A Lasting Impression

completely at ease, his arm totally immovable.
    She rose up on her knees for better leverage, and he effortlessly pulled her closer. He brushed his lips across her knuckles, slow and patient, and her body lost its strength by a third. His mouth moved and teased as he kissed her hand, then her wrist, his eyes taunting her.
    “What you’re doing, Mr. Monroe”—she sucked in a breath—“would be considered cheating in Louisiana.”
    His laughter was warm against her skin and sent shivers from her shoulders to her toes. “Aw, shucks, ma’am, it’s just the way we country boys Indian-wrestle here in Tennessee.”
    Surprising herself, she leaned forward and kissed him, feeling their tangle of arms between them, and she did to his mouth what he’d just done to the back of her hand.
    “This,” he whispered in the midst of their kiss, “is most definitely cheating . . . in any state.”
    Claire smiled and drew back slightly, loving the dazed look in his eyes, and the fact that his forearm lay decidedly beneath hers on the ledge. He hadn’t even noticed. “Thank you for the tea cake, Sutton,” she whispered.
    He frowned, then looked down. “I don’t believe it.”
    Laughing, she reached for the last tea cake, took a big bite, and fed him the rest.
    They packed up their picnic, and he walked her back inside with ample time to spare. Her next appointment hadn’t arrived yet. She would have seen the carriage coming up the long drive.
    In the library, Sutton picked up one of the bombonnières she’d painted, and he studied the decorative candy box. “You have such a gift, Claire. Where did you learn to paint?”
    “From my mother. But her giftedness far exceeded my own.” She searched the folders on the desk for the one she needed for her next meeting. “As my father said often enough, there’s nothing unique about my talent.” As soon as she said it, she gritted her teeth. Seconds passed, and she finally looked up, hoping Sutton hadn’t taken notice.
    He was watching her. “Your father said that to you?”
    “Sutton, I’m . . . I’m sorry. That was wrong of me to speak ill of those passed.”
    He returned the bombonnière to the shelf with the others. “Obviously, I can’t judge your mother’s talent, Claire, but looking at these, and having seen the paintings in your room . . .” He shook his head. “Your talent is anything but ordinary. And, forgive me, but . . . I can’t imagine a father saying that to his daughter.”
    Claire looked back down at the desk and began riffling through the files, not even knowing what she was looking for anymore. She just didn’t want him to see her tears. Tears for a father she was certain had never loved her. Not really. Not when remembering her mother’s love. And not after having seen the love in this household—that Mrs. Acklen had for her children, and they for her, that Eli and Cordina shared, and that the servants, many of whom were family, had between them.
    “Claire?”
    “Yes?” She didn’t look up.
    “Are you all right?”
    “I’m fine . . . Ah!” Forcing a smile, she pulled a file from the stack. “I knew it was here somewhere.” Emotions patched back together, she lifted her gaze, and the tenderness in Sutton’s eyes nearly dismantled her again. Seeing him about to speak, she shook her head. “Don’t, please,” she whispered, wishing her next appointment would arrive or that Eli would knock on the door—anything to avoid this conversation right now.
    “Claire . . .” Sutton’s voice was soft, so safe sounding. “You can tell me anything.”
    Claire exhaled, wishing that were true. “My father and I . . . As I told you before, we weren’t close. But it was more than that. He had a temper, and sometimes he—”
    “Did he hurt you?”
    “No,” she said, seeing a fierceness in his eyes. “He never hit me, if that’s what you mean.” He saved that for Antoine DePaul. “Looking back, I just don’t think he was a very happy man. Or . . . maybe he just wasn’t happy with me. Or with my mother.” She shook her head. “I don’t really know. But it’s not important anymore. Because he’s gone. And I’m fine.” She put on her bravest face.
    He moved closer. “Your mother, being so talented, was obviously involved in art. Was your father too?”
    Claire found herself filtering her response, not with encumbered lies, but not with the ease of truth either. “My mother was an artist, and my father . . .” She glanced