A Lasting Impression

down as though searching for another file. “He was an art broker. He”—she forced herself to look up—“bought and sold art.”
    Sutton smiled. “That’s a good thing for an art broker to do, I guess.”
    “Yes.” She smiled too, but it didn’t feel natural. She didn’t want to tell him about her parents operating the gallery. That would be too specific a piece of information to share for her ever-shrinking comfort. But if he were to ask directly, though the chances of that were slim— Oh please, God, let them be slim —she would tell him.
    “Did your parents work together?”
    Sending up another prayer, she nodded.
    “And where did they work?”
    Claire turned as though reaching for something behind her and squeezed her eyes tight, feeling herself start to shake. It was as if he knew the exact questions she didn’t want him to ask. She took a breath, hoping she wouldn’t stammer. “They worked in an art gallery.”
    “I bet you loved that. Being around all that art.”
    She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that, Sutton. Not like Belmont, I mean. All of this . . .” She indicated the home around them. “The art Mrs. Acklen has collected . . . is far beyond the pieces my father worked with and anything I’ve ever been around.”
    He moved around to her side of the desk. “You told me about your mother’s passing. But I’m wondering, if it’s not overstepping my bounds and isn’t too painful for you . . .” His voice was gentle, just above a whisper. “You’ve never told me how your father died.”
    She told herself to breathe. “My father passed away unexpectedly after I left New Orleans. I didn’t even learn of his death until after I arrived in Nashville.” She looked for something to occupy her hands and found nothing.
    “So . . . your father didn’t die of an extended illness, then. It was more . . . sudden.”
    It wasn’t a question, and if she hadn’t known better, she would have thought he already knew what had happened the night she left New Orleans. But that was absurd. As determined as she was to put her past behind her, she also felt another determination rising up inside—she would not lie, not again. And not to this man.
    “There was a robbery. At the gallery.” It was surreal, hearing the words come from her mouth, and with the scene still so vivid in her mind. Kneeling over her father, the blood staining her hands. “My father was injured. The doctor told me he would be all right. That his injuries weren’t”—she took a steadying breath and met Sutton’s gaze—“a threat at all to his life. But . . . the doctor was wrong.”
    Sutton reached over and touched her cheek. “And that’s the last time you saw him, that night you left?”
    She nodded, her eyes watering.
    The clomp of horses’ hooves and the squeak of a buggy announced the arrival of her next appointment. Claire reached to gather the items she needed, but Sutton took hold of her hand, surprising her.
    “I’m glad you eavesdropped on those women in church the morning we met,” he whispered, pressing a kiss into the palm of her hand.
    Claire felt the sensation all the way through her. “And I’m glad you coerced me into confessing.” Both then, and now . . . But part of her still wished he knew the whole truth, so she could stop worrying, fearing he would find out. And there was a way for that to happen, she knew. But the cost . . .
    The cost grew higher every day.
    Sutton pulled her close, and she pressed her head against his chest, hearing the solid beat of his heart. And she would’ve sworn his sigh held as much relief as her own.

    The carriage came to a stop in front of Belmont, and Claire waited as Eli assisted Mrs. Acklen’s exit before her. It was overwhelming . . . how much work had been done to prepare for the reception in recent weeks, and yet how much remained to be done in the next two days.
    Pauline and Claude raced out the front door to greet their mother. Claire had come to enjoy her sketching lessons with Pauline very much. Claude and William even took part on occasion. True to Mrs. Acklen’s word, the young girl showed surprising talent for being only six.
    “You two ladies have a nice outing, Mrs. Acklen?” Eli offered Claire his hand as she stepped down.
    “Yes, Eli,” Mrs. Acklen answered, hugging her children. “We most certainly did. Miss Laurent and I personally confirmed every confectionary centerpiece, every potted plant, and every flowering