A Lasting Impression

evenings later, Sutton knocked on the door of the winter parlor. “Mrs. Acklen?”
    “Please come in.”
    Seeing her seated on one of the two settees pulled him back to the day he’d entered the room to find her interviewing Claire. The memory brought a smile, as did thinking of what Claire had waiting for Mrs. Acklen in the entrance hall. “May I join you for a moment, ma’am?”
    “Please do, Mr. Monroe.” Adelicia laid aside the book she’d been reading. “I’ve been . . . reflecting.”
    He took a seat on the settee opposite her. “On?”
    “Life, Mr. Monroe, and how it all fits together. And on why things happen the way they do. Or don’t.”
    Sutton looked over at her, wondering if she’d heard about the review board’s decision. Doubtful, seeing as he’d only discussed it with Bartholomew Holbrook, who had received the board’s written notification yesterday. Sutton knew the senior attorney wouldn’t reveal its contents until he gave the go-ahead.
    He leaned back, trying to appear comfortable. “As soon as you piece it all together, Mrs. Acklen, would you please explain it to me?”
    Her laughter was immediate. “You, and everyone else in the world.”
    He smiled, satisfied that she didn’t know, yet knowing he needed to tell her. Soon. His losing his family’s land wouldn’t change her opinion of him or endanger his position at Belmont, however temporary that position may be should she decide to marry again. He also wasn’t concerned about her offering him the money to start a thoroughbred farm. In the past two years, he’d helped Adelicia develop a method of weeding out which investments were sound and which were not. And according to his own criteria, his would definitely fall in the “were not” category.
    Besides, he wanted, needed, to achieve his dream on his own.
    The crackle of the fire in the hearth filled the silence. West-facing windows invited the last vestiges of a waning November sun peering around the corners of the art gallery. Fall had been ushered in, and Christmas and the New Year would arrive in a breath.
    He rose. “Would you do me the honor, Mrs. Acklen, of accompanying me into the entrance hall?”
    Her eyes narrowed, but she rose and slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.
    Sutton paused in the grand salon, just before they reached the staircase. “The statue you’ve been waiting for arrived two days ago.”
    Question marked her expression. “It fared the journey well, I hope?”
    “It did, ma’am.” He glanced toward the entrance hall. “Miss Laurent was with me when I opened it.” He covered Adelicia’s hand on his arm. “Her response at first seeing it,” he whispered, remembering, “was identical to your own.”
    Adelicia briefly closed her eyes, as though she were back in the sculptor’s studio, halfway around the world. “Seeing that statue for the first time is a moment I’ll never forget, Mr. Monroe. It felt as though God himself had carved it especially for me. Like a gift . . .” She sighed. “A tender reminder that He’s holding my precious children . . . until I can hold them again too.”
    Sutton smiled, grateful Claire had insisted they wait until after dinner, when the house was quiet and the children were upstairs for the night. He led Adelicia into the entrance hall, where Claire stood waiting, and though Claire had shared with him what she intended to do, seeing her handiwork had a powerful effect.
    The moment was perfect.
    Gas flames flickered overhead in the bronze chandelier, and fading daylight shone through the ruby-red Venetian glass of the front door and side windows to cast the room in a rosy hue. Nestled beneath the portrait of Adelicia and Emma, the Sleeping Children lay perched on a pedestal artfully draped in forest-green velvet, the white marble almost glowing in the soft light.
    “Oh . . .” With a barely audible cry, Adelicia released his arm and moved closer. “It’s more beautiful than I remembered.” She ran a hand over the marble blanket covering the children. “I shall go to them, but they shall not return to me,” she whispered, her voice fragile.
    Sutton recognized the Scripture she paraphrased—words King David had uttered upon the loss of his own son, and he admired how Adelicia had made the verse her own.
    Adelicia looked over. “Thank you, Mr. Monroe. The placement, the display . . . I couldn’t have done better my—”
    Sutton shook his head. “It was all Miss Laurent’s doing,