A Lasting Impression (59 page)

Claire didn’t know how to respond. She’d known what she’d done was wrong, and she was ready to admit that and accept the consequences. Or so she’d thought. But . . .
prosecution
? As in . . . the possibility of going to jail? That was a cost she hadn’t calculated.

Sensing movement at the corner of her eye, she tensed. But when she looked, no one was there. It was only Mrs. Acklen’s likeness staring down at her from the portrait. She thought of what Sutton had told her about Adelicia braving two armies, fighting to keep what was hers, and she prayed for a measure of that same strength and courage. What would Adelicia Acklen have done if they’d threatened her with arrest? With going to jail? Claire could only imagine. . . .

The door handle turned beneath her grip. Panicking, yet having no choice, she pulled the door open.

Eli looked at her, then at Antoine. “Is everything all right, Miss Laurent?”

“Yes,” she forced out, her voice tight. “Everything is fine. But . . . my guest is ready to leave. He needs his horse.”

Eli gave Antoine a thorough study. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll get it right away.”

“Thank you, Eli.”

She turned back to see Antoine running a finger along the line of
Ruth
’s shoulder, then down her arm to the fragile right hand, where delicately carved fingers extended outward. Claire stepped forward, fearing he intended to do the statue damage.

Antoine crossed to the door and paused beside her. “I think five hundred dollars would tide me over for now, Claire. I’ll contact you at the end of the week and we’ll arrange to meet.”

“I’ve told you, I won’t do it.”

He smiled. “You have until Friday. Use the time wisely. And remember, I’m neither as patient—nor as stupid—a man as was your father.” He touched her face, but she pulled away. “While you may have your mother’s beauty, Claire, you’ll never have her talent. Yours was, and always will be, a cheap imitation.” He gave her chin a hard pinch. “
À bientôt, ma petite.”

He strode past her. Claire held on to the door, and not until he’d rounded the final bend toward the main gate did she draw a full breath again.
“See you soon,”
he’d said in farewell.

And God help her, she believed him.

50

T
he next morning, Claire read the note Sutton had slipped beneath her door sometime during the night, and she knew she was reaping what she’d sown.

Dearest Claire,

Forgive me for not being here when you awaken. Mr. Holbrook and I have meetings with the authorities first thing in the morning. I’ll fill you in this evening, but suffice it to say . . . those prayers you’re praying for me—and this lawsuit—are proving most powerful. I’ll see you at the auction tonight and will be searching the crowds for your smile.

Always your faithful corporal,

Sutton

Claire rubbed the sleep—or lack thereof—from her eyes. Not only had he been unable to keep yesterday’s lunch appointment due to his case with Mr. Holbrook, but he’d already left for the day. She sighed. This was her punishment for not having told him the truth sooner.

She’d awakened during the night, thinking about Antoine’s visit and what he’d said. At first she’d worried what would happen if he returned to Belmont. But he wouldn’t return. Because with a word, she could do to him what he was threatening to do to her. No, he would contact her, as he said he would, learn she wasn’t going to give him the money, then ruin her from afar. All very safe, clean, and simple for him.

But in truth, could he hurt her any more than her own admission was going to hurt her? Yes, but only in one way—if he somehow contacted Sutton first. Which she couldn’t let him do.

“May I help you, ma’am?” the clerk behind the desk asked.

“Yes, please.” Claire’s nerves were stretched taut. “I’m entered in the auction for new artists and was told to come here to check in.”

“And your name?”

“Miss Claire Elise Laurent.”

As the young woman skimmed her pen along the side of the page, Claire turned and scanned the lobby of the Worthington Art Center in search of Sutton. The hall was a sea of faces—but none of them his.

She’d gone by the law office on her way to the art center, hoping to find him. But the receptionist had said he was out of the office for the afternoon. He wouldn’t forget the auction. At least she didn’t think he would. But he’d been so preoccupied with his mother being here, and then with the lawsuit . . .

“Here you are, Miss Laurent.”

Claire looked back.

“All of your information appears to be in order, ma’am, except for one item. I need for you to complete and sign this certificate of authenticity. It confirms that you are indeed the artist of the canvas you submitted and that it is an original work of your own design.”

Claire stared at the form for a moment, the full weight of what it represented sinking in. Perhaps for the first time. This truly was
her
painting, for better or worse. It wasn’t a copy. Or a fake. Or a forgery. She completed the form and signed her name at the bottom.

The clerk checked her information. “You’re all ready, Miss Laurent. Best of luck to you!”

“Luck has nothing to do with it.”

Claire spun around and, to her relief, saw Sutton—but with Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook beside him.

His smile turned sheepish. “Were you worried I wouldn’t make it?”

“No, of course not,” she said, then saw the way he looked at her. “Well, maybe I was a little worried.”

Mrs. Holbrook gave her a quick hug. “This is so exciting, Miss Laurent. Your first auction. I can hardly wait to see your painting. I’m sure it will do very well.”

“And afterward,” Mr. Holbrook chimed in, “we’re taking you and Mr. Monroe out for dinner to celebrate. Our treat!”

Claire smiled, the evening already not unfolding as she’d planned. “How kind. Thank you.”

Sutton offered his arm, and Claire slipped her hand through. He gestured for Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook to precede them into the auditorium, then leaned down. “Mr. Holbrook insisted they come with us to support you tonight. I hope you don’t mind too much. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, Claire felt ashamed. “No, Sutton, it’s fine. You’re here and that’s all that matters.” Already, some of the framed paintings were being brought to the stage, but hers wasn’t among them.

At the door a young man handed them each a program.

It was more crowded than Claire expected. They chose four chairs together near the middle and crowded in, and as Sutton visited with Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook, Claire read through the program, noting the artists’ names. Seeing her own name near the bottom of the first column, she ran a finger across the printed type, a sense of satisfaction welling up inside her.

Conversation in the hall quieted as a gentleman on the stage took the podium.

“Welcome, everyone, to the Worthington Art Center and to Nashville’s twenty-second annual auction for new artists. First, we want to thank Mr. and Mrs. Worthington for their generous contribution to the arts, which enables us to be sitting in this lovely building today. A portion of today’s proceeds will benefit the Tennessee Endowment of . . .”

Claire searched the crowd until she located Mrs. Worthington. At that moment, Mrs. Worthington looked back at her and smiled. Claire did likewise—then jumped when the gavel came down, signaling the start of the auction.

The auctioneer stood behind the podium. “First up for bid is an oil on canvas entitled
Cherished Dawn.
The artist is Mr. Adam Marcus Avery of Gallatin, Tennessee.”

Claire peered over heads in front of her to better see the framed landscape.
Stunning.
She leaned back in her seat, knowing her chances were doomed.

“As with all of our new-artist submissions,” the auctioneer continued, “we’ll start the bid at two dollars. And remember, folks, half of the winning bid goes to the artist and the other half to charity. So bid high and bid often.”

Laughter skirted across the auditorium.

The auctioneer started the bidding, and paddles appeared from nowhere, popping up and down so fast Claire didn’t know where to look next, what the bid was, or how on earth the auctioneer was keeping track of everything. It was all so exciting.

Only then did she see the bid paddle balanced on Sutton’s knee. On the back of the paddle was written the name
Acklen.
“Is Mrs. Acklen bidding on some of these?” she whispered.

Sutton just looked over at her and smiled, and Claire felt her hopes rise.

“Thirty-two dollars going once, thirty-two going twice . . .” The gavel sounded. “
Cherished Dream
 . . .
sold
for thirty-two to Mrs. Daniel Worthington.”

Mrs. Worthington beamed and nodded to those around her as though she’d painted the oil on canvas herself.

The next several paintings didn’t go for nearly what
Cherished Dream
had, and Claire’s expectation for her own entry began to fall. But the next few auction items generated a flurry of bidding and she grew encouraged again.
I’ll paint as if I’m painting only for You. I’ll paint as if I’m painting only for You. . . .

She repeated it over and over, reminding herself that no matter what came, she’d painted this canvas with that as her goal and she’d done her very best. And that was the most she could do.

Finally, hers was brought to the stage.

“The final item up for bid is an oil on canvas entitled . . .
An American Versailles.
The artist is Miss Claire Elise Laurent of Nashville, Tennessee.”

Seeing her painting up there and hearing her name read aloud caused her to tear up. Sutton reached over and squeezed her hand.

The auctioneer started the bid at two dollars, and paddles flew. Claire felt as if she were on a carriage careening out of control. Her heart raced. She gripped the edge of her seat, not knowing where to look next.

“The bid stands at thirteen dollars. Do I hear fourteen?”

Thirteen dollars already!
She got so excited.

The bidding started again and, feeling someone watching her, Claire looked over to see Mrs. Worthington looking their way. She smiled but the woman quickly turned around. And yet when the bid increased again, Mrs. Worthington glanced back. Claire looked at Mrs. Acklen’s paddle resting on Sutton’s leg and she gradually realized that Mrs. Worthington was waiting to see if Sutton was going to bid on the painting for Mrs. Acklen—before she bid herself.

“The bid for
An American Versailles
stands at thirty-two dollars. Do I hear thirty-three? Because if I do,
An American Versailles
will be the top-bidding item for a new-artist entry in this year’s auction.”

A paddle flew up. And another. And another. But Sutton’s paddle stayed still and unused on his leg.

Claire bowed her head, trying to simply focus on the moment. Her first auction. And the painting was
hers
. Under
her
name. She thought of her mother and wished she could have seen this moment. But maybe, just maybe, she could.

“The bid stands at thirty-nine dollars, folks. Do I hear forty?”

Sutton raised Adelicia’s paddle.

Claire turned to look at him, but he faced forward, smiling. Adelicia Acklen was bidding on
her
landscape! She could hardly sit still. Then she felt the stare again. She looked to see Mrs. Worthington bidding now too.

“The bid stands at forty-one dollars. Do I hear forty-two?”

Sutton raised the paddle again, and Claire wondered what bid limit Mrs. Acklen had set.

“We have forty-two dollars—forty-
three
over here on my left!”

Claire looked across the aisle. Mrs. Worthington’s paddle kept popping up in the air.

“Forty-seven dollars. Forty-eight.” The auctioneer gestured first with one hand, then the other. “Forty-nine. Fifty! Do I hear fifty-one?”

Sutton raised the paddle again, and Claire started thinking of all the kind things she could do for Mrs. Acklen. She would organize the woman’s dresser drawers. She would calligraphy labels of every Latin name for every flower, plant, shrub, and bush in Mrs. Acklen’s two-thousand-square-foot conservatory.

Only two paddles vied for the winning bid now. Acklen and Worthington. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“I have a bid, ladies and gentlemen, of sixty-one dollars. Do I hear sixty-two?”

Without hesitation, Sutton raised his paddle, intent on the auctioneer.

“I have sixty-two dollars. Do I hear sixty-three?”

Mrs. Worthington’s faithful paddle went up.

The auctioneer smiled. “Looks like we could be here all night, folks.”

Everyone laughed. The hall was standing-room only now and had grown warm.

“And to keep that from happening,” the auctioneer continued. “I’m going to give each bidder a piece of paper and I want them to write down their highest bid. And make it a good one, friends, because you won’t get another chance. Whoever wins this bid will be the proud owner of
An American Versailles.
”