A Lasting Impression

resolute. “I’ve done things in my life, especially in recent years, Sutton, that I’m not proud of.”
    He waited, weighing the earnestness in her gaze. “There’s not a person living who hasn’t done something they regret, Claire.”
    “I know. But I want to bury those things, put them behind me, once and for all.” She part laughed, part sighed. “If that makes any sense.”
    He reached up and touched her face, the blue of her eyes drawing him in. “It does,” he whispered, having felt that same need so many times. “I often come here to pray, and to work things through.”
    Her eyes lit as a tear slipped down her cheek.
    He wiped it with his thumb. “Of course, I usually wear clothes.”
    Laughing together, they walked back to the mansion, and she talked the entire way. She told him how she was nearly finished cataloging Mrs. Acklen’s art, how much she’d been painting, and how she wasn’t sure if she had anything good enough for the art auction—which he knew wasn’t true.
    He drank in every last detail. Just like he’d read her letters over and over again before going to sleep.
    “Speaking of the art auction,” he slipped in as she took a breath, “you’ve already been approved by the committee to submit a canvas. ”
    “Thank you, Sutton, for arranging that for me.”
    He shook his head. “You only have yourself to thank. Members of the committee were at the LeVert reception, and your party favors alone convinced them of your talent.” He decided not to say anything about the fee to enter. He’d filled out the application and paid the entry fee on her behalf. “There will be sessions occurring all week long, including the two auctions—the auction for the newer talent, and then a separate auction later in the week for the established artists.”
    She nodded, stealthily keeping the canvas turned away from him. “I get nervous just thinking about it.”
    “You’ll do well, Claire. I have no doubt whatsoever.” Another thought occurred to him, something he hadn’t wanted to share with her in a letter. Not considering what had happened there. “While we were in New Orleans, I visited the art gallery that your parents owned and . . . where you used to live.”
    Her steps slowed as they approached the mansion. “You did?”
    “I hope you don’t mind. I’d been to the Café du Monde one afternoon, and my curiosity got the best of me.”
    Eli wasn’t out front, so Sutton tied the mare to a hitching post and followed Claire inside. They got as far as the grand salon when she turned, that same resolute look on her face.
    “Sutton, could we . . . talk for a while?”
    He reached over and squeezed her hand. “I thought that’s what we’ve been doing.”
    “I know but . . . there are some things I’d like to say to you. That I . . . need to say.”
    He kissed the worried lines of her forehead, lingering just long enough to catch the scent of lavender in her hair. “Of course we can talk. Why don’t we tell Cordina to serve us dinner in the—”
    “Sutton,” she whispered and, with a brief nod, indicated the staircase behind him.
    He turned.
    “Willister? Is that you?”
    The voice registered with him the instant before he recognized her descending the stairs. “ Mother? ”

48

    S utton met his mother at the bottom of the staircase and hugged her, still not believing she was standing in front of him. And that she was as thin as she was. “Mother, what are you doing here?”
    She kissed his cheek and patted it softly. “Look at you, Willister. Handsome, as always.” Emotion pooled in her pale blue eyes. “Just like your precious father—God rest him.” Her gaze moved decidedly beyond him, and her expression gained a keen quality Sutton knew only too well. “And I might well guess who this lovely young lady is. . . .” She gave him an exaggerated grin and swept past him.
    Seeing where things were headed, Sutton followed. “Mother, you don’t underst—”
    “You must be Cara Netta.” His mother captured Claire in a tight embrace.
    Wide-eyed, Claire said nothing, but Sutton sensed her waiting for him to explain.
    “Oh, my darling”—his mother stepped back to look at her—“you . . . are . . . stunning. Let me take a good long look at my future daughter-in-law.” She made a twirling gesture with her hand, and Claire obediently turned in a circle, her gaze connecting with Sutton’s as she rotated his way.
    “Mother,” he said more forcefully. “This