A Lasting Impression (6 page)

It looked as though a light came on behind the woman’s eyes. “Ah . . . You’re the woman that nice man told us about. I overheard him and my son talking about you.” She took hold of Claire’s hand, looking as though she might cry again. “I’m so
sorry
to hear about your fa—”

“Time to get you back upstairs, Mama!” Mr. Broderick stepped between them and took hold of his mother’s arm. “You know how you love dinner!” He guided her toward the door, talking over his shoulder. “I’ll be back down in a few minutes, Miss Laurent. Then you and I can get better acquainted.”

Claire waited, moments passing, and she fought the urge to leave. Getting better acquainted with Samuel Broderick wasn’t at the top of her list, much less even on it. She got a prickly feeling being around the man, and Maman had counseled her often enough to listen to that inner voice. If she’d had anywhere else to go—or means to pay for a hotel—she would have left without a backward glance.

Surmising from the quality of furniture in the office and the general surroundings, she guessed that Mr. Broderick ran a profitable business. Her question was: How did operating an art gallery in Nashville figure into a partnership with a freight company?

Broderick returned moments later and bolted the front door. Claire got a shiver as the lock thudded into place but told herself it was for naught. After all, she saw through the window that other shopkeepers were closing as well.

“Mama’s a real sweet woman, Miss Laurent. But you’ll have to forgive her. Sometimes she doesn’t think too clearly.”

Claire nodded, not really knowing what to say.

“May I offer you something to drink? I’ve got tea and coffee or”—he smiled a tight smile—“something a little stronger that’ll help cure the ails of travel. . . . Along with a warm bath, perhaps. I can draw one for you upstairs.”

Claire blushed even as she cringed. “What I’d really appreciate, Mr. Broderick, is to know which boardinghouse Mr. DePaul arranged for me to stay in. I’m exhausted from traveling and would like to get settled.”

“Oh . . .” He laughed as though he were embarrassed, though she doubted he was capable of being such. “There’s no need for a boardinghouse, Miss Laurent. Mr. DePaul and I agreed that you’d stay here with me until they arrived. And”—he glanced toward the stairs—“with my mother, of course. Here . . . let me show you to your room.”

Not at all eager to go anywhere with the man, Claire weighed her options and reluctantly followed him upstairs. The residence portion of the building was more spacious than she would’ve thought, and just as nice, if not nicer, than the business downstairs. Broderick Shipping and Freight did indeed fare very well.

She followed Samuel Broderick,
the second,
down the hallway to a room at the far end. He pushed the door open and entered ahead of her.

She fingered the lock on the door and found it to be broken.

“Oh yes.” He moved closer. “I’ve been meaning to fix that. I’ll get right to that tomorrow.”

Nodding, Claire put some distance between them and ran her hand over a sturdy rail-back chair just begging to be wedged beneath the doorknob. But the bed . . . Already, she could feel herself curled up between the sheets. The bed looked heavenly.

“Mr. DePaul told me you’re a gifted artist. And that
your
work
”—his tone held a hint of amusement—“is very much in demand. DePaul seemed eager for you to resume your painting. He said several requests are waiting to be filled. And when you’re done”—his expression turned conspiratorial—“your paintings will be shipped all the way from Europe, arriving with certificates of authenticity, of course.”

Claire eyed him, hearing her earlier suspicions about Papa’s and Uncle Antoine’s intentions confirmed. She guessed—at least in part—what Broderick’s role would be in the scheme. Forging the shipping documents. An integral part of what they did, she knew.

But—she promised herself yet again—they would be doing it without her.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Miss Laurent.” Mr. Broderick’s gaze moved over her, warming in a way that made her skin crawl.

Not wanting to encourage further conversation, or anything else, Claire stood straighter, trying to appear more confident than she felt. “I’m very tired, Mr. Broderick. I believe I’ll just turn in for the night.”

He glanced toward a footed tub situated in the corner. “I’ll be happy to draw you a bath, if—”

“No—thank you. I’m fine.”

“Perhaps in the morning, then.” His smile came slowly. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, all you need do is let me know. My bedroom is right across the hall.” He pointed. “And I’m a light sleeper.”

Wishing she had somewhere else to go, Claire decided to seek other lodgings first thing in the morning. “Thank you, Mr. Broderick. I’ve got everything I need.”

Claire closed the door and laid her reticule on the dresser. She looked around for her satchel, then exhaled, gritting her teeth. She’d left it downstairs by the desk.

After waiting for several heartbeats, she opened the bedroom door a fraction of an inch, then another, and peered down the hallway. She did
not
want to risk further interaction with her host.

The hallway was empty, and she was halfway to the stairs when voices drifted toward her. She hesitated, then made a mad dash by an open doorway, praying she wouldn’t be seen.

Feeling a little foolish that she was tiptoeing down the stairs, as though she were doing something wrong, she crossed the room and retrieved her satchel. A burnished glow from outside caught her eye, and she paused for a moment to peer out the window.

Gas lamps lining either side of the street burned brightly, the flames flickering orange-gold within the smoky glass. So pretty against the purple dusk. It made her homesick for—

Her hand tightened on the leather handle. Homesick for
what
? A place to call home? For Maman? Always . . . For Papa, and the relationship she’d always wanted with him but had never had? Perhaps . . .

Unwilling to give those thoughts further rein, she tiptoed back upstairs. She paused at the top of the second-floor landing, listening for any sign of her overly friendly host.

“It just seems right to me, Samuel, that she be told about such a thing.”

Claire grew very still.

“She
will
be told, Mama. When that nice man comes back. You remember Mr. DePaul. He brought you flowers and candy. He said in his telegram that
he
wants to be the one to tell her. That we’re not to say anything about it. He knows best, and we need to respect his wishes.”

Claire didn’t move for fear the creak of a floorboard would give her away. Uncle Antoine wanted to tell her something himself. But what? From inside the room, came the clink of dishes and shuffled steps. At any moment, she expected Mr. Broderick to walk into the hallway and discover her standing there. And then what would she—

“And be nice to her, Mama. We’re supposed to keep an eye on her until he comes again. He made that clear. She’ll be helping to take care of you now. Won’t that be nice? No more of my cooking. And you’ll have another woman to talk to.”

Claire frowned. Helping to take care of Mrs. Broderick? And cooking?

A light sigh, then the creak of a rocker. “All right, Samuel. But I still think a daughter deserves to know her father has died.”

Claire blinked, her world grinding to a halt. She heard the words all too clearly but had trouble making them make sense. An instinctive step backward—

And nothing but air met the heel of her boot. She dropped the satchel and grabbed for the handrail. And missed. She slipped a step, then another, before gaining hold. The satchel slid down the stairs and landed at the bottom with a thud. Heavy footsteps sounded, and Broderick appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Miss Laurent! Are you all right?” He reached her and practically lifted her up the stairs.

“My father,” Claire whispered.
“A daughter deserves to know her father has died.”
The words kept replaying in her mind, and what little air there was seemed to evaporate.

“Here—” His arm came tight about her waist. “Let me help you to your room.”

Claire tried to push him away, but he was strong, and insistent.

“I’m sorry you heard that. But . . .” He led her into the bedroom and over to the bed, where he sat beside her. “I received the telegram this morning. I’m so sorry you had to find out this way.” He stroked her back, his hand caressing, moving downward.

Claire scooted away. “Don’t!” She put up a hand. “Please, just leave me—”

“You’re upset, as well you should be.” He moved and slid an arm around her shoulders again. “I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”

Claire tried to stand, but his arm tightened around her. Only then did she realize he’d closed the door to the bedroom.

“I want to help you, Miss Laurent.” He reached for her hand. “I believe that we’ll—”

“Let go of me!”

But he didn’t. And the previous warmth she’d seen in his eyes graduated to a heat. Even inexperienced as she was, Claire knew that wasn’t good. Feeling sick, she purposefully went limp for a second, felt him relax beside her, then jumped up and ran.

She flung open the door and was to the stairs before she heard his footsteps behind her. Fighting the instinct to look back, she gripped the handrail and took the stairs in twos. At the bottom of the staircase, she grabbed her satchel. But she’d forgotten about the bolt on the door!

Bracing for the pain, she slammed at it with her fist. The lock slid open.

“Miss Laurent, come back! I think you misunderstood my inten—”

Claire ran out the door and down the street, hearing him behind her. The memory of his hands on her pushed her forward, down the next street and the next, and the next, until she lost count and lost her way. Until her lungs burned and her side ached. Her satchel felt as if it held the weight of the world, the straps digging deep into her shoulder.

She ducked into an alley, dropped the satchel, and doubled over, hands on her knees. She leaned against the side of a building for support, holding her head, listening, but unable to hear anything but the rush of her own breathing. Her stomach spasmed, but the involuntary action proved futile. She hadn’t eaten in hours. Yet she wasn’t hungry. Not anymore.

Papa was gone . . .
dead.
She choked down a sob. It didn’t seem real. The doctor had told her he would be fine. The fire in her lungs lessened by a degree, but the throb in her chest didn’t. A noise at the far end of the alley drew her head up.

A man rounded the corner, his gait swaying and irregular, a bottle of some sort in his hand. She didn’t think he’d seen her, and she wasn’t about to give him the chance. She picked up the satchel and looked both ways down the street, not knowing where she was going.

She only knew she couldn’t stay here.

5

C
laire reached the next intersection and took in her surroundings, trying to gain her bearings in the unfamiliar town. It didn’t feel that late, but the streets were empty. The streetlamps illuminating the darkness no longer held the charm they had earlier, and her feet ached from running so far in heeled boots.

Her gaze snagged on the rise of a steeple a couple of blocks over, and she headed toward it, remembering another night much like this one, when she and her mother had gone on ahead on one of their “surprise adventures.”
Oh Maman, I wish you were still here.

After trying the front doors, Claire made her way around to the back of the church. The first door was locked, as was a window. But the second door . . .

The latch lifted.

She ducked inside and closed the door noiselessly behind her, eyes wide in the darkness. Barely breathing, she stood statue-still, listening for the slightest indication that she might not be alone.

All she heard was the thunder of her own heartbeat.

Pale moonlight framed a curtained window on the opposite wall, and gradually her eyes adjusted. She was in a storage room of some sort. She felt her way across the cramped space to a closed door. The knob turned easily in her hand, and she peered through the slight opening, a draft of air hitting her face. She caught a faint whiff of something and sniffed again, thinking her mind was playing a trick on her. But there was no mistaking the lingering smell of antiseptic, however slight, veiling the sanctuary.

She stepped inside and found her gaze drawn upward.

High-reaching windows, naked of covering, dominated the two-story room, sending variegated shadows across the rows of wooden pews. Intending to walk to the back, where it was darker, she came to a bench in the middle and stopped.

This pew was cushioned. The others weren’t.

Her decision made, she unlaced her boots and slipped them off, and sighed as she rubbed her aching feet. She withdrew her coat from the satchel to use as a blanket and lay down and curled up on her side, then bunched the satchel beneath her head.

Exhaustion washed over her, and her eyes slipped closed. She could see Papa’s face so clearly, but it was her mother’s she sought to remember. She hugged the satchel tighter against her cheek.

Tired beyond anything she could remember, she wasn’t certain whether God was listening at the moment or not. She believed Him capable of hearing every thought. And though, sometimes, that belief was more irritating than comforting, right now she clung to it. And she prayed He would hear her heart.

Because she needed His help now, more than ever before.