Introduction

Book 1 in the blockbuster historical series from USA Today bestselling author Tamera Alexander . . . 

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Excerpt

Paintbrush in hand, Claire turned in her chair to check the clock on the mantel. If only she could make time stand still. The week had flown by far too quickly, and so much remained to be done. It was Friday evening. The party was tomorrow at one o’clock, precisely eighteen hours away, and she still had three joujou and four bombonnière left to paint, plus all the clues for the scavenger hunt to write and hide.

Still, she was enjoying every minute of the preparation. Especially the painting. And Mrs. Acklen’s affirmation, which she prayed boded well for her retaining the liaison position. Mrs. Acklen had approved the theme, the party favors, the invitations, the menu—every last detail. Even William seemed excited about the plans for the day.

Claire arched her back and blew a curl from her eye. The muscles in her right hand started to cramp, so she paused to flex her fingers, then painted an A on the next joujou, adding some elegant swirls for richer depth.

Holding the toy by the edges, she carefully turned the joujou over and began painting the other side. Her eyes watered and she blinked to clear them, knowing the image of this mansion would be forever emblazoned on her memory now that she’d painted it dozens of times.

Minutes later, a knock sounded on her bedroom door.

“Captain Laurent?”

She smiled. “Come in, Willister.”

No response.

Tempted to try and outwait him, she decided they didn’t have the time. “Come in, please, Sutton.”

The door opened without delay. “Reporting for duty, Captain Laurent.” He came alongside her and offered a mock salute.

She grinned. He’d bestowed the silly nickname after he’d heard her enlisting the help of many servants during the course of the week. “At ease, Corporal.”

“Corporal? Yesterday I was a lieutenant.”

“Yes, but yesterday you brought me a piece of pumpkin bread.” She peered up at him, waiting.

Gleam in his eye, he gave her shoulder a friendly nudge. “You’re a spoiled officer.”

Laughing, she turned back to her work. “A couple more minutes, and I’ll be ready.”

He knelt beside her. “How long does it take you to paint one of those?”

“Only about thirty minutes of actual painting time . . .” She completed the last tiny brushstrokes on the miniature mansion and set the joujou on its edge for the paint to set, careful to place it where it wouldn’t roll off the desk. “But I have to wait for it to dry before I can add the detail to the mansion.”

“Hmmm . . . Time-consuming.”

“Yes.” She placed her paintbrush in a cup of turpentine. “But worth it, I hope.”

He straightened. “I have no doubt your party favors will be a huge success. As will everything else.” He glanced toward the window. “We’d better get started, though. From what you said last night, it sounds like we have a lot to do, and it’s getting dark earlier these days.”

“Have they left yet?”

He nodded. “The carriage just pulled away. Mrs. Acklen said she and the children will be gone until well after dark.”

“Perfect! That should give us enough time, if we hurry. If you’ll get that basket there on the dresser, please.” She gestured. “And I’ll get these”—she grabbed the squares of oilcloth she’d cut earlier, along with blue and pink ribbons—“and then we’ll be ready.”

He was more casually dressed than she’d ever seen him, sans coat and tie, and she liked the change. Very much. His white shirt fit snugly across his shoulders and chest, and rolled-up sleeves revealed muscular tanned forearms. Tailored gray trousers complemented his physique just as nicely—from the ever-so-brief glance she allowed herself. Twice.

They’d seen each other throughout the week, but it was mainly at dinner and always with others around. He’d seemed somewhat preoccupied, and she’d wanted to ask him about it, wondering if it was due to something she’d said or done. Or whether it had more to do with the numerous closed-door meetings he’d had with Mrs. Acklen in the library throughout the week.

Whatever it was, the appropriate opportunity to ask him had never presented itself. Until now . . .

“I thought we’d start over there.” She pointed to the vine-laced gazebo closest to the house. “I really appreciate your help with this, Sutton. I know you’ve been busy this week. Lots of meetings, it seems.” She glanced over at him. “I hope everything’s all right. That . . . nothing bad has happened?”

“Everything’s fine. And it’s been my pleasure to help.” He gestured for her to enter the gazebo, then followed. “For not knowing what you were going to do for William’s party at the outset, you’ve certainly accomplished a great deal in a very short time, Claire.”

Though his behavior seemed normal enough, she sensed he’d evaded her question, which made her even more curious about the purpose behind his meetings with Mrs. Acklen. As she set the pieces of oilcloth on the bench inside the gazebo, her curiosity made a random leap—and a sinking feeling set in.

What if they’d been meeting about her? About whether or not she was going to get the job? Or worse, what if they’d learned something about her? Or about the gallery in New Orleans? The very thought sent a shudder of dread through her. Aware of Sutton watching her, she cordoned off her fears as best she could. “Thank you, Sutton. I’ve had a lot of excellent help.”

“You’ve had a lot of excellent ideas too. Mrs. Acklen is certainly impressed.” He looked over at her. “As am I.”

She stilled. “Thank you. . . . That means a great deal coming from you.”

His expression turned sheepish. “Why? Because I told you I didn’t think you were the most qualified for the job?”

“No.” She reached for the basket of note cards he held. “Because I value your good opinion. And not to correct you, but”—she made herself look into his eyes, reliving the sting of his original comment—“what you said was that you didn’t think I was even among the most qualified.”

A stricken look came over him, and he clutched his chest as though she’d plunged a dagger into his heart. He staggered back, agony replacing the shock on his face. Then he fell backward out of the gazebo and landed in the grass on his derrière.

Eyes wide, she watched in disbelief, a hiccup of laughter bubbling up her throat. Shocked he’d done such a thing, she was also delighted. What he’d said to her that day had hurt her, and she’d wanted him to know it. And, oh . . . how good it felt to be able to say what she’d wanted to say, in the moment she’d wanted to say it. And to have it elicit such a reaction! It more than bolstered her courage.

She peered down at him and lifted a haughty brow. “If you’re just going to sit and stare like that, this is going to take all night.”

Grinning, he jumped up, dusted himself off, and bowed low. “Consider me at your service, mademoiselle. But first . . .” He joined her in the gazebo again. All traces of humor faded. “Please accept my apology. It was never my intention to hurt you, Claire. Honesty is something I value most highly. But . . . I realize that sometimes I can be too straightforward.”

Claire studied him. And it was all she could do not to open up to him. To tell him about the forgeries and the gallery and her family’s business. Contrary to the morning when they’d first met in church, she wanted to confess everything. And part of her believed that if she did tell him the truth right now, he would understand and forgive her.

But another part of her . . .

Told her how foolish that notion was. Sutton Monroe was an attorney-at-law. Laws she had broken. If she told him anything, that would mean the end of everything. And she couldn’t risk that. Because she had nowhere else to go. And no one to go to.

“Apology accepted,” she finally said, knowing she didn’t deserve it. Or his kindness. On a whim, she extended her hand. “Friends?”

He stared for a moment, then slipped his hand—warm and strong—around hers, looking as if he wanted to say something else. And then came that smile. “Friends,” he repeatedly softly, and gave her hand a firm shake. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

1. Has anyone ever said (or done) something that made you question your talent? Or yourself? In Ch 1, what was said to Claire that made her question her talent? Who said it? How would you have reacted to this kind of criticism? Discuss the ramifications that statement had in Claire’s life. Have things been said (or done) to you that have made that kind of negative impression?

2. Claire runs away––literally and figuratively––after the incident that night in New Orleans and winds up in Nashville. Is that a realistic response? Have you ever wished you could run away from something in your life? A person? A circumstance? If you could have given Claire advice when she’d first stepped foot off the train in Nashville, what would it have been?

3. Sutton is fighting his own demons––ones of guilt and remorse. What were Sutton’s issues from the war, and have you ever born that kind of guilt over something you’ve done? Or over something you wish you could have said, but the person to whom you need or want to say it…is gone?

4. In Ch 33, Claire has a recurring dream (that is actually one Tamera had as a younger girl). What was that recurring dream and what do you think it represented in Claire’s life? Have you ever had recurring dreams like that? Do you know what fears or apprehensions they represent?

5. Claire has moments when she doesn’t doubt in the least that God led her to Belmont, and yet God isn’t using her talent to paint in the way she thought He would. And she starts to question why He’s brought her there if it’s not to paint. Have you ever followed God’s lead only to wonder what on earth you were doing in a certain situation? How does Isaiah 55:9 help us to make sense of those times in our lives?

Weblinks

»	Publisher's Book Info
»	Author Tamara Alexander's web site

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