A Lasting Impression

Cordina.” Keeping her coat on, Claire hurried into the study, but her heart fell when she saw the fancy wrapping and ribbon. If the package had been from Sutton, it would have been wrapped suitably for posting.
    As it was, she could easily guess who had sent it.
    She’d had dinner twice now with Andrew Stanton, in addition to the first afternoon he’d come to visit. The man had sent her flowers following the reception—three times—along with chocolates and other confections. She opened the package.
    A book. But not just any book. She ran a hand over the cover, then opened it. A first-edition copy of Les Aventures de Télémaque, published . . . in 1699! She opened the enclosed card. “ For you, Miss Laurent, in appreciation of our friendship and in loving memory of your dear mother. Most warmly and in anticipation for our next dinner, Andrew Stanton .”
    She shook her head, both at the book’s antiquity and at Mr. Stanton’s generosity. Such a kind man, honorable and genuine. She’d mentioned the book to him only once as being a favorite of hers and of her maman.
    The other men who, to her great surprise, had sent gifts following the reception, had ceased their efforts to gain her attention, but Mr. Stanton was different. He was humble and unassuming, and easy to converse with. Widowed four years now, he had surprised her with his candor.
    “When my dear Libba died,” he’d confided, “the thought of ever remarrying seemed foreign. But as the years have passed and my grief has eased, I’m finding myself more open to that possibility.”
    Just as he’d been honest with her, so she had been with him, sharing that while she appreciated their friendship, she had no immediate aspirations toward that goal. She’d worded the sentence with careful emphasis and had taken his slow, understanding nod as a sign he understood.
    Now she wondered.
    Following dinner that night, Claire carefully turned the pages of the treasured copy of Les Aventures de Télémaque, rereading her favorite parts, and thinking of the mural in Adelicia’s bedroom while knowing she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—keep the book. She would return it to Mr. Stanton the next time she saw him, along with her heartfelt thanks and an explanation as to why she couldn’t see him again. Flowers and candy were one thing. But a gift of this magnitude constituted something far more.
    And more with anyone other than Sutton wasn’t a more she welcomed.

    Early one morning the following week, as a late-January sun played coy with the coming dawn, Claire bundled up warm and snug and set out for the stables. Zeke had agreed to have Athena saddled and ready. But when she rounded the corner, it wasn’t Athena Zeke held by the reins.
    “Mornin’, Miss Claire.” The boy smiled big, his ears wiggling. “How are you, ma’am?”
    Claire eyed him, then Truxton, not about to ride Sutton’s horse without permission. “I asked you to saddle Athena, Zeke.”
    “Yes, ma’am. But Mr. Monroe, he told me different ’fore he left. He said to surprise you. So . . .” The boy glanced at the stallion and then back at her. “Surprise!”
    She giggled, a thrill working through her. No offense to Athena, but riding Truxton was like riding a four-legged locomotive. And to think that Sutton trusted her so much. Remembering, she reached into her coat pocket. “Cordina sent you a little something.”
    Zeke took the cloth-covered offering and held it to his nose. “Smells like one of her biscuits.” He sniffed again. “With fried chicken!”
    Claire accepted his help into the saddle and felt the power of the thoroughbred beneath her. She did her best to make her next question sound unrehearsed. “Have you found anything new recently, in your digging out back?”
    Grinning, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, along with several metal buttons and a dented lid from a tin of chewing tobacco. “I’m findin’ new stuff all the time. Like I always tell Mr. Monroe, there’s treasure buried there. But he just keeps on shakin’ his head.” Zeke stuffed the items back into his pocket. “When you think he’ll be back, ma’am?”
    Claire looked down, feeling a twisting inside her chest. “I’m not sure.” And despite her asking Sutton in nearly every other letter, he’d given no indication about his return.
    Truxton responded to her slightest command with agility and speed, and he flew across the meadow. The cold wind bit Claire’s cheeks and