”

  We weren’t close. Only three words. Yet they said so much, and helped to explain her reaction from moments earlier. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  “My mother and I were, though.”

  He felt her quick intake of breath and tightened his arms around her, wishing he could take away the pain in her voice. “And she passed away how long ago?”

  “Almost eight months.” She exhaled. “Tuberculosis.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She gradually looked up at him. “A moment ago you said that your family house stood. Meaning it’s not there anymore?”

  He looked back in the direction of Laurel Bend. “The house is gone. The Federal Army burned it—and everything else—to the ground. . . . The same day they killed my father.”

  Questions flitted across her face, and yet she said nothing, only waited, her gaze patient.

  “Federal officers had been out to the house, more than once, demanding that he sign the Oath of Allegiance. That he and I both sign it.”

  “But you both refused?”

  He nodded. “My father served in the hospitals and cared for the wounded. His family, patients, and friends were fighting for the Confederacy, but he refused to take up arms against his fellow countrymen.” Sutton stared out across the valley toward home, or what was once his home, and told her about finding his father’s bloodied body, and of his mother collapsing in his arms. “The reason my father refused to sign the oath was because of me. I told him that he would be a—” The words caught. “That he would be a traitor to me and to our family name if he signed.”

  Claire winced, as though sharing the weight of his regret.

  “Not a day goes by that I don’t wish I’d been there. That I could’ve intervened. That I could tell him that no matter what he did, he could never have been a traitor in my eyes.” Sutton bowed his head. If he could turn back the clock and do things over again, he would. It wasn’t right for a father to pay the price for his son’s pride. He took a breath and lifted his eyes. “Now the government’s laid claim to my land and is trying to brand my father as a traitor to his country.”

  Claire drew back, fire in her eyes. “But they can’t do that! The war is over. They have no right to take something that’s not theirs.”

  He felt the hint of a smile, able to envision her in a court of law. Heaven help the judge who riled this woman. “I’ve made an appeal to the Federal Army’s review board, but it’s a long shot. And the longer it drags out, the less hopeful I am. So . . . I’m preparing myself to lose it all.”

  She reached for his hands, raised them to her lips, and kissed them. Her gentleness, the way she held his hands between hers, caused a knot to form at the base of his throat.

  “My maman used to say that things happen for a reason.” Her smile came slowly, sweetly, and shone in her eyes with a strength that belied the quiver in her voice. “I haven’t always believed that in the past. But I do now . . . believe that God has a plan for me. I don’t know what it is . . .” She laughed, squeezing his hands. “But I’m choosing to believe He does. And I’m going to believe that for you too.”

  With effort, he swallowed. “Thank you, Claire.” He knew she had no idea what that meant to him. Or what she meant to him. “I’m going to do better at believing that too. For us both.”

  He glanced over her shoulder and saw Truxton and Athena standing side by side, munching on field grass, and an idea came. Though he’d not seen the bruise on Claire’s hip after her fall, he’d known from Dr. Denard that it had been bad. And while he didn’t want to push her before she was ready, he was eager to get started on their jumping lessons.

  He looked back at her. “How’s your hip feeling these days?”

  Confusion clouded her expression.

  “I’m just wondering if you’re healed up enough to start those—”

  “Yes!” Her face lit and she gave a little squeal. “I’m completely healed. When can we start?”

  34

  Standing between Sutton and Mrs. Acklen on the front portico the following morning, Claire raised a hand in farewell as the LeVerts’ carriage pulled away. Diddie and Cara Netta, seated by open windows, reached gloved hands through and waved. Cara Netta had barely met her gaze when they’d said good-bye a moment earlier. Diddie, too, had seemed slightly less cordial.

  But under the circumstances, Claire understood. She assumed Cara Netta had told Diddie about the change in relationship with Sutton, but she guessed from Madame LeVert’s unaffected behavior that Cara Netta hadn’t told her mother yet.

  She’d seen Sutton and Cara Netta walking the gardens earlier that morning, but no longer arm in arm. Anyone seeing the sheen of emotion in Cara Netta’s eyes as she and Sutton had said good-bye would have attributed her tears to those of parting, but Claire knew better.

  And she felt for Cara Netta. Even as she felt relief at her departure.

  She welcomed the familiarity of routine again. She had a reception to plan, after all, and also needed to work in time to paint. And guilty though she felt, when thinking of Cara Netta, she welcomed time with Sutton again. Especially after yesterday’s meeting on the ridge.

  She glanced at him and discovered his gaze fixed on the carriage as it rounded the last garden at the bottom of the hill and disappeared from sight. She would have given more than a penny for his thoughts.

  As though aware of her staring at him, a slow smile turned his mouth. But he took his own sweet time before peering over at her. His smile took a more intimate turn, and Claire would’ve sworn he’d reached over and touched her. But he hadn’t.

  He could do all that with a single look . . .

  Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of the last word, as it were, she raised an eyebrow as though finding his actions blasé. To which he responded by dropping his gaze ever so slowly to her mouth, where his focus lingered. Then he looked up at her again, his thoughts easily read. Claire reached out to a nearby urn to steady herself.

  Mrs. Acklen sighed, her mood of a sadder nature this morning. “ ‘Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies.’ ” She turned back toward the mansion, and Claire did likewise, wondering if her employer’s tender emotions were due to the LeVerts’ departure, or to something else.

  Sutton offered them each an arm as they climbed the steps. “I’ve no doubt, Mrs. Acklen, that Aristotle had you and Madame LeVert in mind when he penned that notion.”

  Mrs. Acklen smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Monroe. But I’m not quite that old. Yet.”

  He laughed. “You know that wasn’t what I meant to imply.”

 
“Of course I do, sir. Because, as we all know, you imply nothing, Mr. Monroe. You state it forthrightly and for all to hear.” Mrs. Acklen glanced over at Claire, her countenance growing a touch brighter. “Miss Laurent is improving her skill in that area. You must be giving her private instruction.”

  Claire felt Sutton’s nudge and her face went warm.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, hardly missing a beat. “I’ve been working with Miss Laurent on a private basis for some time now. She can be a challenge, as you’re aware. But overall I’ve found the experience to be very . . . gratifying.”

  Her hand tucked into the crook of his arm, Claire pinched him through his suit jacket. He smiled as he reached to open the door.

  “Mr. Monroe, will you be going into the office today?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Acklen, I will. I need to get some files, as well as stop by the telegraph office.”

  “I have a letter on my desk for Mrs. Holbrook, regarding a committee we’re on together. Would you take it to her husband, please?”

  Sutton closed the door behind them. “With pleasure, ma’am.”

  Once inside, Mrs. Acklen paused in the entrance hall and looked up at the picture of her late husband. She said nothing. Only stood and stared, as though no one else were in the room.

  Claire shot a look at Sutton, who was gazing at the painting as well. He seemed unbothered by Mrs. Acklen’s sudden reticence, and not the least surprised by it.

  “Miss Laurent?” Her voice soft, Mrs. Acklen’s focus remained unchanged.

  Claire took a tiny step forward. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “We’ll be working in my personal quarters today. We have boxes of letters and cards to go through. I want your assistance in creating something special for Octavia. To present to her at the reception. A book of memories, perhaps, of . . . happier days gone by.”

  Claire curtsied, bowing her head. “Yes, ma’am. Of course.” She looked at Sutton, who gave her a silent nod. “But first, ma’am, why don’t I go down to the kitchen and get you a cup of Cordina’s tea? I’ll bring it up shortly.”