A Lasting Impression

was far from her best work. “Thank you, Sutton, but . . . it didn’t turn out as I’d hoped.”
    The painting of the hillside lacked something. As did the ones of the rose garden and the statues she’d painted in the garden. Maybe it had been the flat afternoon light—early morning was better, but her mornings had all been scheduled. Maybe it was her texturing or color choice. She wasn’t sure. She only knew she wasn’t pleased. With any of them. And none of them would garner serious interest at the auction, much less make a name for her.
    She required more time to paint well. She was a fairly quick sketcher, but painting a portrait or landscape took her hours, if not days, and grueling repetition. She thought of her Versailles. How much time had she spent studying Brissaud’s style, his technique, until she’d mastered it.
    Until she’d made it her own.
    Sutton tipped her chin upward. “The time to paint more often will come, I promise. But I want you to know that you’re doing an excellent job with the reception. This event promises to be the grandest Nashville has ever witnessed.” He lifted a curl from her shoulder. “And you’ve probably been too busy to notice, but Mrs. Acklen is starting to receive invitations again. She’s visiting friends in town. She’s taking flowers and food to people at church. I haven’t seen her so happy or so . . . hopeful in a very long time.”
    Claire appreciated the compliment, but her attention honed in on one thing only. “She’s starting to receive invitations again ? What do you mean by that?”
    Sutton looked away, as if realizing he’d misspoken. “I didn’t mean anything by it, necessarily. Only that . . .” A seriousness moved over him. “Sometimes people in positions of wealth and influence such as Mrs. Acklen can become the object of gossip and ridicule, whether it’s warranted or not. As you can well see”—he motioned to their surroundings—“Mrs. Acklen came through the war rather well, compared to others. And some people begrudge her that.”
    Claire wanted to ask him if he begrudged her resilience but couldn’t bring herself to voice the words.
    “My point,” he continued, “was that you’re making such a difference here. One for which I’m personally most thankful.”
    Standing on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek, half wishing at the last second that he would turn his mouth toward hers. But he didn’t. And she told herself she was fine with that.
    They made quick work of the bread, sliced ham, and cheese, talking as they ate. For dessert—which Cordina insisted be part of every meal—they each had one of Cordina’s tea cakes. A third tea cake remained, and they both eyed it.
    “We could Indian-wrestle for it,” he said, giving her a look that made her grateful for the cool breeze.
    Claire scooted to the bench on the side of the gazebo and positioned her elbow on the edge.
    He smiled. “Like those tea cakes, do you?”
    Familiar with the children’s game, she grinned. “If you’re not over here by the count of three, you forfeit the tea cake. One-two-three,” she said quickly.
    But he was beside her in a flash. He positioned his elbow by hers and gripped her hand. “I see you Indian-wrestle about as honestly as you play checkers.”
    “I did not cheat at checkers! I won fair and square.”
    “Cajun checkers? Cajun checkers?” He eyed her. “There’s no such thing.”
    She bit her lower lip so she wouldn’t smile. “It’s just the way we play checkers in Louisiana.”
    He nodded. “Well, let me show you how we Indian-wrestle in Tennessee.” He slid his other hand between their elbows, and following his lead, she grasped his forearm as he did hers. Then he pulled her arm a little closer, and the rest of her had no choice but to follow.

40

    C laire was grateful for every point and curve where their bodies touched—their hands, their arms, their knees—and she was especially grateful for the privacy of the vine-laced gazebo. “Would you like for me to count again?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “One-two-three!” She pushed against his arm—to no avail. She couldn’t help laughing, which didn’t help her goal.
    His smile broadened. “That’s the most pitiful attempt at cheating I’ve ever seen, Miss Laurent.”
    Claire giggled but continued to push, wanting to win and knowing that her time and strength were limited. Already, she could feel the pressure of exertion in her head, while Sutton seemed