A Lasting Impression

two clues. A building that, Claire felt sure, would be popular with the boys and girls tomorrow.
    When first exploring the grounds, she had wondered what this long, narrow building was, and now she grinned to herself, thinking of the clue she and Sutton had just written and hidden in the icehouse. A clue that would—hopefully—lead the children here. Sutton had insisted that some of the clues rhyme, saying it would make them more interesting. She’d argued it just made them harder to write. But they were memorable.
    “Approach with care,” she recited the first line of the clue in the icehouse, “your eye down the lane. . . .” She stepped through the open door as he held it for her.
    “Keep your aim steady,” he continued, following behind her, “your mark good and plain.”
    “Ten little pins”—she stood for a moment and let her eyes adjust to the dimmer light—“all set and ready . . .”
    “Awaiting the onslaught”—he came alongside her—“of a sphere strong and steady !” He finished on a deeper, more masculine note, like an actor in a play.
    Claire laughed at his antics. “A bowling alley.” Looking around, she shook her head. “Who would have guessed?”
    “If you have a bear house, you have to have a bowling alley.”
    “Oh, indeed. No question about it. Because we both know how much bears like to bowl.” Enjoying the sound of his laughter, she hid her clue in a finger hole of one of the smaller bowling balls, eager to get to the last stop on their tour—the building she’d been waiting to see since she’d first heard about it. The building she’d tried to slip into during the week but had found locked. She hoped Sutton hadn’t forgotten.
    He hid his clue, and once back outside, they found the sun dipping low in the west, swathed in a haze of pink. Ever the gentleman, Sutton offered his arm before they descended the steps, and Claire briefly slipped her hand through, half wishing she could leave it there when they reached the walkway. But she didn’t.
    Her thoughts returned to something he’d said before. “Your father . . . He’s a physician?”
    “ Was a physician.” His voice mirrored the hush of approaching night. “He died during the war.”
    “Oh, Sutton . . . I’m so sorry.” She slowed her steps. But when his gait didn’t follow suit, she hurriedly matched his pace again. “Was he killed in battle?” she asked after a moment.
    He didn’t answer immediately. “No,” he whispered. “He was not.”
    She kept her focus ahead, waiting to see if he might say something more. “And . . . may I ask about your mother? Is she still living?”
    His sigh held the semblance of a smile. “Yes, my mother’s still living. But not here in Nashville. She lives with my aunt Lorena, her older sister, in North Carolina. She moved there after my father’s death. Remaining in Nashville was too difficult for her. My mother has always had more of a . . . delicate emotional nature. Which only became more so after my father’s passing.”
    Claire nodded, wondering about the “delicate emotional nature” comment, but believing she understood, at least to some extent, the part about his mother finding it difficult to remain after his father died. She couldn’t imagine still being in New Orleans right now, living above the art gallery, with both her father and Maman gone.
    Spotting the art gallery ahead, she smiled. He hadn’t forgotten.
    The two-story brick building loomed dark and stately, large enough to be a hotel, and certainly grand enough in appearance. At least on the outside. Darkness hid the precise definitions of the structure, but she already knew them by heart, having seen the building often enough since arriving at Belmont.
    Airy, elegant balconies reminiscent of European architecture accented the front of the building, and white columns framed the main entrance, drawing the eye upward to an observatory that crowned the splendid edifice. Sutton withdrew a key and slid it into the lock.
    “Your humble home,” she said quietly.
    “Hardly. Half of the building houses the art gallery. The rest comprises five guest suites for Belmont’s visitors, along with quarters for their servants.”
    “All of whom like to bowl, of course.”
    “But only with bears,” he countered, not missing a beat. He swung open the door. “After you, Captain.”
    Claire stepped inside, then paused, unable to see anything in the darkness. Windows lined the front of the building,