A Lasting Impression

courage. “Papa . . . about the painting I finished today. I’d very much like to discuss with you about keep—”
    “No. It’s out of the question.”
    Unexpected heat shot up through her chest. “But this one is special. To me, at least. I’ll paint another one, faster, exactly as you detail. Whatever you—”
    “The answer is no !” Anger darkened his features. “The painting is already sold.”
    “But it has Maman—”
    “We need the money, Claire Elise! Creditors are waiting to be paid, and your dawdling has cost me dearly. Yet again.”
    Knowing she was already treading dangerous ground, she pushed a little further. “I have another painting, Papa. One of my own, which I haven’t shown you yet. Perhaps the patron might—”
    “He wants a Brissaud! Have I not made that clear enough for you?” Fury mottled his throat a deep red. “Our patrons are not interested in the trite, inconsequential renderings of a—” As though hearing the harsh bite of his own voice, he exhaled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Claire. But it’s done. There’s nothing left to discuss. In time, perhaps we can sell your own paintings. But for now, your talent simply lacks any . . . unique quality. Nurturing talent takes time. You’re best served to stay with copying for now. You do that quite well.”
    Bitterness tinged her mouth, and Claire felt an unexplained severing deep inside her. She wanted to respond, but she wanted not to cry even more, and if she opened her mouth now—
    “You must understand . . .” He squeezed his eyes tight. “This is what we’ve been working toward all these years. Having our own gallery, making a name for ourselves.”
    “Yes, Papa. A name. But our name. Our work. Not someone else’s, where we—”
    “Think of your mother and how hard she worked. For us as a family. For you. ”
    His expression took on a tenderness Claire barely recognized, and one she didn’t fully trust.
    “Your maman sacrificed so much to give you this gift, Claire. And a better life in America. Why do you think we came here? Why do you think we both worked so hard all those years? It was all for you. . . .”
    She’d heard all of this before, and while she was grateful for everything her mother—and father—had given her, she also knew their efforts hadn’t been only for her benefit. They were for his. Her mother had said as much. Her mother had said a great many things in those last days. Whether it was the laudanum speaking or the truth finally breaking free, Claire couldn’t be sure.
    But she wanted to believe that her father had her best interests at heart. After all, he was her papa.
    Staring up at him, seeing the hard set of his shoulders, his iron resolve, she felt the fight within her drain away. She opened the door, then remembered and held out her hand, feeling like a beggar and resenting him all the more for it.
    Her father pressed three coins into her palm. One more than usual. She turned without a thank-you or a good-bye.
    “Enjoy your time at the café, but don’t be gone overlong. We have work to do this evening.” His tone had lightened, falsely so. It always did when she acquiesced. “And be sure to bring home a sweet for Uncle Antoine and me.”
    Claire halted midstride. “Uncle Antoine is back?”
    He nodded as though the news were inconsequential, when he knew it was anything but. “He’ll be here shortly to assist me. I’ll ask him to stay so you can say hello, if he has time. Now hurry on.” He gave a swift wave. “Leave the business details to us. That’s where our talents lie.”
    Claire cut a path across the brick-paved street, pushing down the well of hurt inside her, like always. She dodged wagons and carriages as they rumbled past, hoping to reach her destination before the swollen skies delivered on their steely threat.
    They’d lived in New Orleans for two years, the longest they’d lived anywhere since arriving in America, and the city had finally begun to feel like home. Which probably meant they would be moving soon. Just the thought of moving stirred a dread inside her.
    Uncle Antoine had promised her he wouldn’t let that happen again, that he would dissuade her father from making that choice. But she knew only too well how strongheaded Papa could be.
    Uncle Antoine.
    Feeling a portion of her angst drain away, she waited for a carriage to pass before crossing the street. Uncle Antoine had a way of easing the tension between her and Papa.
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