A Lasting Impression Read Free

was a little girl—sometimes from bed, when her mother was too tired to sit or stand. But in the end, no matter how much Claire pleaded or how much she painted, Papa had held his ground, and her mother had died in this very room.
    Her father cleared his throat. “Fortunately for you, of the seventeen times Brissaud painted Jardins de Versailles, he included a different detail in each.”
    Claire nodded, aware of that fact, as he well knew. And also aware that every one of the seventeen original Jardins de Versailles —plus the four she’d painted before this one—were in circulation. If anyone ever devised a way for those four, soon to be five, proud owners of a François-Narcisse Brissaud “original” purchased from the European Masters Art Gallery in New Orleans to know details about the other seventeen . . .
    Her father gestured to the clock on the mantel, then looked pointedly back at her before descending the staircase.
    Claire retrieved her reticule and turned to follow him, then glanced back at the painting. Not giving herself time to think about the consequences, she grabbed a brush, dipped it in paint, and signed the portrait—with her name—hand shaking as she did. She’d have to change it later, she knew.
    But for now, seeing her name on something she was so proud of—and knowing Papa wouldn’t like it—felt good, if not a bit rebellious.
    As she passed through the kitchen, she saw that the door leading into the art gallery had been left open—something Papa never permitted. Stepping through that door was like stepping into another world. Plush rugs and bronze chandeliers, oil paintings and sculptures, burgundy silk paper lining the gallery walls that matched the velvet cloths draping the tables. Every item purchased on credit when they moved into this building two years earlier, and purchased with the intent of creating an air of affluence and wealth, however flimsy and paper-thin that veneer.
    Confronted again by the stark differences between the gallery and the living quarters, Claire paused at the back door. Hand on the latch, she summoned courage. “Papa . . . about the painting I finished today. I’d very much like to discuss with you about keep—”
    “No. It’s out of the question.”
    Unexpected heat shot up through her chest. “But this one is special. To me, at least. I’ll paint another one, faster, exactly as you detail. Whatever you—”
    “The answer is no !” Anger darkened his features. “The painting is already sold.”
    “But it has Maman—”
    “We need the money, Claire Elise! Creditors are waiting to be paid, and your dawdling has cost me dearly. Yet again.”
    Knowing she was already treading dangerous ground, she pushed a little further. “I have another painting, Papa. One of my own, which I haven’t shown you yet. Perhaps the patron might—”
    “He wants a Brissaud! Have I not made that clear enough for you?” Fury mottled his throat a deep red. “Our patrons are not interested in the trite, inconsequential renderings of a—” As though hearing the harsh bite of his own voice, he exhaled and shook his head. “I’m sorry, Claire. But it’s done. There’s nothing left to discuss. In time, perhaps we can sell your own paintings. But for now, your talent simply lacks any . . . unique quality. Nurturing talent takes time. You’re best served to stay with copying for now. You do that quite well.”
    Bitterness tinged her mouth, and Claire felt an unexplained severing deep inside her. She wanted to respond, but she wanted not to cry even more, and if she opened her mouth now—
    “You must understand . . .” He squeezed his eyes tight. “This is what we’ve been working toward all these years. Having our own gallery, making a name for ourselves.”
    “Yes, Papa. A name. But our name. Our work. Not someone else’s, where we—”
    “Think of your mother and how hard she worked. For us as a family. For you. ”
    His expression took on a