A Lasting Impression

understood.”
    Once inside the foyer, an attendant led them up a winding staircase and down a narrow corridor lined with doors. Near the end of the hallway, the young man paused and opened a door to reveal a secluded balcony overlooking the stage. “Will Mrs. Acklen be joining you tonight, Mr. Monroe?”
    “No, she won’t. It’s just the two of us this evening.”
    “Very good, sir. And do you desire the usual refreshments at intermission?”
    Sutton nodded and slipped the man a bill.
    Claire stood inside the doorway and drank in the scene. Swags of gold-brocaded curtains framed either side of the stage, bronze chandeliers twinkled above, the orchestra tuned their instruments, and the dissonant chords from horns and strings competed with the hushed conversation of a full house.
    Sutton came behind her and caressed her shoulders. “Promise me you’ll wear this dress at least once a week.”
    She wove her fingers through his and squeezed. “Sutton, this is all so . . .” She couldn’t find the words.
    He escorted her to her chair, then claimed his own beside her and scooted closer.
    Claire saw movement below, on the floor level. Someone waving at them. “Oh!” She nudged Sutton. “There’s Mrs. Holbrook.” She gave a discreet wave in return.
    Sutton nodded a greeting. “Her husband told me she was very pleased with what you did for the Women’s League annual tea. They’d like to have dinner with us, incidentally.”
    “Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook?” Claire asked, remembering what Mr. Holbrook had said to her at the reception.
    “No . . . President and Mrs. Johnson.” Sutton glanced over at her and grinned. “Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook.”
    She managed a smile, glad when the house lamps were extinguished, but feeling that knot of tension inside her again, reminding her that she needed to tell him. But she couldn’t tell him now, or it would ruin their evening. “Sutton,” she whispered.
    He turned to her.
    “Could you set aside some time tomorrow so that I could speak with you? It’s about something very important.”
    He pressed a kiss to her hand. “Of course. I’ll look forward to it.”
    As the curtain rose moments later, with tears in her eyes Claire leaned over, intending to kiss him on the cheek. But at the last second, he turned his head and captured her mouth. “I love you, Claire,” he whispered against her lips.
    But she almost couldn’t answer, wondering if he would still feel this way tomorrow. “I love you too, Sutton,” she whispered, praying for the strength to accept whatever came, while thanking God for this man she loved, and for the seclusion of the private balcony.

    With her painting satchel slung over one shoulder and the artist’s case Sutton had made for her in her grip, Claire picked her way back down the ridge, humming an aria from Faust. The opera last evening had plucked every heartstring of human emotion. She’d laughed, she’d cried, she’d held her breath—and Sutton’s hand until it ached, he’d told her later.
    The artist’s case he’d made her was ingenious. It contained a special mechanism to hold the canvas in place so she could transport it with greater ease, and less chance for damage. Which was especially important today because the canvas within was the one she would send to the auction hall tomorrow, via courier.
    Seven times, she’d painted this particular scene, and each time something different came from her brush. But the landscape she’d most recently finished was without a doubt the one she was supposed to enter. She knew with a certainty, because—even though it frightened her—this was the only canvas of the seven that she’d not painted in the style of François-Narcisse Brissaud. But rather, in her own.
    She hurried back to the mansion and saw gardeners tending the grounds, primping the winter garden—dormant though it was—to look its best for Mrs. Acklen’s return at the end of the week, in time for the auction for established artists.
    Though ready for her return, Claire couldn’t imagine standing before Adelicia Acklen and telling her the truth. Telling Sutton today was going to be hard enough. . . .
    She deposited her case and satchel in a corner of the entrance hall by the Sleeping Children, as muted conversation drifted toward her.
    “Miss Laurent? Is that you?”
    Recognizing Mrs. Monroe’s voice, Claire walked around the corner to the tête-à-tête room. And when she saw who was seated beside Sutton’s