A Lasting Impression Read Free Page A

tenderness Claire barely recognized, and one she didn’t fully trust.
    “Your maman sacrificed so much to give you this gift, Claire. And a better life in America. Why do you think we came here? Why do you think we both worked so hard all those years? It was all for you. . . .”
    She’d heard all of this before, and while she was grateful for everything her mother—and father—had given her, she also knew their efforts hadn’t been only for her benefit. They were for his. Her mother had said as much. Her mother had said a great many things in those last days. Whether it was the laudanum speaking or the truth finally breaking free, Claire couldn’t be sure.
    But she wanted to believe that her father had her best interests at heart. After all, he was her papa.
    Staring up at him, seeing the hard set of his shoulders, his iron resolve, she felt the fight within her drain away. She opened the door, then remembered and held out her hand, feeling like a beggar and resenting him all the more for it.
    Her father pressed three coins into her palm. One more than usual. She turned without a thank-you or a good-bye.
    “Enjoy your time at the café, but don’t be gone overlong. We have work to do this evening.” His tone had lightened, falsely so. It always did when she acquiesced. “And be sure to bring home a sweet for Uncle Antoine and me.”
    Claire halted midstride. “Uncle Antoine is back?”
    He nodded as though the news were inconsequential, when he knew it was anything but. “He’ll be here shortly to assist me. I’ll ask him to stay so you can say hello, if he has time. Now hurry on.” He gave a swift wave. “Leave the business details to us. That’s where our talents lie.”
    Claire cut a path across the brick-paved street, pushing down the well of hurt inside her, like always. She dodged wagons and carriages as they rumbled past, hoping to reach her destination before the swollen skies delivered on their steely threat.
    They’d lived in New Orleans for two years, the longest they’d lived anywhere since arriving in America, and the city had finally begun to feel like home. Which probably meant they would be moving soon. Just the thought of moving stirred a dread inside her.
    Uncle Antoine had promised her he wouldn’t let that happen again, that he would dissuade her father from making that choice. But she knew only too well how strongheaded Papa could be.
    Uncle Antoine.
    Feeling a portion of her angst drain away, she waited for a carriage to pass before crossing the street. Uncle Antoine had a way of easing the tension between her and Papa.
    Close to her father in age, Antoine DePaul was no more related to her than she was to Louis XVI, but she adored him as though he were family. He traveled frequently, and business had called him back north for well over a month now. Too long. She could hardly wait to see what latest fashion boot he’d purchased. Alligator boots were his trademark, but upon a recent trip to New York, he’d purchased ostrich and anaconda. Only Uncle Antoine . . .
    Turning the next corner, she purposefully inhaled, and wasn’t disappointed. The comforting scent of yeasty beignets and chicory-laced coffee strummed the heartstrings of her childhood home and triggered such vivid memories. And that with Café du Monde still over a block away.
    Her spirits began to lighten, as they always did when she ventured outside and took walks, when she was away from the gallery.
    She recalled the first time she’d laid eyes on Antoine DePaul—in New York City, upon their arrival in America ten years ago. She’d thought him so tall and dashing. He could make her laugh without even trying. Such a lucky twist of fate, meeting him as quickly as they had after disembarking. And he having recently arrived from France as well. “A small world, even in this very large and new one,” Papa had said. An experienced art broker himself, Uncle Antoine had a charm about him that seemed to draw