A Lasting Impression

blinking, sunlight bright on her face. Shielding her eyes, she rose up slightly. A sharp gnawing clawed at her belly as the knowledge of where she was and how she’d gotten here returned in splintered pieces.
    Papa . . .
    She lay back down and stared at the carved beams far above, mourning him and the decisions he’d made, and the relationship they should have had. Yet she couldn’t ignore two undeniable truths. As much as losing him hurt, the loss didn’t begin to compare with the emptiness she’d felt at her mother’s passing. Which, for some reason, only added to her present grief.
    And the second truth—even thinking it felt wrong—was that his passing, however much she wished he were still alive, confirmed within her that her decision to make a new life for herself was the right one. The opportunity hadn’t come in the guise she’d expected, but she was taking it.
    Uncle Antoine had told Samuel Broderick— repulsive man —not to tell her about Papa’s passing. No doubt he wanted to tell her himself after he arrived so he could coerce her, try to convince her to stay and continue the “family business.” How could she have ever thought Antoine DePaul genuinely cared about her? And how could she have thought so fondly of him? She’d been so naive, so gullible.
    “ Be careful who you love . . . ”
    With her mother’s words replaying in her mind, she turned on the narrow bench, her back aching from having slept too long in the same position. She moved to stretch—and whacked her elbow on the back of the pew. Pain exploded up and down her arm, white hot and prickling, and she groaned—
    Until the overloud creak of a door silenced her.
    “Are you sure we’re supposed to be in here?” a female voice whispered. “It’s awfully early.”
    “It’s fine!” a second woman answered. “The doors open at seven o’clock for prayer, but no one else is here, so come on!”
    Judging by the swift tread of footsteps, Claire guessed the women were in a hurry. And they were coming straight down the aisle, right toward her.
    Hoping their footsteps would mask any noise she made, she grabbed her satchel and coat, rolled off the pew, and scooted back beneath it. She yanked her skirt and belongings close, praying she wouldn’t be seen. Seconds later, two young women swept past her toward the front.
    “I didn’t know you went to church here.”
    “I don’t.” Impatience abbreviated the second woman’s tone. “But this is where she goes. And I want that position! That should count for something. Besides, everybody knows it’s better if you pray in a church.”
    “Why is it better?”
    Interested in hearing the answer to that question, Claire rose up on one elbow, careful not to hit her head on the bottom of the pew.
    “Because, silly ”—a bothered huff—“it shows God that you care enough to actually get up and do something, which puts you ahead of the other people who don’t. It also increases your chances of Him giving you what you’re asking for.”
    Claire found the woman’s explanation lacking. There’d been plenty of times in her own life when she’d done everything she could to please God, when she’d acted on what she thought He wanted her to do, instead of what she knew she wanted to do.
    Yet, in the end, He’d still said no.
    From her vantage point, Claire could see one of the women kneeling. Only then, be it right or wrong, did she start to feel self-conscious about overhearing their conversation.
    “What makes you think you’re going to get the position anyway? Half of the girls we know have interviewed for it and were turned away.”
    “Because I’m the most qualified, Susanna. I know what it’s like to move in her circle. Father says Mrs. Acklen thanked him by name the last time she was in the bank.”
    “Yes . . . but the advertisement calls for applicants skilled in filing and able to manage details. You have trouble keeping the perfume bottles on your bureau straight. And you don’t speak French either.”
    Claire bumped her head on the bottom of the pew—then froze.
    “What was that ?” came a harsh whisper. The skirt of the woman standing swished as she turned this way and that.
    Claire held her breath.
    “It was just a wagon or something else outside. And excusez-moi ! I do so speak French. À quelle heure arrive le train? ”
    Claire let out her breath and then inhaled again. The woman interviewing for the position did have a passable French accent. But