A Lasting Impression

them having breakfast in her kitchen. That morning seemed like forever ago, and she felt like such a different person inside now. Never could she have imagined that circumstances would turn out the way they had. She was so grateful for this man and for the fresh start God had given her at a new life.
    But as grateful as she was, she knew there was something she still needed to do.
    Sutton brought her hand to her lips. “Put that check in your skirt pocket where it belongs. I have a feeling you’re going to need those funds for more canvases and paints.”
    She did as he asked, but touched his arm when he turned to rejoin the Holbrooks. “Sutton . . . there’s something I need to talk to you about. Could we go somewhere, please . . . just the two of us?”
    He touched her cheek. “Is everything all right?”
    The tenderness in his voice cut through her. “Yes,” she whispered, then shook her head. “And no.”
    Concern clouded his features. He glanced across the gallery. “We’ll view the art with the Holbrooks for a moment, and then I’ll make our excuses about dinner and we’ll go straight home.”
    She nodded. “Thank you.”
    The gallery was larger than she’d expected, a maze of rooms, and by the time they made it back toward the entrance, the crowd had increased considerably.
    Mrs. Holbrook slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Dear, are you feeling all right? You’ve grown awfully quiet.”
    “I think I’m just overtired, Mrs. Holbrook.” Claire glanced at Sutton, who jumped right in.
    “We appreciate the offer of dinner, but I think we’ll make this an early evening, if that won’t offend.”
    Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook assured them it wouldn’t.
    As they were leaving the gallery, a silver-haired gentleman approached their party. “Mr. Monroe, may I extend my gratitude for your most generous bid this evening, sir.”
    “It was my pleasure, Mr. Brownley.” Sutton shook his hand, then gestured. “Mr. Brownley has been the art center curator for several years. Allow me to make introductions. . . .”
    Claire curtsied when Sutton came to her. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brownley.”
    “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Laurent. My congratulations in your success this evening. And forgive me, but having seen your An American Versailles, you hardly strike me as being a new artist. My father and grandfather were both curators, so I’ve been around art all my life. And the elegance of style, the emotion in your painting, your execution of brushstroke . . .” He shook his head. “You’re extraordinarily accomplished for one so young, Miss Laurent.”
    Claire grew uncomfortable beneath his praise. “I appreciate that, sir. Thank you.” She glanced at Sutton, who seemed to sense her discomfort. Then she looked anywhere but back at Mr. Brownley—
    And that’s when she saw it—displayed on an easel in the far corner of the final room. “W-where did you get that canvas?” she whispered, a viselike grip squeezing the air from her lungs.
    “Oh . . .” Mr. Brownley’s sigh held reverence. “The auction of this landscape is quite a coup for our gallery, Miss Laurent. It’s a François-Narcisse Brissaud original. Jardins—”
    “—de Versailles, ” she finished, walking toward it, drawn to the image of her mother standing at the edge of the garden, half hidden behind the lilacs.
    Just as quickly, she stilled and turned, and searched the faces around her, certain one of them would be Antoine’s. But she didn’t see him. Then she remembered the newspaper article—all of the art had been stolen from the gallery in New Orleans that night. She slowly looked back at her Versailles. Or had it?
    Mr. Brownley joined her. “Are you familiar with Brissaud’s work, Miss Laurent?”
    Her smile felt brittle, as false as the canvas before her. As false as she felt at that moment. And yet, she knew she was no longer the woman who had painted it. God had changed her. She still wanted to paint, more than anything she could imagine doing with her life. But she wanted to paint in such a way that when others saw her work, they would somehow see Him instead .
    Feeling Mr. Brownley’s attention, she turned and let out a held breath. “Yes, sir. I’m actually quite familiar with Brissaud’s work.” Sensing Sutton’s presence, she looked over at him. “But . . .” She softened her voice so only he could hear. “This isn’t an original Brissaud.”
    Frowning, Sutton shot a look at the curator,