A Lasting Impression

he hoped to make through selling her paintings.
    Her paintings . . .
    The irony of that thought settled like a stone in her chest, which sent an unexpected—and dangerous—ripple of courage through her. “Papa, I . . .” The words fisted tight in her throat, and he wasn’t even looking at her yet. “I need to speak with you about something. Something very important to me. I know you’re not—”
    His hand went up, and she flinched.
    But he seemed not to notice. “This isn’t the landscape we agreed for you to paint this time, nor is it what I described to the patron, but—” He studied her rendering of Louis the XIV’s palace and the surrounding gardens, then gave an exaggerated sigh. “Given we are out of time, and that the patron very much desires to own a François-Narcisse Brissaud . . . it will have to do.” He nodded succinctly, as though deciding within himself at that very moment.
    “Yes. I’m certain I can convince him of its worth . After all”—he smiled to himself—“the larger galleries in Paris often ship the wrong painting. But next time, Claire . . .” He looked down at her, his gaze stern. “You must render, to the smallest detail, the painting upon which we have agreed.”
    Claire searched his face. His words stung, on so many levels. But the most disturbing . . . “You’ve secured a buyer for this painting? Before they’ve even seen it?”
    A satisfied smile tipped his mouth as his focus moved back to her work. “I told you this would happen. Word is spreading. After two years of tireless effort, our humble little gallery is finally earning the recognition it deserves in this city. As well as our patrons’ trust, as I knew it would, given time. And my negotiating skills.” His head tilted to one side. “Though I must admit, your mixture of lighter and darker shades, the hues in the garden, the way you blended them this time . . . I see you took my advice to heart.”
    Claire said nothing, having learned that was best when it came to comments about taking his counsel.
    His expression turned placating. “If I were to stand closer”—he did just that—“I am almost certain I could catch a whiff of lilac warmed by the noonday sun.”
    He stilled, and she followed his gaze to the lower left corner of the painting. The added detail was subtle, so subtle one might miss it if not looking. So she wasn’t surprised it had taken him so long to notice.
    “Abella . . .” His voice barely audible, her mother’s name on his lips sounded more like a prayer than any Claire had ever heard. Not that she’d heard many, and never from him. “Y-you . . . painted her,” he whispered.
    Emotion stung Claire’s eyes, prompted as much by the halting break in his voice as from missing the woman in the portrait. She’d painted her maman barefoot on the cobbled pathway, half hidden behind a lilac bush, a basket of flowers dangling from one arm. Her chin was raised ever so slightly as though she were looking for someone, waiting for them. And her cascade of auburn curls, mirrored in Claire’s own, lifted in the imagined breeze.
    Claire stared at the image of her mother until the delicate brushstrokes blurred into a pool of color. Ten years had passed since that afternoon at Versailles, their last visit to the palace before leaving Paris, and France, forever. She’d been nine at the time, but the memory of afternoons spent there with her parents—wandering the gardens, nurturing childish dreams of what it would be like to live in such a place—had nestled deep, and were still so vivid to her senses. The air fragrant with blossoms, nature’s symphony in the rustle of the trees, the thriving sea of color—every detail locked away, secure.
    Memories of those days were the happiest of her life. And those of the past six months . . . the loneliest.
    She thought she’d been prepared for her mother’s death. For over a year, she’d watched the sickness devour her from the inside out. And while she felt relief knowing her mother wasn’t hurting anymore, there were days when a void, murky and dark, yawned so wide and fathomless inside her that she feared it would swallow her whole.
    “She was so beautiful.” Her father’s voice was fragile, weary beyond his forty-two years. He reached out as if to touch the painting, then stopped. His hand trembled.
    Claire looked at him more closely. The shadows beneath his eyes . . . How long had those been there? And the furrows in his brow.