A Lasting Impression

responsible, Miss Laurent,” Mrs. Acklen said beside her, “for any anxiety that Mr. Monroe’s fabrication of a problem with the floor caused you. I wanted to surprise you this time, knowing how deep an appreciation you have for such things.”
    With boyish charm, Sutton gestured toward the statue. “I’m sorry if I worried you, Miss Laurent. We had to reinforce the floor beneath the grand salon to support the weight.”
    All worry fading, Claire beamed. That the two of them would even think of wanting to surprise her like this. . . “You’re completely forgiven. Thank you both, so very much.”
    Mrs. Acklen motioned her closer. “I purchased it on my return from Europe, in New York. It’s called The Peri, taken from a poem by Thomas Moore, Paradise and the Peri. I’m so pleased it arrived in time for the reception.”
    Claire studied the faultless sample of the human form. The angel was a female, judging by her flowing hair and the gentle swell of her breasts. The artist had tastefully left the rest to the imagination. “Who is the sculptor?”
    “Joseph Mozier, an American. And as he explained to me,” Mrs. Acklen continued, “the angel is standing at the gates of Paradise. In her right hand she holds the tears of the penitent sinner—”
    Claire looked closer at the angel’s right hand resting at her side, palm extended outward. And true to Mrs. Acklen’s word, three tears lay tucked in the heart of the angel’s palm.
    “—and in her left hand, she holds one of the bowls found on the shore of the lake from which the redeemed penitent drinks.”
    The angel cradled the bowl close to her heart. “Beautiful,” Claire whispered, marveling at the emotion the sculpture evoked. She’d never even heard of Joseph Mozier, and yet, he had created this .
    “Yes . . . she is that.” Mrs. Acklen’s eyes were moist with emotion. “I especially liked the inscription on the back of the pedestal.”
    Claire bent to read it. “ ‘Joy, joy forever, my task is done. The gates are passed, and heaven is won.’ ”
    “Isn’t that an encouraging thought?” Mrs. Acklen smoothed a hand over the tears in the angel’s palm. “No more sadness or loss, only joy.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Claire whispered. And while she did find that thought lovely, she found her focus centered on the bowl the angel held. “ One of the bowls found on the shore of the lake from which the redeemed penitent drinks . . .”
    In her morning readings, she’d come across a passage about a woman who was thirsty and who was coming to draw water from a well. Jesus had been resting there, and He told the woman that He could give her living water. Claire swallowed, wondering if the water Jesus had offered the woman back then was the same water represented in the angel’s cup.
    And if it was, how she could get some.

    The next night, Claire climbed into bed, hardly believing the day of the reception had almost arrived. In less than twenty-four hours “the grandest party Nashville has ever seen”—according to the newspaper’s account—would be under way, and all the weeks of preparation and work would come to fruition.
    It wasn’t late, only a little past nine, but everyone had retired early in anticipation of the party. Shivering between the cool sheets, Claire pulled the covers up to her chin, her eyes so heavy she could barely keep them open.
    A knock sounded on the door.
    Chilled in the bed but knowing she’d be even more so out of it, she debated, then called out, “Yes?”
    “It’s Mrs. Acklen. May I have a word with you, Miss Laurent?”
    Claire shot out of bed. A fire burned low in the hearth, but the wooden floor, absent of rugs except for a thin one by the fireplace, held the December chill. Goose bumps rose on her arms as she grabbed her coat and draped it around her shoulders.
    She opened the door to see Mrs. Acklen dressed in her wrapper, standing off to the side, oil lamp in hand.
    “I’m sorry, Miss Laurent. Were you already in bed?”
    “No. I mean . . . yes, ma’am, I was. But I wasn’t asleep.”
    “May I come in, please?”
    “Of course.” Claire opened the door wider. “Is something wrong, ma’am?” Only then did she see the dress bag draped over Mrs. Acklen’s arm.
    Mrs. Acklen entered and looked about. She scrunched her shoulders. “It’s chilly in here, Miss Laurent. Why didn’t you say something? See that rugs are ordered and installed by the end of the week.”
    Claire started to say that