Read Online A Lasting Impression by Tamera Alexander - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tamera Alexander
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would seem impossible to believe.
“I give you my word, sir, I didn’t disturb anything in the church. I simply came in”—she nodded past him—“through that door there. The outside door had been left unlocked. And I went to sleep. I was readying to take my leave when I looked up and saw you standing there. Watching me.”
She’d almost held back the last two words. But she’d detected a slight culpability in his expression as she spoke, and was glad now that she’d said it. Perhaps prodding his guilt would help her case.
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. And she imagined he was trying to decide what to do with her. Whether to report her to the authorities for trespassing perhaps, or take her before the bishop or minister or whoever was in charge of this church. Either way, it didn’t bode well for her, or for the fresh start she wanted to make.
She thought about leaving, just grabbing her belongings and striking out the front door, but she’d never outrun him. Even if she had her boots on.
But she would never attain an interview this afternoon with Mrs. Acklen by standing here, explaining herself to him.
He finally shook his head, more to himself, she thought, than to her. “Do you have a safe place to stay tonight, Miss Laurent?”
Claire eyed him, relaxing a little. So he wasn’t going to put her through an interrogation. Her first impression of this man’s kindness had been accurate after all. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Monroe. And yes, I have plans to find such a place.”
He opened his mouth as though to say something else, then closed it, sighing. “I hope you can understand my position, ma’am. I don’t wish to overstep my boundaries. That’s not my intention, I assure you. But . . .”
In his brief hesitation, Claire got the niggling feeling that the interrogation she thought she’d escaped might still be forthcoming.
“Neither can I in good conscience simply let you—”
The front door to the sanctuary opened, drawing their attention.
A man entered, carrying a box. He turned to his left, then stopped and pivoted back in their direction, peering over the load in his arms. “Monroe? You’re still here?”
Looking between the two men, Claire prayed this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, and she wondered how quickly she could run in stocking feet.
Beyond the walls of the church, the distant clang of a bell began to sound. Mr. Monroe withdrew his pocket watch from his vest and flipped open the gold lid.
Just as quickly, he closed it again. “Good morning, Father Bunting. You’re just in time. This young woman would like to meet with you.”
Claire didn’t miss the knowing look—deftly given, she’d grant him that much—that Mr. Monroe sent Father Bunting.
Bunting set the box down on a pew. “Is that so . . . Mr. Monroe?”
Monroe indicated for Claire to precede him down the aisle, which she did, begrudgingly, satchel, coat, and boots in hand. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. And take Sutton Monroe right along with her.
“ Father, may I present Miss Claire Elise Laurent of . . .” Monroe turned to her. “I apologize, Miss Laurent. I fail to remember from where you said you hailed.”
Because she hadn’t mentioned it, which he knew full well. She could tell by the way he was watching her. “From Louisiana, Mr. Monroe. I arrived in Nashville yesterday, as I do recall telling you earlier.” Two could play at this game.
“Louisiana . . .” He repeated, as though this new piece of information held special interest to him. “Father Bunting, may I present Miss Claire Elise Laurent of Louisiana. She has a matter of . . . personal importance that I believe she’d appreciate discussing with you. If you have a moment available, sir?”
It was Bunting’s turn to look between them. “Yes, of course I do. Miss Laurent . . .” The priest gestured for her to sit on a nearby pew, and Claire did as he indicated, setting aside
“I give you my word, sir, I didn’t disturb anything in the church. I simply came in”—she nodded past him—“through that door there. The outside door had been left unlocked. And I went to sleep. I was readying to take my leave when I looked up and saw you standing there. Watching me.”
She’d almost held back the last two words. But she’d detected a slight culpability in his expression as she spoke, and was glad now that she’d said it. Perhaps prodding his guilt would help her case.
For a long moment, he didn’t answer. And she imagined he was trying to decide what to do with her. Whether to report her to the authorities for trespassing perhaps, or take her before the bishop or minister or whoever was in charge of this church. Either way, it didn’t bode well for her, or for the fresh start she wanted to make.
She thought about leaving, just grabbing her belongings and striking out the front door, but she’d never outrun him. Even if she had her boots on.
But she would never attain an interview this afternoon with Mrs. Acklen by standing here, explaining herself to him.
He finally shook his head, more to himself, she thought, than to her. “Do you have a safe place to stay tonight, Miss Laurent?”
Claire eyed him, relaxing a little. So he wasn’t going to put her through an interrogation. Her first impression of this man’s kindness had been accurate after all. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Monroe. And yes, I have plans to find such a place.”
He opened his mouth as though to say something else, then closed it, sighing. “I hope you can understand my position, ma’am. I don’t wish to overstep my boundaries. That’s not my intention, I assure you. But . . .”
In his brief hesitation, Claire got the niggling feeling that the interrogation she thought she’d escaped might still be forthcoming.
“Neither can I in good conscience simply let you—”
The front door to the sanctuary opened, drawing their attention.
A man entered, carrying a box. He turned to his left, then stopped and pivoted back in their direction, peering over the load in his arms. “Monroe? You’re still here?”
Looking between the two men, Claire prayed this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, and she wondered how quickly she could run in stocking feet.
Beyond the walls of the church, the distant clang of a bell began to sound. Mr. Monroe withdrew his pocket watch from his vest and flipped open the gold lid.
Just as quickly, he closed it again. “Good morning, Father Bunting. You’re just in time. This young woman would like to meet with you.”
Claire didn’t miss the knowing look—deftly given, she’d grant him that much—that Mr. Monroe sent Father Bunting.
Bunting set the box down on a pew. “Is that so . . . Mr. Monroe?”
Monroe indicated for Claire to precede him down the aisle, which she did, begrudgingly, satchel, coat, and boots in hand. She wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. And take Sutton Monroe right along with her.
“ Father, may I present Miss Claire Elise Laurent of . . .” Monroe turned to her. “I apologize, Miss Laurent. I fail to remember from where you said you hailed.”
Because she hadn’t mentioned it, which he knew full well. She could tell by the way he was watching her. “From Louisiana, Mr. Monroe. I arrived in Nashville yesterday, as I do recall telling you earlier.” Two could play at this game.
“Louisiana . . .” He repeated, as though this new piece of information held special interest to him. “Father Bunting, may I present Miss Claire Elise Laurent of Louisiana. She has a matter of . . . personal importance that I believe she’d appreciate discussing with you. If you have a moment available, sir?”
It was Bunting’s turn to look between them. “Yes, of course I do. Miss Laurent . . .” The priest gestured for her to sit on a nearby pew, and Claire did as he indicated, setting aside
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