A Lasting Impression

and Antoine DePaul—“didn’t know the first thing about anything culinary. Except the eating part.” She took the plates he handed her.
    “You don’t get to be my age without learning your way around a kitchen. Not if you want to eat.”
    She held the plates as he dished up the food. “Come, come, Mr. Monroe. You’re not that old.” She smiled sweetly, guessing him to be only a handful of years older than she. “You’re at least a good decade away from needing a cane.”
    He feigned a frown. “Such impudence after I made you breakfast.”
    She inhaled. “Which smells wonderful!” She carried the plates to a small side table and claimed one of the two chairs. He followed with coffee, steam rising from the cups.
    As she picked up her fork to start eating, she noticed Sutton’s outstretched hand and read the soft intention in his eyes. Uncomfortable at having revealed she didn’t follow the same routine, she returned her fork to the table and wordlessly slipped her hand into his.
    He bowed his head. “Father God, we thank you for this food and for the gift of friendship—” He spoke as if the One he addressed was seated right next to him instead of in another realm. “And for grace that is wholly undeserved, Lord. But upon which our souls depend. In Jesus’ name . . .”
    “Amen,” she whispered in unison with him, aware of how he gently squeezed her hand before letting go.
    “So . . .” He forked a bite of eggs. “What’s on your itinerary for the day?”
    Claire heard the question but was still thinking about his prayer . . . So simple, so honest. And he’d called her a friend. She was more touched by that than she should have been. But it had been a long time since she’d had a friend. Since boarding school. And even then, she’d never truly been close to any of the girls. She’d always felt on the outside. Different. Never quite able to bridge the gap.
    Aware of Sutton watching her, she directed her attention back to his question. “I have a meeting with Mrs. Acklen this afternoon about—”
    “The party.” He gave her a playfully ominous look.
    She nodded. “I’m afraid I’m still not quite ready for the meeting yet. But I will be! I thought an early-morning walk might help stir the imagination.”
    He raised his coffee cup in a mock toast. “That always works for me. Has anyone given you a tour of the estate?”
    She finished a piece of bacon and wanted to lick her fingers, but refrained. “Mrs. Routh gave me a tour of the main floor of the mansion. But no, I haven’t seen the grounds or any of the other buildings yet. This morning though, I’d planned on walking the fields you can see from my room. And may I add . . .” Fork in hand, she pointed to her plate. “This is delicious, kind sir, thank you.”
    “You’re most welcome, m’lady.” He winked, those bluish-gray eyes intent on hers, and something inside her went soft and warm. She felt a tightness begin to unfurl, like a wood shaving being devoured by the flame. Whatever the feeling was, it felt good. And inviting. So inviting, it almost scared her. What was it about Sutton Monroe that did that to her? That made her want to open up to him? To be closer, somehow.
    It would have been different if he were trying to gain her attention, as other men sometimes did. But Sutton didn’t seem to be the least aware of the effect he had on her.
    “The fields are a good choice for your walk.” He sipped his coffee. “It’s beautiful back in there. There’s an old Indian trail you can follow that leads down to a creek.” He drained his cup, eyed the coffeepot, and started to rise.
    Claire held up a hand. “Please, allow me.” She retrieved the coffeepot from the stove and refilled his cup, then hers, enjoying the chance to look at him without him looking at her.
    “So tell me, Claire . . .” He leaned back in his chair. “How long did you live in New Orleans?”
    Her guard heightened at the unexpected question. Not that it was overly personal. But it had to do with her past. “We lived there for about two years.”
    “Did you enjoy the city?”
    She returned the coffeepot to the stove. “Yes, for the most part.”
    “Where did you live? Chances are good I’ll know where it is. I’ve been to New Orleans many times for Mrs. Acklen on business.”
    Claire reclaimed her seat and took a sip of coffee, buying herself a little time. From her experience, most people enjoyed talking about themselves. She didn’t.