A Lasting Impression

.”
    She jumped at the voice, then saw him. And the smile Sutton wore told her she’d been hoodwinked. Very happily so. “Why isn’t the cupola lit and ready for our guests?” she mimicked her employer. “I am quite certain I put that on your list.”
    He laughed as he took the lamp and matches from her and set them on a table that wasn’t usually there. Same for the bottle of champagne chilling on ice and two glasses. “She was most cooperative when I told her my intentions toward you.”
    Claire raised an eyebrow. “You have intentions toward me, Mr. Monroe?”
    He pulled her close. “I do indeed.” He leaned down and kissed her soft on the mouth. “And most of them are honorable.”
    She smiled, even as his expression sobered.
    “I needed some time, Claire, to sort things through. But mainly for us both to get the trial behind us.” He fingered a curl at her temple. “I’ve loved you since we hid all those silly clues together. And it took everything I had not to kiss you that night in the art gallery. I wanted to . . . so badly.”
    She traced a finger over his lips. “Like you want to now?”
    His sharp exhale should have served warning. He lifted her in his arms, held her against him, and kissed her, deeply, cradling the back of her head. Then, gradually, he lowered her back down until her feet touched the floor again. But Claire could barely breathe, much less stand.
    She gave a soft laugh. “I’ll have you know that I loved you first. Because I’ve loved you since you fell out of the gazebo that same night. Long before we hid the clues.”
    His deep chuckle warmed her. “It’s not a competition.”
    “Oh . . . look,” she whispered, and peered over to see the gardens below. “It’s even more beautiful from up here.”
    “Claire . . . I believe this belongs to you.”
    She turned back to see him holding something out to her. A necklace? No, it didn’t look—
    “Oh, Sutton . . .” Her mother’s locket watch. She cradled the locket in her palm. “Where did you get this?” But as soon as she said it, she knew. “ He had it . . . didn’t he?”
    Sutton nodded. “I put it on a chain for you, along with something else I’ve been wanting to give you.”
    A ring slowly slid down the chain, and even as his smile faded, hers bloomed.
    “Claire, you’ve long held my heart. And it would be the greatest honor of my life if you would—”
    “Yes,” she said quickly. “I will.”
    His mouth tipped in a smile. “You’re supposed to wait,” he whispered, “until after I’ve finished asking you. I’ve worked a long time on this.”
    “Not nearly as long as I’ve been waiting for you to ask.” She eyed the ring and then him.
    He slipped it on her finger, then brought his arms around her, and Claire gave herself to his kiss. She couldn’t imagine what a lifetime of loving Willister Sutton Monroe would be like. But she welcomed it—and eagerly anticipated the masterpiece that God would make of their life together.

Dear Reader,
    The first time I visited the Belmont Mansion, I knew I wanted to write about this magnificent home and the people who’d lived there. While Belmont served as a “backdrop” for this story and I’ve gone to great length to remain faithful to history, I have taken creative license with historical personalities, as well as with the basement level of the mansion, which is no longer inhabitable nor open to the public. For more information on the historical specifics and for pictures of Adelicia’s statuary, please visit my Web site ( www.tameraalexander.com ).
    Adelicia had a great appreciation for art, and as the story portrays, she was one of the wealthiest women in the United States in the 1860s. The seed of her wealth came from her first husband, Isaac Franklin, a wealthy planter and slave trader, and was another story in itself. I desired to include those details of her life—and did , initially. But as writers learn early on, if story threads don’t serve the main story, they must go. Which these threads did . . . during rewrite. Yet I do believe they are important pieces of Adelicia’s life and to the history of Belmont.
    As for the question Claire heard in the book, “Would you paint if you knew you were painting only for me?” that has its root in a personal experience. In 2003, after I’d pitched the idea for my first novel to an editor, she read the first few chapters, then told me she wanted to see it once it was completed. So I set