A Lasting Impression

that night in bed, she lay awake in the darkness, wishing Sutton were there, wishing she could talk to him, tell him what had happened that morning while the details were still fresh inside her.
    But she could tell him. . . .
    She climbed from the warmth of the covers, lit the oil lamp on the side table, and hurried to her desk for pen and paper. Then she scurried back, grateful for the thick rugs covering the wooden floor. Nestled beneath the bedcovers again, she pulled down the sleeves of her gown as far as they would go.
    And she wrote.
    She wrote until well after midnight, the words pouring from her like the rain splattering her windowsill outside. When the question had come the first time that morning, she’d missed it, not knowing what—or who—it was. His inaudible voice. But when she’d heard it the second time, she knew what He was asking. Even though a small part of her wished she didn’t.
    Because she wasn’t completely sure of her answer yet.
    When she finished writing Sutton, she’d filled seven pages. She stacked those aside and started on a fresh page, this time writing to Him. The one who had whispered. She wrote until her hand cramped and her neck and shoulder muscles burned. She wrote thoughts she’d never shared with anyone, and would be embarrassed if others read. She asked questions about Maman . About her father. And about why—if God had given her this gift of painting, however slight—He wasn’t doing anything with it?
    When she extinguished the oil lamp at half past three, she pressed her cheek into the cool of the pillow, exhausted, clinging to the memory of His voice, and praying she would never forget what she’d felt that morning. Such perfect, boundless love. Beyond anything she’d ever known. And yet she still wondered at the implications of His question— would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?
    Did that mean that her canvas for the auction—the painting she’d been working on and planned to enter—wouldn’t be well received? Or maybe wouldn’t be accepted at all? Did it mean her work would never achieve the acclaim she wanted? Or did it mean something else entirely? She didn’t know.
    She only knew that she wanted that love in her life. And that no matter what it cost her, the answer to Jesus’s inaudible question . . . was yes.

47

    M onday morning, the rhythm of steel wheels over miles of iron ribbon companioned the steady tick-tick-tick of Sutton’s internal clock. He willed the train to travel faster. He’d left Angola Plantation within an hour of receiving Bartholomew Holbrook’s telegram on Saturday morning. Finally, a major stride in their case.
    Investigators had learned the name of an art dealer involved in the sale of two forged paintings they now had in their possession. And that man had been traced to Nashville. They didn’t have him in custody yet, and Holbrook hadn’t shared the man’s name in the telegram. But it didn’t matter. That they’d gotten this far was enough.
    If they could only win this case. . . .
    Holbrook was right—what doors it would open. And he needed an open door because it was becoming more and more likely that his days of working in a management capacity at Belmont were swiftly coming to an end. Dr. William Cheatham had visited Angola three times in the past two months, and the physician’s relationship with Adelicia had definitely taken a more personal turn.
    The match wasn’t a surprise to him—the two had been friends for years—and Dr. Cheatham certainly seemed capable of assuming the managerial aspects of the estate. To Sutton’s great relief, Adelicia had agreed that should she and William decide to marry, she would protect her financial interests with a premarriage contract, as she’d done with Joseph Acklen.
    Sutton would continue to serve as her personal attorney, but there’d be no need for him to live at Belmont anymore. So where would he live? He had no family land. No home of his own. And while he had some money saved, the amount seemed inconsequential compared to what he needed to properly establish himself again.
    But if they were to win this lawsuit . . .
    He checked his pocket watch, already knowing the minute hand would read about ten minutes later than the last time he checked. The train was about a half hour or so from Nashville—he recognized the terrain—and he was itching to get back. To work on their case, but also . . .
    To see Claire.
    Nearly two months he’d been