A Lasting Impression

it in her bones—inspire her to create something truly worthy. Another painting like her rendition of Jardins de Versailles, perhaps. Or better.
    And being at Belmont held another advantage. . . .
    If the right people saw her work, people who moved in Mrs. Acklen’s social circle, perhaps they would recognize her talent, and—Claire felt her desperation narrow to a single point of focus—that would enable her to gain the recognition she sought, that she could almost taste. Then like Randolph Rogers and his Ruth Gleaning, she would create something that would inspire. That would affirm her talent. Something with her name on it that would earn her the respect and attention of critics.
    She took a breath and released it with practiced ease. But how to get Mrs. Acklen to change her mind? And then it occurred to her. It was almost too simple and had been right in front of her the entire time.
    She lifted her gaze. Only seconds had passed, but it felt like much longer. “Mrs. Acklen, you’re right. I apologize for coming here today so ill-prepared for our interview. I need to confess something to you, but before I do, I ask that whatever opinion you form of me, you will not hold Reverend or Mrs. Bunting responsible for my failure to make a favorable impression.”
    Mrs. Acklen studied her with a glimmer of renewed interest. “Very well, Miss Laurent. You have my assurance. After all, it’s only proper that one take responsibility for her own shortcomings.”
    The razor-edged comment cut, but sensing the sand pouring through the hourglass, Claire plunged ahead. “I arrived to Nashville only yesterday. And through a series of unfortunate events, late last night I found myself at a chur—”
    She jumped at the sharp knock on the door behind her.
    Looking equally surprised, and bothered, Mrs. Acklen glanced in that direction. “Yes, come in.”
    The smooth glide of recently oiled hinges announced someone’s entry.
    “Mrs. Acklen,” a man said, “I need to speak with you about—oh, my apologies for interrupting, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were entertaining a guest.”
    Recognizing his voice, Claire didn’t move—except to turn her head slightly away so that Sutton Monroe wouldn’t see her face.

11

    C laire sat absolutely still, feeling as though she’d been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Any second now, Sutton Monroe would recognize her, and her chance to win Mrs. Acklen’s trust would be lost. If that chance had ever been hers to begin with.
    Mrs. Acklen looked past her and smiled with a sweetness heretofore unseen. “That’s quite all right, Mr. Monroe. You’re never an interruption. I’ll be finished here shortly. Can you wait?”
    “Certainly, ma’am. I’ll be in the study.”
    “Very well.” Mrs. Acklen nodded. “Thank you.”
    Hearing Monroe’s retreating steps, Claire took a much needed breath. How had he not recognized her? Yet considering she’d been sitting with her back to him, and remembering how she’d looked that morning at the church building, no wonder he hadn’t—
    “Oh! And Mr. Monroe?”
    Claire tensed again.
    Mrs. Acklen gestured to the side table directly to Claire’s left. “While you’re waiting, would you mind reviewing a document for me? Mr. Olensby had the file delivered today while you were away. He’s requesting an answer no later than tomorrow morning, and I assured him we’d have one for him by then.”
    Hearing Mr. Monroe draw closer, Claire bowed her head and pretended to be distracted by a thread at the edge of her sleeve. She could see his hand as he reached for the folder.
    “I’ll review it immediately, Mrs. Acklen,” he said. “And again, please accept my regrets for interrupting your visit.”
    Mrs. Acklen waved as though dismissing his apology. “It’s an interview, Mr. Monroe. Not a personal visit. And we’re nearly finished. I’ll join you in a moment.”
    Claire silently counted Monroe’s steps to the door as the niggling thread magically fixed itself.
    Mrs. Acklen’s attention returned to her. “Now, Miss Laurent . . . you were saying?”
    Monroe’s footsteps halted. And Claire cringed, feeling the lid to the cookie jar clamp viselike on her hand. And on her future.
    Mrs. Acklen glanced past her again. “Is something wrong, Mr. Monroe?”
    Claire heard him approach a second time and knew there was no use trying to hide her face as she’d done before.
    “Miss Laurent ?” Disbelief weighed his tone.
    Her heart