A Lasting Impression

weeks before Victoria and Adelicia died.”
    Claire tried to think of something suitable to say. But everything fell so far short of the weight of loss.
    “Oftentimes, through the years, Miss Laurent . . .” Mrs. Acklen’s voice was barely a whisper now. “I’ve pondered how much is provided for us by God’s goodness. So many sources of enjoyment, and how thankful we should be. And even if afflictions come . . . we should know that they are of the hand of God.” She sighed, the semblance of a smile gracing the edges of her mouth. “We should not expect to have all the blessings of life and none of its trials. It would make this world too delightful a dwelling place, and I fear we would never care to leave it.” Her eyes slipped closed. “As it is . . . I have come to believe that it’s only by taking some of those objects from us to which our hearts so closely cling that He endeavors . . . in His kindness, to draw us from this world to one of greater happiness.”
    Claire sat perfectly still, not daring to make the slightest sound, feeling as if a veil had been lifted ever so briefly between her and this woman. And she feared the slightest movement or merest breath would dispel the solemnity of the moment.
    The silence lengthened and finally Mrs. Acklen opened her eyes and returned the framed daguerreotype.
    Claire set it back in its place on the side table and helped situate the pillows behind Mrs. Acklen’s head. “Is there anything else I can get you before I leave, ma’am?”
    Mrs. Acklen gave the tiniest shake of her head, her eyes closing again.
    Claire had all but shut the door when Mrs. Acklen whispered her name.
    Claire peered back inside, the creak of the door overloud in the quiet.
    “Thank you, Miss Laurent, for allowing me . . . to remember.”

    That evening, Claire arrived a few minutes late for dinner. She’d lost track of time reading through a few more of the newspaper articles, and contemplating what Mrs. Acklen had said. She paused inside the family dining room, finding the table empty . . . but for one place setting.
    A fire burned low in the hearth, its woodsy smell lending the room a cozy feel. Wondering if she’d missed some special instruction, Claire took her seat and draped her napkin across her lap.
    Scarcely a minute later, Cordina bustled up the stairs from the kitchen carrying a covered plate and a tall glass of lemonade, filled with ice, as usual. “Evenin’, Miss Laurent.” Her smile ever present, she gave Claire a wink. “From what I hear, ma’am, you’s the only one eatin’ in here tonight. Gots it all to yourself.”
    Claire glanced at the empty chairs. “Where is everyone else?”
    Cordina set the plate, piled high with food enough for two, before her. “The Lady’s feelin’ poorly, as you already know. Them head pains she gets from time to time. And Miss Cenas and the children, they’s gone into town for dinner. Special treat for the younguns since they’s doin’ good in their studies, Miss Cenas said.” Cordina gestured to Claire’s plate. “You want some of my squash relish tonight, ma’am? I run fetch it for you. It be good with them pork chops.”
    Not overly hungry, Claire shook her head. “No, thank you. This will be more than enough.” She tried for a casual tone. “By chance, do you know where Mr. Monroe is?”
    “No, ma’am. I haven’t seen him since breakfast. Mrs. Routh just said you’d be the only one eatin’. You can come on down to the kitchen, if you want. But I gots to warn you, we been bakin’ bread all day and it’s hot as blazes down there tonight.”
    Claire returned her smile. “I think I’ll stay here, if that’s all right.”
    “Sure it is, honey.” Cordina patted her shoulder. “Might be kinda nice just to sit and enjoy the quiet. You ring that bell there if you need somethin’. I’ll hear you and come right up.”
    Knowing she’d never use the bell, Claire nodded. “Thank you, Cordina.”
    She ate a bite of pork chop with mashed potatoes, then tasted Cordina’s sweet creamed peas and corn, and by the time she took her first sip of lemonade, her appetite had returned. Still, she couldn’t finish half of the food on her plate.
    The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, and the clock on the mantel ticked off the seconds. Claire drank in the solitude—until her thirst for silence was slaked, and then some. She carried her plate and glass downstairs to the kitchen, smelling the yeasty aroma of fresh