A Lasting Impression

stepped between them and took hold of his mother’s arm. “You know how you love dinner!” He guided her toward the door, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes, Miss Laurent. Then you and I can get better acquainted.”
    Claire waited, moments passing, and she fought the urge to leave. Getting better acquainted with Samuel Broderick wasn’t at the top of her list, much less even on it. She got a prickly feeling being around the man, and Maman had counseled her often enough to listen to that inner voice. If she’d had anywhere else to go—or means to pay for a hotel—she would have left without a backward glance.
    Surmising from the quality of furniture in the office and the general surroundings, she guessed that Mr. Broderick ran a profitable business. Her question was: How did operating an art gallery in Nashville figure into a partnership with a freight company?
    Broderick returned moments later and bolted the front door. Claire got a shiver as the lock thudded into place but told herself it was for naught. After all, she saw through the window that other shopkeepers were closing as well.
    “Mama’s a real sweet woman, Miss Laurent. But you’ll have to forgive her. Sometimes she doesn’t think too clearly.”
    Claire nodded, not really knowing what to say.
    “May I offer you something to drink? I’ve got tea and coffee or”—he smiled a tight smile—“something a little stronger that’ll help cure the ails of travel. . . . Along with a warm bath, perhaps. I can draw one for you upstairs.”
    Claire blushed even as she cringed. “What I’d really appreciate, Mr. Broderick, is to know which boardinghouse Mr. DePaul arranged for me to stay in. I’m exhausted from traveling and would like to get settled.”
    “Oh . . .” He laughed as though he were embarrassed, though she doubted he was capable of being such. “There’s no need for a boardinghouse, Miss Laurent. Mr. DePaul and I agreed that you’d stay here with me until they arrived. And”—he glanced toward the stairs—“with my mother, of course. Here . . . let me show you to your room.”
    Not at all eager to go anywhere with the man, Claire weighed her options and reluctantly followed him upstairs. The residence portion of the building was more spacious than she would’ve thought, and just as nice, if not nicer, than the business downstairs. Broderick Shipping and Freight did indeed fare very well.
    She followed Samuel Broderick, the second, down the hallway to a room at the far end. He pushed the door open and entered ahead of her.
    She fingered the lock on the door and found it to be broken.
    “Oh yes.” He moved closer. “I’ve been meaning to fix that. I’ll get right to that tomorrow.”
    Nodding, Claire put some distance between them and ran her hand over a sturdy rail-back chair just begging to be wedged beneath the doorknob. But the bed . . . Already, she could feel herself curled up between the sheets. The bed looked heavenly.
    “Mr. DePaul told me you’re a gifted artist. And that your work ”—his tone held a hint of amusement—“is very much in demand. DePaul seemed eager for you to resume your painting. He said several requests are waiting to be filled. And when you’re done”—his expression turned conspiratorial—“your paintings will be shipped all the way from Europe, arriving with certificates of authenticity, of course.”
    Claire eyed him, hearing her earlier suspicions about Papa’s and Uncle Antoine’s intentions confirmed. She guessed—at least in part—what Broderick’s role would be in the scheme. Forging the shipping documents. An integral part of what they did, she knew.
    But—she promised herself yet again—they would be doing it without her.
    “I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Miss Laurent.” Mr. Broderick’s gaze moved over her, warming in a way that made her skin crawl.
    Not wanting to encourage further conversation, or anything else, Claire stood straighter, trying to appear more confident than she felt. “I’m very tired, Mr. Broderick. I believe I’ll just turn in for the night.”
    He glanced toward a footed tub situated in the corner. “I’ll be happy to draw you a bath, if—”
    “No—thank you. I’m fine.”
    “Perhaps in the morning, then.” His smile came slowly. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, all you need do is let me know. My bedroom is right across the hall.” He pointed. “And I’m a light