A Lasting Impression

warm.
    “And to keep that from happening,” the auctioneer continued. “I’m going to give each bidder a piece of paper and I want them to write down their highest bid. And make it a good one, friends, because you won’t get another chance. Whoever wins this bid will be the proud owner of An American Versailles. ”
    Two young men made their way down the aisle with pen and paper. One to Sutton. One to Mrs. Worthington. They wrote their bids—Sutton writing Adelicia’s where Claire couldn’t see—and the young men took the bids to the auctioneer, who peered at them with a grin, then raised his gavel and slammed it down.
    “ An American Versailles . . . sold for ninety-four dollars, the highest bid any new artist has garnered in the history of this auction, to . . . Mr. Sutton Monroe.”
    Wordless, Claire turned.
    But Sutton just smiled and winked. “You don’t need to know everything, Miss Laurent.”

51

    S utton . . .” Claire turned in her chair and hugged him tight, still not believing what he’d done. How could her heart be so full and yet be breaking at the same time? “That was money for your thoroughbreds,” she whispered.
    “That money was an investment”—he pressed a quick kiss into her hair—“in someone very, very important to me.”
    “Forgive my interruption . . .” Mrs. Holbrook leaned over, pointing discreetly. “But I think people are waiting to offer their congratulations. To you both.”
    Claire turned, and sure enough, a line was forming. For the next few moments, she and Sutton accepted people’s felicitations—until Mr. and Mrs. Worthington approached.
    Claire curtsied to the couple, noting the woman’s dour expression. “Mr. and Mrs. Worthington, please let me offer my gratitude to you for bidding on my landscape. I’m deeply honored.”
    Mr. Worthington gave an acknowledging tilt of his head. “You’re most welcome, Miss Laurent. Although I must say”—he glanced at his wife—“living with Mrs. Worthington for the next few days is going to be quite uncomfortable for me. She’d already chosen a place in the central parlor for your canvas.”
    Claire could hardly believe that.
    “May I offer my thanks too,” Sutton said, “for such a spirited bidding session, Mrs. Worthington.”
    “You may, Mr. Monroe.” The tiniest smile shown through Mrs. Worthington’s obvious irritation at having lost. “And may I offer a well-meant warning in return. . . . The next time, I’ll bid much higher.”
    Sutton smiled, bowing slightly. “I’ll take that under advisement, ma’am.”
    “And you may pass that along to Adelicia, as well,” she added, her tone holding subtle challenge. “ If she’s planning to attend the auction later this week?”
    “She is indeed, ma’am. Mrs. Acklen returns to Belmont day after tomorrow, in fact. I received a telegram from her this morning.”
    Claire accompanied Sutton and Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook to the cashier’s office in a hallway off the main lobby. Sutton pulled his bank book from his inner coat pocket, and Claire thought again of how much he was paying for her painting.
    “I would have painted you one for free,” she whispered.
    “Now you tell me.” He sneaked her a wink, then handed the young woman behind the counter his check.
    The pretty clerk smiled—more at Sutton, Claire noticed, than at her—and returned moments later with another check. “Here you are, Miss Laurent. Your portion of the proceeds. And”—she handed Claire the check while focusing back on Sutton—“Mr. Brownley, the curator, has invited you, Mr. Monroe, and your guests, to the private showing of art scheduled for auction later this week. The showing is under way right now, down the hallway. Refreshments are being served.”
    Sutton looked at Claire, then at Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook. “Are we interested?”
    Claire glanced at Mrs. Holbrook, hopeful she would be, and smiled when the woman nodded enthusiastically.
    “I believe the ladies say yes, Mr. Monroe.” Mr. Holbrook gestured down the hallway.
    Inside the gallery, Claire pulled Sutton aside and held out the check. “Here . . . I want you to have this. It’s yours, after all.”
    He held up his hands. “That’s your money, Claire. Yours to do with as you wish.”
    “But I don’t feel comfortable taking it, Sutton. Please, just—”
    “Lawd, help me,” he said softly. “There you go again, tryin’ to steal my joy.”
    Claire smiled, still able to hear Cordina when she’d caught