A Lasting Impression

Please!” Shedding his suit coat, he came alongside the dockworkers and lent his strength as they eased the crate down the ramp. Judging by the strain on the men’s faces, the crate’s contents were considerable.
    “Care to inspect it, Mr. Monroe?” a dockworker asked, wiping his forehead. A trace of Ireland lilted his voice. “Before we load it on the wagon, sir?”
    “No, that’s all right, Jacobs. We’ll do that out at the house. If there’s a problem, I’ll contact the gallery.”
    The gallery? Claire took a step closer, grateful for the signage partially concealing her curiosity.
    “This one came all the way from Rome, sir?” a worker asked Mr. Monroe. “Rome, Italy?”
    “It did.” Monroe smiled. It was an easy gesture, one that seemed to come as natural to him as breathing. “But the sculptor is an American.”
    An American . . . Claire strained to see writing on the side of the crate, anything that might yield more information, but she saw nothing.
    “I ain’t hardly believin’ that, sir,” another worker chimed in, his drawl rich with the South, his skin dark as burnished coffee and glistening in the sun. “That fine lady, she crosses that big ocean only to go and buy somethin’ one of our fellas made. . . .”
    “ One of our fellas . . . ” Claire grinned, pleased to see Mr. Monroe doing the same.
    Monroe tipped each of the workers and shook hands with Jacobs, gripping his forearm like older men sometimes did, even though he was younger than Jacobs by half. It was a friendly gesture, sincere, intimate. Which was surprising given Monroe’s obviously high social rank. What wasn’t surprising was to learn he was married.
    “ That fine lady . . . ” Mr. Monroe’s wife, Claire guessed. Still, she found it far more appealing to imagine that the fine lady was his mother, or older sister, or perhaps a rich elderly aunt. It made the world a much more interesting place.
    Emboldened by her invisibility, she studied him more closely.
    Handsome could’ve been used to describe him, but that would have been like calling Michelangelo’s David “adequate.” The fact that watching this man summoned the naked statue of David to mind made her blush. But not enough to look away, or to keep her from smiling.
    Taller than average and of strong build, Mr. Monroe had an ease about him, a sincerity. And he moved with an unassuming confidence that drew a person’s attention, not unlike his smile.
    Monroe picked up a leather satchel, much like the one Uncle Antoine carried for business. “I’ll look for the wagon later tonight, and will help you unload it.” He strode to a waiting carriage. And quite a conveyance it was, for quite a man. . . .
    He climbed inside the carriage, and with two raps of his hand on the door, the driver slapped the reins.
    Not sure why, Claire waited until the carriage was a good distance down the street before she moved from behind the sign and continued on her way. How she wished she could see the contents of that crate! A statuary of some sort, because Mr. Monroe had mentioned an American sculptor. Carved from marble, most likely. But perhaps molded of brass.
    Her imagination sparked, she combed through the American sculptors she was familiar with and quickly settled on one. She giggled aloud.
    What if the crate contained a statue by Randolph Rogers! The very possibility quickened her step. How exciting that would be. And how expensive the statue must have been. Rogers’s fees were handsome enough, she knew, but to ship something of that weight all the way from—
    Hearing the thread of her own thoughts, Claire resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She was getting far too carried away. Oh, but it was good to feel this way. To feel so light inside. Almost . . . carefree.
    Half an hour later, she located Elm Avenue, a quaint street lined with shops, tucked off a busier thoroughfare. But when she reached her destination, she paused to check the address in the written instructions, wondering if she’d misread it.
    She looked down, then up again.
    The address number matched the number on the brass plate over the threshold. While Uncle Antoine hadn’t said what they would be doing in Nashville, she’d assumed his and Papa’s business would be the same. Maybe, hopefully, she’d been wrong. Not that it mattered for her in the long run. She was more determined than ever to break free of their plans for her. Though she had no idea how to go about that yet.
    Taking a deep