Free A Lasting Impression by Tamera Alexander Page A

listen to you as a man who tries his best to follow Christ, and who will help in whatever way I can. If you’re inclined to share.”
    Claire took all this in, imagining what mirth Sutton Monroe must have felt when he’d exited the church minutes earlier. Leaving her there to confess what she’d done to a “priest.” If not for wanting to wring his muscular neck, she might have seen some humor in it. “So, if I understand what you’re saying, Reverend Bunting . . .”
    He waited, ever patient.
    “If I were to decide that I didn’t want to . . . confess anything, I don’t have to.”
    He nodded.
    “And if I wanted to get up from here right now and leave, you wouldn’t try to stop me.”
    “That is exactly right.”
    An enormous weight lifted from her shoulders. She could breathe again. Tempted to go ahead and tell the reverend what she’d done, she decided that really—when taken as a whole—her actions hadn’t been horrendous. She hadn’t broken anything or taken something that wasn’t hers. And the door had been unlocked, after all.
    “Well . . .” She rose. “That’s wonderful to know because . . . I really don’t have anything to confess . Not a horribly grievous sin, anyway.”
    The table at the front of the sanctuary, where the women had bowed earlier, caught her eye, and silently, she thanked God for answering her prayer of deliverance. She was now free to go and pursue that interview—she glanced down at her dress—looking like a travel-worn vagabond. And with not a single coin left in her—
    My reticule!
    She glanced about but saw only her satchel.
    She raced down the aisle to check the pew where she’d slept. Nothing. Then a picture formed in her mind, and knowledge hardened like a pit in the bottom of her stomach. She’d left her reticule at the shipping office, on the dresser in the bedroom. Oh, how could she have been so—
    Feeling sick, she frantically searched the pockets of her skirt, reaching deep inside, praying she’d feel the familiar touch of metal. But her pockets were empty. She closed her eyes as regret knifed deeper. She’d left her mother’s locket watch in her reticule.
    Tears rose, and she could do nothing to stop them.
    “Is there a problem, Miss Laurent?”
    Hearing Reverend Bunting behind her, Claire kept her face turned away, unable to speak. Assuming that Samuel Broderick the second was the kind of man she thought him to be, he would already have plans for what to do with the contents of her reticule. And surely he’d have found it by now. And he could have it all. She didn’t care—except for that locket watch. She wanted her mother’s most treasured possession back.
    She sniffed, and a handkerchief appeared over her shoulder.
    “Miss Laurent, I’d be most honored to offer assistance, ma’am, if you’ll only tell me how I might do that.”
    Gingerly, she took the handkerchief, wiped her tears, and dabbed her nose. Finally, her voice returned. “I have nothing. No money. No family. No place to stay. No place to go.” She turned back to him. “And . . .” Oh, she hated to admit it. “I slept in your church last night. Right there.” She pointed to the only cushioned pew, tears renewing.
    “And when two women came in this morning for prayer, I hid beneath the pew so they wouldn’t see me. So I wouldn’t get in trouble. And then I overheard their conversation, which was wrong, I know.” She hiccupped a sob. “And then I got up and”—she made motions with her hands—“I was . . . fixing myself, only to look up and find Mr. Monroe watching me. He saw me crawl out from beneath the pew, and . . .”
    Expression attentive, Reverend Bunting nodded.
    “Mr. Monroe, he was kind, and then . . . he left me with you. And”—she took a breath, the weight of recent days bearing down hard—“I learned last night that my father died.”
    Reverend Bunting patted her arm, and she cried, telling him everything. She left out the details about the robbery