A Lasting Impression (60 page)

Two young men made their way down the aisle with pen and paper. One to Sutton. One to Mrs. Worthington. They wrote their bids—Sutton writing Adelicia’s where Claire couldn’t see—and the young men took the bids to the auctioneer, who peered at them with a grin, then raised his gavel and slammed it down.

“
An American Versailles
 . . . sold for ninety-four dollars, the highest bid
any
new artist has garnered in the history of this auction, to . . . Mr. Sutton Monroe.”

Wordless, Claire turned.

But Sutton just smiled and winked. “You don’t need to know everything, Miss Laurent.”

51

S
utton . . .” Claire turned in her chair and hugged him tight, still not believing what he’d done. How could her heart be so full and yet be breaking at the same time? “That was money for your thoroughbreds,” she whispered.

“That money was an investment”—he pressed a quick kiss into her hair—“in someone very, very important to me.”

“Forgive my interruption . . .” Mrs. Holbrook leaned over, pointing discreetly. “But I think people are waiting to offer their congratulations. To you both.”

Claire turned, and sure enough, a line was forming. For the next few moments, she and Sutton accepted people’s felicitations—until Mr. and Mrs. Worthington approached.

Claire curtsied to the couple, noting the woman’s dour expression. “Mr. and Mrs. Worthington, please let me offer my gratitude to you for bidding on my landscape. I’m deeply honored.”

Mr. Worthington gave an acknowledging tilt of his head. “You’re most welcome, Miss Laurent. Although I must say”—he glanced at his wife—“living with Mrs. Worthington for the next few days is going to be quite uncomfortable for me. She’d already chosen a place in the central parlor for your canvas.”

Claire could hardly believe that.

“May I offer my thanks too,” Sutton said, “for such a spirited bidding session, Mrs. Worthington.”

“You may, Mr. Monroe.” The tiniest smile shown through Mrs. Worthington’s obvious irritation at having lost. “And may I offer a well-meant warning in return. . . . The next time, I’ll bid
much
higher.”

Sutton smiled, bowing slightly. “I’ll take that under advisement, ma’am.”

“And you may pass that along to Adelicia, as well,” she added, her tone holding subtle challenge. “
If
she’s planning to attend the auction later this week?”

“She is indeed, ma’am. Mrs. Acklen returns to Belmont day after tomorrow, in fact. I received a telegram from her this morning.”

Claire accompanied Sutton and Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook to the cashier’s office in a hallway off the main lobby. Sutton pulled his bank book from his inner coat pocket, and Claire thought again of how much he was paying for her painting.

“I would have painted you one for free,” she whispered.

“Now you tell me.” He sneaked her a wink, then handed the young woman behind the counter his check.

The pretty clerk smiled—more at Sutton, Claire noticed, than at her—and returned moments later with another check. “Here you are, Miss Laurent. Your portion of the proceeds. And”—she handed Claire the check while focusing back on Sutton—“Mr. Brownley, the curator, has invited you, Mr. Monroe, and your guests, to the private showing of art scheduled for auction later this week. The showing is under way right now, down the hallway. Refreshments are being served.”

Sutton looked at Claire, then at Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook. “Are we interested?”

Claire glanced at Mrs. Holbrook, hopeful she would be, and smiled when the woman nodded enthusiastically.

“I believe the ladies say yes, Mr. Monroe.” Mr. Holbrook gestured down the hallway.

Inside the gallery, Claire pulled Sutton aside and held out the check. “Here . . . I want you to have this. It’s yours, after all.”

He held up his hands. “That’s your money, Claire. Yours to do with as you wish.”

“But I don’t feel comfortable taking it, Sutton. Please, just—”

“Lawd, help me,” he said softly. “There you go again, tryin’ to steal my joy.”

Claire smiled, still able to hear Cordina when she’d caught them having breakfast in
her
kitchen. That morning seemed like forever ago, and she felt like such a different person inside now. Never could she have imagined that circumstances would turn out the way they had. She was so grateful for this man and for the fresh start God had given her at a new life.

But as grateful as she was, she knew there was something she still needed to do.

Sutton brought her hand to her lips. “Put that check in your skirt pocket where it belongs. I have a feeling you’re going to need those funds for more canvases and paints.”

She did as he asked, but touched his arm when he turned to rejoin the Holbrooks. “Sutton . . . there’s something I need to talk to you about. Could we go somewhere, please . . . just the two of us?”

He touched her cheek. “Is everything all right?”

The tenderness in his voice cut through her. “Yes,” she whispered, then shook her head. “And no.”

Concern clouded his features. He glanced across the gallery. “We’ll view the art with the Holbrooks for a moment, and then I’ll make our excuses about dinner and we’ll go straight home.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

The gallery was larger than she’d expected, a maze of rooms, and by the time they made it back toward the entrance, the crowd had increased considerably.

Mrs. Holbrook slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Dear, are you feeling all right? You’ve grown awfully quiet.”

“I think I’m just overtired, Mrs. Holbrook.” Claire glanced at Sutton, who jumped right in.

“We appreciate the offer of dinner, but I think we’ll make this an early evening, if that won’t offend.”

Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook assured them it wouldn’t.

As they were leaving the gallery, a silver-haired gentleman approached their party. “Mr. Monroe, may I extend my gratitude for your most generous bid this evening, sir.”

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Brownley.” Sutton shook his hand, then gestured. “Mr. Brownley has been the art center curator for several years. Allow me to make introductions. . . .”

Claire curtsied when Sutton came to her. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brownley.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Miss Laurent. My congratulations in your success this evening. And forgive me, but having seen your
An American Versailles,
you hardly strike me as being a new artist. My father and grandfather were both curators, so I’ve been around art all my life. And the elegance of style, the emotion in your painting, your execution of brushstroke . . .” He shook his head. “You’re extraordinarily accomplished for one so young, Miss Laurent.”

Claire grew uncomfortable beneath his praise. “I appreciate that, sir. Thank you.” She glanced at Sutton, who seemed to sense her discomfort. Then she looked anywhere but back at Mr. Brownley—

And that’s when she saw it—displayed on an easel in the far corner of the final room. “W-where did you get that canvas?” she whispered, a viselike grip squeezing the air from her lungs.

“Oh . . .” Mr. Brownley’s sigh held reverence. “The auction of this landscape is quite a coup for our gallery, Miss Laurent. It’s a François-Narcisse Brissaud original.
Jardins—”

“—de Versailles,
” she finished, walking toward it, drawn to the image of her mother standing at the edge of the garden, half hidden behind the lilacs.

Just as quickly, she stilled and turned, and searched the faces around her, certain one of them would be Antoine’s. But she didn’t see him. Then she remembered the newspaper article—all of the art had been stolen from the gallery in New Orleans that night. She slowly looked back at her
Versailles.
Or had it?

Mr. Brownley joined her. “Are you familiar with Brissaud’s work, Miss Laurent?”

Her smile felt brittle, as false as the canvas before her. As false as she felt at that moment. And yet, she knew she was no longer the woman who had painted it.
God
had changed her. She still wanted to paint, more than anything she could imagine doing with her life. But she wanted to paint in such a way that when others saw her work, they would somehow see Him instead
.

Feeling Mr. Brownley’s attention, she turned and let out a held breath. “Yes, sir. I’m actually quite familiar with Brissaud’s work.” Sensing Sutton’s presence, she looked over at him. “But . . .” She softened her voice so only he could hear. “This isn’t an original Brissaud.”

Frowning, Sutton shot a look at the curator, then at Mr. Holbrook, before coming back to her again. “Of course it’s an original, Claire.” His guarded expression told her to lower her voice even further. “The gallery has a certificate of authenticity.”

Claire shook her head. “Whatever papers there are, Sutton, were forged. Just like this canvas.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know because . . .” Seeing the question in his eyes and knowing how dedicated to the truth he was, she had no doubt what telling him the truth would cost her. She also knew it was a price she had to pay. Tears tightened her throat, all but cutting off the words. “I know because . . . I painted it.”

52

S
utton took hold of Claire’s arm and gently pulled her off to the side, hoping the curator hadn’t heard. “What do you mean you painted it?” he whispered, aware of Holbrook’s stern expression and the plainclothes investigator glaring at him from across the room.

Tears brimmed in her eyes. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.” She looked down, hands knotted at her waist. “Before I came to Belmont, I . . .” She pressed her lips tight, glancing around them. “I painted forgeries,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “For my father, in our gallery. The same as my mother before me.”

Sutton could’ve sworn the floor shifted beneath him.
She’d
painted forgeries? He looked at the Brissaud, then back at her. The idea was absurd. Part of him wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t. Not with her looking at him like that. Like she was breaking inside. He kept his voice low. “Claire . . . you can’t be serious.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Sutton. I’m so sorry.”

The idea that she’d painted forgeries was absurd enough. But that she’d painted
this
particular painting—after all they’d gone through to arrange for this landscape to be here, in this gallery, at this particular time—was almost more than he could take in.

“Mr. Monroe . . .” Mr. Brownley approached, concern in his expression. “Is there a problem, sir? Miss Laurent seems upset, and I fear we’re drawing attention.”

Sutton grew aware of patrons staring. “My apologies, Mr. Brownley.” Knowing what was at stake in the upcoming auction, and thinking of the months of work both the investigators—and he and Holbrook—had invested to get to this point, he knew he had to make up something. And fast. “The fault is completely mine, sir.” He spoke loudly enough that those closest could hear. “I said something that upset Miss Laurent. It was callous of me, and I offer my apologies.” He turned back to Claire and took her hand, giving it a quick squeeze. “Would you please forgive me, Miss Laurent?”

Her frown lasted for only an instant. Then she nodded, confusion still clouding her eyes.

He turned back to the curator. “Would you mind escorting my party to a more private venue, Mr. Brownley? Where I might make amends?”

Brownley looked at the two of them, then smiled back at the patrons as though to say, “
Ah . . . young love!”
“Of course, Mr. Monroe. Follow me.”

The curator led the four of them through a side door into a meeting room, then closed the door behind him. Sutton urged Claire to sit, then claimed the chair beside her. He felt almost as shaken as she looked. Thoughts bombarded him. One, above all—if Claire really had forged the painting, what else might she have done? It was his responsibility to keep Adelicia Acklen’s estate protected, and yet he’d missed the truth about her. Completely.

The Holbrooks sat opposite them on the other side of the table.

“Would you care to explain what just happened out there, Mr. Monroe?”

Sutton looked up. Irritation darkened Bartholomew Holbrook’s features. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t handle the situation very—”

“It wasn’t Sutton’s fault, Mr. Holbrook. It’s mine.” Claire took a shaky breath. “It’s all my fault.”

“All right, Miss Laurent”—Mr. Holbrook turned to her, looking and sounding every bit the senior attorney that he was—“you do the honors, then.”

Sutton listened as she told Mr. and Mrs. Holbrook exactly what she’d told him moments earlier. The same brokenness etched her voice, and something twisted inside him again at hearing it.

Mrs. Holbrook paled a shade. “
You
forged that painting? A Brissaud?” She glanced at her husband. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

But Mr. Holbrook said nothing.

Claire’s tears renewed. “Our gallery’s main business was selling ‘originals
.
’ ” She all but flinched at the word. “From European master artists. Which my mother and, later, I painted there in our gallery in New Orleans. Then my father would purchase forged certificates of authenticity and either sell them there or ship them to various galleries throughout the country. And sometimes overseas. My mother painted many artists in recent years, but her specialty—and mine—was François-Narcisse Brissaud.”

Sutton angled his chair away from hers so he could watch her as she spoke. She told them in detail about the gallery, her parents, and when she’d first learned about what they did. Then she described her years at boarding school before she returned to work in the “family business.”

“How many paintings did you personally forge, Miss Laurent?” Holbrook asked.

Sutton could see her lips moving the way they always did when she counted to herself.

“I’ve painted
Jardins de Versailles
five times, including this one. And maybe another twenty, perhaps twenty-five, canvases over the course of the last two years. That doesn’t count the paintings I copied for people who knew they were buying a copy.”