A Lasting Impression

Sutton realized his misstep earlier that evening. He tugged at his collar, the lead soprano’s excessive vibrato gnawing at his patience. In his effort to be upfront with Claire Laurent, he had in all likelihood driven a wedge between them, and he’d undermined his pledge to Mrs. Acklen to keep an eye on her.
    He’d admitted to Claire that he didn’t believe she was qualified for the position, which meant she wouldn’t dare seek his advice on anything, because that would only prove his point. So instead of nurturing their working relationship, which would further his employer’s goal, he’d actually given Claire a bona fide reason not to confide in him. Or trust him.
    Seated in the row behind Mrs. Acklen in her box seats, he stared out over the crowd of Nashville’s elite. As much as he despised the name Willister, he’d certainly earned it this time.

15

    W hile these are not wholly unappealing possibilities for a party, Miss Laurent, I was certainly hoping for something with a little more . . . creativity from you.” Mrs. Acklen eyed her across the library desk. “This needs to be an event that William and his friends will remember, that their parents will talk about, instead of a celebration centered around . . .”
    Claire cringed in her chair as Mrs. Acklen reached over the desk for the list of ideas she’d stayed up past midnight last night compiling. Around the same time Mrs. Acklen and Sutton returned from the opera.
    “. . . clowns, sack races, croquet, rolling hoops, hopscotch, and . . .” Mrs. Acklen peered over her reading glasses to look at her. “ Donkeys? ”
    Disapproval and fatigue lined Mrs. Acklen’s features, and Claire lowered her gaze.
    With a sigh, Mrs. Acklen pushed the piece of paper back toward her. “I assume, Miss Laurent, that you’re aware of the zoo on this estate. So correct me if I’m wrong, but I fail to see how a game with donkeys—ones fashioned from paper, no less—is going to enthrall forty-seven children.”
    In a brief moment of lunacy, Claire considered correcting her employer’s use of the word children —knowing William would have had he been present—but she quickly regained her senses. “Yes, ma’am, I’m aware of the zoo. But the donkeys I referred to are actually piñatas. A piñata is an object made of papier mâché that is filled with—”
    “I know what a piñata is, Miss Laurent! What I’m telling you is that none of these ideas appeal to me. And I’m certain they won’t appeal to William.” Mrs. Acklen removed her glasses and massaged the bridge of her nose. “Nine days, Miss Laurent. Nine days . . . That’s all that remains before the party.” She gave a tired laugh. “And we don’t even have the menu selected. But of course we can’t do that until we have an idea for the theme.”
    Part of Claire wanted to gently remind the woman they were only planning a child’s birthday party, not Nashville’s social event of the year. Then again, this “child’s birthday party” was the deciding factor in whether or not she got this job. And she needed to succeed.
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Acklen.” Claire rose, eager to return to her task. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and prepare some new ideas.”
    “ Creative ones this time, please, Miss Laurent. And what of the party favors? Have you ideas for those?”
    “Party favors?”
    Mrs. Acklen’s eyes fluttered closed, then opened. “Yes, party favors, Miss Laurent. A small token of appreciation given to a guest to convey the host’s gratitude for their attendance.”
    Claire felt her face heat. “Yes, of course, ma’am. I’m going into town this morning. Right this minute, actually, and will return with possibilities for those as well.”
    “Have you arranged for a carriage yet?”
    Hand on the doorknob, Claire shook her head. “No, ma’am. I thought I would walk. It’s so nice outside, and I enjoy—”
    “Take one of the carriages.” Mrs. Acklen peered over the desk. “Your hem is already caked in dust. I’d hate to imagine what it would be like after tromping the streets of Nashville after yesterday’s rain.”
    Claire looked down. She’d spent half an hour brushing the skirt of this dress, since her only other dress was still splattered with mud. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And am I to assume, Miss Laurent”—Mrs. Acklen’s tone softened by a degree—“by your lack of mourning garb that your trunks have not arrived as of yet?”
    Claire fingered her skirt.