A Lasting Impression

him do.

    “May I help you, ma’am?” the clerk behind the desk asked.
    “Yes, please.” Claire’s nerves were stretched taut. “I’m entered in the auction for new artists and was told to come here to check in.”
    “And your name?”
    “Miss Claire Elise Laurent.”
    As the young woman skimmed her pen along the side of the page, Claire turned and scanned the lobby of the Worthington Art Center in search of Sutton. The hall was a sea of faces—but none of them his.
    She’d gone by the law office on her way to the art center, hoping to find him. But the receptionist had said he was out of the office for the afternoon. He wouldn’t forget the auction. At least she didn’t think he would. But he’d been so preoccupied with his mother being here, and then with the lawsuit . . .
    “Here you are, Miss Laurent.”
    Claire looked back.
    “All of your information appears to be in order, ma’am, except for one item. I need for you to complete and sign this certificate of authenticity. It confirms that you are indeed the artist of the canvas you submitted and that it is an original work of your own design.”
    Claire stared at the form for a moment, the full weight of what it represented sinking in. Perhaps for the first time. This truly was her painting, for better or worse. It wasn’t a copy. Or a fake. Or a forgery. She completed the form and signed her name at the bottom.
    The clerk checked her information. “You’re all ready, Miss Laurent. Best of luck to you!”
    “Luck has nothing to do with it.”
    Claire spun around and, to her relief, saw Sutton—but with Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook beside him.
    His smile turned sheepish. “Were you worried I wouldn’t make it?”
    “No, of course not,” she said, then saw the way he looked at her. “Well, maybe I was a little worried.”
    Mrs. Holbrook gave her a quick hug. “This is so exciting, Miss Laurent. Your first auction. I can hardly wait to see your painting. I’m sure it will do very well.”
    “And afterward,” Mr. Holbrook chimed in, “we’re taking you and Mr. Monroe out for dinner to celebrate. Our treat!”
    Claire smiled, the evening already not unfolding as she’d planned. “How kind. Thank you.”
    Sutton offered his arm, and Claire slipped her hand through. He gestured for Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook to precede them into the auditorium, then leaned down. “Mr. Holbrook insisted they come with us to support you tonight. I hope you don’t mind too much. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
    Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, Claire felt ashamed. “No, Sutton, it’s fine. You’re here and that’s all that matters.” Already, some of the framed paintings were being brought to the stage, but hers wasn’t among them.
    At the door a young man handed them each a program.
    It was more crowded than Claire expected. They chose four chairs together near the middle and crowded in, and as Sutton visited with Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook, Claire read through the program, noting the artists’ names. Seeing her own name near the bottom of the first column, she ran a finger across the printed type, a sense of satisfaction welling up inside her.
    Conversation in the hall quieted as a gentleman on the stage took the podium.
    “Welcome, everyone, to the Worthington Art Center and to Nashville’s twenty-second annual auction for new artists. First, we want to thank Mr. and Mrs. Worthington for their generous contribution to the arts, which enables us to be sitting in this lovely building today. A portion of today’s proceeds will benefit the Tennessee Endowment of . . .”
    Claire searched the crowd until she located Mrs. Worthington. At that moment, Mrs. Worthington looked back at her and smiled. Claire did likewise—then jumped when the gavel came down, signaling the start of the auction.
    The auctioneer stood behind the podium. “First up for bid is an oil on canvas entitled Cherished Dawn. The artist is Mr. Adam Marcus Avery of Gallatin, Tennessee.”
    Claire peered over heads in front of her to better see the framed landscape. Stunning. She leaned back in her seat, knowing her chances were doomed.
    “As with all of our new-artist submissions,” the auctioneer continued, “we’ll start the bid at two dollars. And remember, folks, half of the winning bid goes to the artist and the other half to charity. So bid high and bid often.”
    Laughter skirted across the auditorium.
    The auctioneer started the bidding, and paddles appeared from nowhere,