Free A Lasting Impression by Tamera Alexander

her belongings.
    She stared up at Sutton Monroe, who wasn’t the least shy in meeting her gaze. On the contrary, he seemed bent on capturing it. If he only knew how much she really needed to confess, he wouldn’t have let her off so easily. She wished now that she’d confided in him more fully about the events of recent days. Perhaps then he would have been more understanding.
    But that opportunity was past.
    “Miss Laurent . . .” A crooked smile tipped one side of his mouth. “It was a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. And also . . . insightful. Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have obligations across town. Should you require my assistance”—his attention settled on the priest—“you know where to reach me.” He strode from the church, never once looking back.
    Claire watched the door close behind him.
    As enjoyable as meeting Sutton Monroe had been, a part of her wished she’d never laid eyes on the man. As she relived their conversation, she wondered whether the tiniest seed of something that might have been special—in another time, another place—had just walked out of her life.
    And in a strange way, she mourned the loss.

7

    Y ou’re in need of confession, my dear?”
    Claire finished lacing her boots and turned her attention back to the priest. How did he know she needed to—
    Wait. He was a priest. Of course he knew. She felt herself shaking on the inside.
    “Yes, sir. Yes, Father, sir . . .” Though her parents had practiced Catholicism—at least back in France, they’d told her—they’d never taken her to church. So she’d never made confession to a priest before.
    She took a deep breath and attempted to make the sign of the cross, but was fairly certain it came out looking more like a star. “Be with me, Father, for I . . .” She squeezed her eyes tight. What are the words? “I have committed a grievous wrong.”
    She waited, then peered up.
    The priest was smiling. “If I’m not mistaken, Miss Laurent, I believe it’s ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ ”
    She let out a held breath. “Of course.” She gave a tiny laugh. “That makes more sense.”
    “And it’s shorter,” he added, his eyes gracious, without a trace of condemnation.
    Claire nodded, grateful she’d gotten a patient priest. Tempted to glare again in the direction of the door, she resisted. “You’ll have to forgive me, Father. I’m a little nervous.”
    “That’s understandable, Miss Laurent. Take your time.”
    The man before her, absent his white collar, looked remarkably less like a priest and more like a normal man, which helped to set her at ease. She leaned forward. “I have a confession to make. Before the main one,” she added, to clarify. And then whispered, “I’m not usually Catholic.”
    At that, he laughed, then leaned forward just as she had done. “I figured as much. And I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He glanced around as though making certain they were alone. “I’m not usually Catholic either.”
    She stared, uncertain, as a trace of mischief colored his expression. “I don’t understand. I thought that you—”
    “I’m not a priest, Miss Laurent. I’m a reverend.” He waved his hand in indication of their surroundings. “I’m the minister of this church. First Presbyterian of Nashville.” He eyed her. “I went along with Mr. Monroe just now because, without saying it outright, he made it quite clear that you have something you wish to tell me. Or, more likely, that you need to tell me.” He paused. “Mr. Monroe is a trusted member of this church and of this community. I count him as a personal friend, and am grateful that he considers me as such. So . . .” Relaxing, he rested an arm along the back of the pew. “If you’d like to tell me whatever it is that’s troubling you”—he shrugged in a noncommittal way—“or whatever might be on your mind, I’d like to hear it. While I cannot accept your confession as would a priest, I’m ready to